Does that mean her parents can’t afford lessons? Jesse looks over at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing—that this little girl’s story might be similar to mine. The publicists snap pictures of Jesse with the girl for his website.
And then the four of us head over to the Harvest Dance at the fairground’s barn, where a slow Tim McGraw song is playing. Groan.
Bales of hay and large pumpkins fill the barn, and it smells like campfires and hot apple cider. I do love the way the fair people decorated, using wheelbarrows and hay and rusty farm equipment and wildflowers and gourds. Strings of white lights droop from the wooden rafters.
I’m standing elbow to elbow with Jesse when his hand slides into mine. “Wanna dance?”
I swallow and nod.
He leads me onto the dance floor and wraps his hands around my waist. I smile up at him as we dance junior-high style, two feet apart. Lots of gaping kids from school watch us dance. Connor Crocker—a junior at my school—pumps his fist at me, laughing, and I smile back at him.
The paparazzi who’ve been following us today snap pictures, and Gina and Tracy are managing them, but Jesse doesn’t seem to notice. If he’s happy, I’m happy. Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan buy cups of hot cider and sit on a bale of hay together, chatting, but they both keep looking over at Jesse, checking on him as if he’s a kindergartner.
“What are you thinking about?” Jesse asks quietly.
“You.”
“Yeah?” His voice is gravelly and thick, and we go from dancing far apart to having no room between us at all. His chest presses to mine, and I tighten my arms around his neck.
“I’m thinking about you too,” he whispers.
The music changes from Tim McGraw to Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.”
“This is my favorite song ever,” I say.
“You have good taste,” he replies, and my heart swells because he respects my music choices. He rests his nose against mine. It’s like we’re in our little cocoon beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He softly sings the song to me in the most romantic moment of my life.
And that’s when I hear, “Maya, we need to talk.”
I turn to find Nate looking mighty pissed. He stumbles back at the sight of Jesse.
“Can I cut in?” Nate asks.
“No, you may not,” Jesse says and twirls me away, leaving Nate dazed. I can’t help but snort. But what did he want?
We dance until I hear Dave shouting my nickname: “My!” He hugs me, and then I introduce him to Jesse, and I meet the famous Xander of Taco Bell, who is quite cute with his styled blond hair and tight polo shirt.
Mr. Logan and Dr. Salter come and clap Jesse on the back. “We’re old,” Dr. Salter says with a yawn. “I’ve gotta hit the sack. You kids okay to get home?”
“We’ll be fine. Thanks for coming,” Jesse says.
“We should do this kind of thing more often,” Dr. Salter replies, patting Jesse’s cheek, and then the two men take off for the parking lot.
Jesse nudges me. “Think they’re going to get it on?”
“Ew! Too much info.” I laugh, and he curls a hand around my waist. It feels really nice to be in his arms. What’s happening between Jesse and me isn’t lost on Dave and Xander, and they share a knowing look.
“You guys want to get some food at Foothills?” Dave asks.
Jesse looks nervous at the invitation. “I can’t. I have a show tomorrow and need to get to sleep soon.”
When I hear his words, I stare into the distance at the Ferris wheel as it slows to a stop. Does this mean our night is over? It’s barely ten o’clock.
“I’ll get her home safe,” Jesse says, and Dave excitedly whispers that I need to call him as soon as I get there. I turn to leave with Jesse, and a bunch of kids from school, those annoying publicists, and the press all trail behind us, but really, it’s just me and him walking under the sparkling fair lights, my arm curled around his elbow.
• • •
I wrap my arms around Jesse’s waist and rest my cheek against his back as he drives me to my house, going extra fast to lose anyone who’s still following us. We pull into the driveway, stirring up gravel. Neither of us speaks as I take off my helmet and hand it to him. We still haven’t talked about what happens after today. Is this the last time I’ll ride his bike?
The last time I’ll see him?
Jesse leaves his cowboy hat on his bike, and we walk slowly to the porch, rocks crunching beneath our boots. The stars sparkle down on us, and moths do figure eights in the air.
I stop next to the screen door. “Thank you so much, for everything. I had such a good time.”
He squeezes my shoulders. “Me too.”
“You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“If we can be friends…”
That smirk of his fills his face. “I hope so. I mean, I’d like that.”
My knees wobble in relief when he takes my phone and enters his number, then calls his phone so he’ll have mine.
Then he clears his throat. “May I give you a kiss good-bye?”
I smile and lean back against the house. “You may.”
He places a hand against the brick above my shoulder, leans in, and gives me a quick peck, his lips barely brushing mine. I let out a soft moan. I’ve been kissed before—thoroughly—but none of those kisses felt as amazing as this tiny peck. This must be the rush everybody talks about, the rush that makes it impossible to breathe.
When he pulls away, he stares at my mouth.
“Wow,” he whispers, burying a hand in my hair. With the other, he runs a thumb across my lower lip. His breathing speeds up, and right when I think he’s gonna kiss me again, my stupid brother slams open the screen door.
“What’s going on out here?”
“Nothing,” Jesse sputters and pulls away from me. Jesse is tall—at least six feet—but my brother is huge, a six-foot-four former football player, so I can forgive the sputtering.
“Who’s this guy?” my brother asks, even though he knows damn well who it is.
“Get out of here, Sam! What are you doing here anyway?”
“I was waiting on you to get home so I could have a few words with this country buffoon for running off with you—”
Jordan bursts through the door and grabs my brother by an ear. “Are you insane, Sam? Get your ass back inside now.”
“But that jerk is touching my sister!”
“Oh, as if you never touched a girl when you were his age. You touched every girl you saw.”
“Quiet, Jordan, or you’re going in time-out.”
“Time-out, my ass!” She tugs him inside, then pokes her head back out the door. “Nice to meet you, Jesse. I love your work. Especially ‘Ain’t No City Boy.’ No one else can sing about making love on a tractor like that. I love—”
“You only like it ’cause it’s about sex,” Sam hollers.
“It’s not only about sex. It’s a metaphor! You probably don’t even know what a metaphor is, you dumba—”
“Now you’re really going in time-out!” my brother says, and I let out a long sigh as they disappear back inside.
Jesse’s mouth has fallen open at their spectacle.
“That was my brother and his girlfriend.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I’m glad I’m an only child…”
“Come this way,” I say, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward a towering oak tree at the edge of the property. It’s swallowed in darkness where we can be alone. Jesse presses me up against the bark, the force stealing my breath away.
He nuzzles his cheek to mine and murmurs, “What are we doing?”
“I’m not sure.” I run my fingertips along his strong jaw, unable to keep my hands off him, and I guess that’s all the
encouragement he needs.
He nudges a knee between mine, threads a hand through my hair. He takes his time, slowly peppering my throat and cheek with kisses. Making my knees weak, making my breath catch. I steady myself by wrapping my arms around his neck as our lips meet again.
The encore blows the first kiss out of the water. His body melts against mine, and his lips feel so soft, his breath warm, his hands strong as they glide over my sides and settle to grip my hips. I kiss the freckles on his face, trying not to miss any.
“You’re so sexy. Your nose stud drives me crazy,” he mumbles, and the pleasure of his words makes me kiss him harder. “I’d ask if we could do this inside, but your brother’s kinda scary.”
“It’s probably better that we stay out here anyway.”
“Oh yeah? Why?” He dives in for another long kiss.
I come up for air. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop.”
“You’d take advantage of me, huh?” I can feel him smiling as he kisses me. “Maybe we can hang out again soon?” he asks.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
His lips trail along my neck. “Concert in Atlanta.”
I slip my fingers inside the waistband of his jeans, right behind the skull belt buckle, and pull him hard against me. “Atlanta’s not far. I could drive down to see you—I’ll sit backstage. That’d be so fun.”
Suddenly he pulls away from me. He furrows his eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, pressing a hand to my heart, trying to slow it down.
“You want to come backstage? Why?”
“To be near you.” I move to take his hand, but he shoves it into his pocket.
“This was stupid.”
My heart practically stops. “What?”
“You don’t actually like me, right? You just want to come to my concert and sit backstage. You’re shadowing me and want a record deal.”
“Jesse, that’s not it at all.”
“Stacey did shit like this. She always wanted to come backstage, but she only cared about being seen with me. Only cared about what I could get her.”
“I don’t care about that at all. I just want to be around you.” I reach to take his hand, but he steps back, wincing like when I first met him. What in the world?
“But why do you want to be near me? ’Cause I’m famous? Because the press was all over you today?”
“You’re funny, and you’re interesting. You’re a great musician… I can’t stand country music, but I guess I can deal with a shortcoming or two.” I grin. “You’re cute as hell. Why wouldn’t I want to spend time with you?”
“You said I’m not your type.”
My smile disappears. I feel the blood drain from my face. He doesn’t trust me. After we spent a day telling each other our secrets and dreams, he still doesn’t trust me.
A truck zooms up on the road, getting closer and closer, its white lights blinding me momentarily until it disappears into the night.
“And you’re thinking the worst of me,” I say. “Comparing me to Stacey—which is insulting by the way—and pushing me away, ’cause that’s what you do, right? So you can be alone.”
He glares. “You should try it. Going solo. It’s better that way.”
I lean back against the tree’s rough bark so I won’t slip to the ground. Why did I let him kiss me? It’s like being betrayed by Nate all over again, only a million times worse. Kissing Jesse was totally different. I felt that spark, the one everybody talks about. But on top of that, I told Jesse all my secrets, I let him in, and he’s ditching me already. Why is it that as soon as I place my faith in others, trust disappears in a second?
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Jesse,” I say with a shaky voice. “I don’t need or want anything from you.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, either…it’s just that you and me? We’d never work out.”
“We haven’t even tried to be fr—”
“I guess I’m not ready for this… I don’t wanna get your hopes up. I’m sorry.”
First he gave me his number, then he kissed me, then he freaked. He’s all over the place. I hate that we’re losing what could’ve become a really good friendship for a kiss. Why did I let that happen? Just because today has changed me doesn’t mean stuff would change for him too.
“I had a great day,” I whisper as tears burn my eyes.
“I did too, darlin’.”
I pinch my nose and sniffle.
“Bye, Maya Henry.”
“Bye.”
He walks backward to his Harley, staring at me, and climbs on. Turns the ignition. His engine roars to a start. The wheels crunch gravel on the way out of the driveway.
I hate that today is ending like this. Hate it. I dart toward the road, waving my arms to get him to stop, but he’s too far gone.
I bring my phone to my lips and watch the Harley’s lights disappear in the distance.
Side B
Bad Day
Saturday, 5:45 a.m.
It’s hard to believe that yesterday I played an electric Les Paul in the Gibson store and sang a solo on the Belle Carol Riverboat, and now I’m up to my elbows in grease at Caldwell’s. I hope working at the garage will keep my mind off how the best day ever crashed and burned like Axl Rose smashing a guitar.
I shut the back of the Volkswagen bus Dad and I are taking a look at. It’s such an old model that the engine is tucked beneath the trunk.
“Want the good news or the bad news first?” Dad asks.
“Bad,” Garrett Wainwright replies, pacing back and forth in the shop like it’s a hospital waiting room. Garrett is a guy I know from school. I need a new geometry tutor now that Nate and I are no more, and Garrett agreed to tutor me if we’d fix his orange bus. Hence Dad and I are up at the ass crack of dawn, before Caldwell’s officially opens.
Some people describe Garrett’s orange bus as “the setting of a bad 1970s porn movie.” Wooden beads hang over the side windows, and instead of standard bench seats, he installed jump seats on the side. A tie-dyed beanbag sits atop a faux bearskin rug stretching across the floor.
Normally something this heinously amazing would cheer me right up, but not today.
Yawning, I wipe the grease off my hands with a rag. “The bad news is your transmission slipped out of gear.”
Garrett stares at his bus like it’s an injured puppy. “And?”
“When a transmission slips out of gear, it has to be replaced,” Dad starts, “but since your VW is so old, they don’t make transmissions for them anymore, so you have to rebuild them.”
“The whole thing?” Garrett exclaims.
“Yup.”
He rubs his eyes and looks at me. “Expensive?”
“Six hundred dollars or so, parts and labor included,” I say.
“Crap. What’s the good news?”
Dad gives me a smile. “Since we’re fixing it, you only have to pay for the parts. Probably about two hundred dollars.”
“I’ll have to see if I can come up with it.”
Garrett and I make plans to meet after school on Monday—after I’ve served detention—to talk about where we can buy the parts for cheap. I feel his pain. To some people, the kind of cash he needs is pocket change, which sucks, but it is what it is.
My coworkers who always open on Saturday mornings appear in the garage carrying cups of coffee and a box of doughnuts. Nick and Evan graduated from Hundred Oaks a couple of years ago, and both are really cute and funny. They always make the workday go by more quickly.
“If it isn’t the famous Maya Henry!” Nick holds out the box of doughnuts and a napkin. My greasy hands are gross, but I don’t really care at the moment. I’m starving and cranky, and I want a doughnut. I take a napkin and choose a strawberry glazed one from the box. If Jesse were here, he’d c
omplain about how unhealthy it is. I sigh and take a huge bite.
I didn’t cry over him last night, but my body feels like it did. I was up half the night thinking about what went wrong.
“Check it out,” Evan says, passing me a rolled-up newspaper.
“Will you sign it for me, My?” Nick jokes.
“What is it?” Dad asks me.
With a shaky, grease-covered hand, I take the newspaper from Evan and unfold it. A picture of Jesse and me singing together fills the front page. It’s from the Belle Carol. In the photo, he and I are hovering above a microphone, our noses an inch apart, smiling as we stare at each other.
The headline reads “Jesse Scott Retakes Nashville.”
Hello, corny headline.
Dad pats my back. “That’s a great picture of you! Your mom will go crazy when she sees this. I’m gonna tell her to buy a bunch of copies.”
Dad goes to call Mom, and I eat my doughnut and dig into the article. It talks about how “after spending nearly four months out of the limelight following an incident in which he fell off a yacht on the Cumberland River, Jesse made an impromptu visit to a fan’s birthday party with a spunky girl, seventeen-year-old Maya Henry of Franklin, Tennessee.”
Spunky? Seriously? I need to write a complaint letter to the editor, because that is beyond dorky. My eyes drift back to the picture of Jesse and me, to a moment in time when we were both happy and free and loving life and music. Forget about him, Maya. The same thing happened with Nate. You always get your hopes up, and guys just let you down.
I fold the newspaper in half, hand it back to my coworker, and grab my clipboard. Time to get this day started. I’ll be working reception later when it gets busy, but first up is an oil change for a 2005 Toyota Camry and then cleaning an air filter on a Mazda.
“Bo-ring,” I sing to myself, because these are pretty lame cars—at least compared to a Maserati—but completing the two tasks clears my mind. Then I change the oil on my next two cars: a Nissan Sentra and a Ford Focus (double boring), and that’s when the mayhem starts.
During his break from bussing tables over at the Roadhouse, Dave comes rushing into the garage wearing his uniform: a neat brown apron and crisp blue button-down shirt. Evan and Nick stop hammering out a dented fender to greet Dave, probably hoping he brought biscuits from the Roadhouse.
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