Her expression darkened instantly. “You shouldn’t ride a motorcycle in New York City. It’s dangerous. Those things are coffins on wheels.”
I snorted, trying to play it off. “Come on, that’s an exaggeration.”
But the look she gave me wasn’t playful—it was haunted. “That’s what my best friend in high school thought, too. He died in a motorcycle accident on his seventeenth birthday. Him and his girlfriend. Gone in an instant.”
Her voice cracked, and the raw pain in it hit me in the gut. As she told me about Jake—the party, the accident, the instant death—I felt the blood drain from my face. I pictured Jesse at seventeen, getting that phone call, losing someone she loved like that.
My throat went tight. “I’m sorry, Jesse. That’s awful. But I swear, I’m always careful.”
Her jaw tightened. “So were they. They wore helmets and everything. But a helmet doesn’t protect you from a drunk driver plowing through a red light in a two-ton car.”
The fear in her voice decided it for me. “Would you feel better if I promised not to ride anymore?”
“Yes.”
The relief in her words made me ache.
Gratitude softened her whole face. “And I think your sister would thank me, too. I didn’t exactly make the best impression on her this morning.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” I said with a smile. “If I like you, she’ll like you too. Maybe the three of us can have dinner sometime.”
Panic flared across her face like tabloid headlines screaming in red ink. She reached for the sheet to cover herself.
I couldn’t help grinning. “Is that modesty, or pure terror at the thought of meeting my sister?”
Her shrug was equal parts sass and nerves. “Both. She seems… intimidating. And very protective of you.”
“She is both. She had to play mom more than big sis. Raising a teenage boy isn’t easy. I owe her everything.” I rolled onto my side to face her, my shirt still hanging off one shoulder. “But you don’t have to be intimidated. Once she gets to know you, she’ll love you. And more importantly, she’ll respect my choice.”
Jesse’s fingers traced idle patterns on the sheet between us. “How old were you? When she had to take over?”
I’d known this question would come eventually. Jesse had a way of asking the things that mattered.
I cleared my throat. “Fifteen. My parents died in a car accident. Black ice on I-95. Jan was twenty-one, had just graduated from college.”
Jesse’s hand stilled. “Sebastian, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” The words came automatically, but they didn’t feel quite as hollow as they used to. “Jan had been accepted to Columbia Law School with a full scholarship. It was her dream school. She deferred and moved back home to become my legal guardian instead.”
“She gave up law school?” Jesse’s eyes widened.
“For three years. She didn’t start until I went to MIT. Said she couldn’t focus on school while trying to keep a teenage boy from burning down the house.” I managed a smile. “Which, given some of my science experiments, was a legitimate concern.”
She smiled faintly, her gaze tinged with sadness.
I decided to lighten the mood. “She was terrifying, actually. Curfews, homework checks, the whole parental authority thing. I gave her hell for it.”
“I’m sure you were a perfect angel,” Jesse said dryly.
“Oh, absolutely.” I grinned.
Her fingers found mine again, threading between them. “What were your parents like?”
The question caught me off guard. Most people didn’t ask—they just offered condolences and changed the subject. But Jesse waited patiently.
“My mom was a librarian.” I was surprised by how easily the words came. “That’s where I got my love of books. She used to bring home stacks of them every week—fiction, non-fiction, everything. She’d read to me even when I was way too old for it, just because we both enjoyed the stories.”
“That’s beautiful.”
