Aghast, Jesse says, “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
I describe the dress to Jesse in excruciating detail. Excruciating because I know the reality: Most guys simply don’t want to hear a detailed breakdown of sequins versus flared sleeves. Alex would politely chime in with an “Oh wow!” every now and then, but I had no doubt he was mentally planning out his gym schedule. Jesse, on the other hand, couldn’t be paid to be patronizing. He’s been bluntly honest since the moment I met him.
The fact that he doesn’t say a word while I go on and on about a prom dress confirms my fears.
He’s afraid I’m a goner.
I force myself to settle in the moment. Curl my toes in the fuzz of Jesse’s black comforter. Listen to the ticking clock until it syncs with the rain pattering against his window. Even the bruises, throbbing beneath my skin, ground me. I’m clutching at the present the way a child holds on to blades of grass. Watching as who I am permanently transforms into who I was. Who I will never be again.
“Why didn’t you like me?” I ask. A flash of lightning through the window illuminates the wall of newspaper clippings and photos on Jesse’s wall. The headlines on the mortuary computer flash through my mind, and I look away. “I mean, before all this started. Why didn’t you like me?”
“Who says I didn’t like you?”
I scrunch my face in disbelief, wincing when the action pulls at the wounds in my temple.
Jesse props his back against the headboard. The same restless, anxious energy from the train vibrates around him. I’ve learned to recognize it as Jesse carving out a window in the walls he carries inside himself. Small, easy to brick over. But a window, nonetheless.
“I don’t know how to explain it. Do you remember freshman year, when it started to rain during lunch? Serious rain, practically Ward Wailer levels. Everyone was running for cover and screaming. You, being a menace to society and all, climbed on top of the lunch table and laughed. And because you’re Mina Mansour, everyone stopped running. They started climbing on lunch tables, too. Dancing and cheering.” Jesse glances at me, and his inscrutable features waver with something almost … soft. “You bake desserts that take hours for strangers you’ve known for minutes. All your friends would defend you to the death, and you would do the same for them. You tear up when you see burned French toast in the trash, ‘cause it means a lot to you that your dad tried so hard to make it. It’s not that I didn’t like you, Mansour.” Jesse tips his head against the wall, fixing his attention on a mustard water stain. “I just didn’t get you.”
I trace a paisley pattern onto the bedsheet. “And now?”
“Huh?”
“Do you get me now?” I can’t bring myself to look up. At some point, Jesse’s good opinion of me stopped being a trophy I could add tomy collection. Jesse has seen me unravel. Seen me furious and broken and hopeless. His opinion of me won’t be based off a shiny veneer. It’ll be based on the real me. The real Mina, whoever she is.
Two fingers coax my chin up, bringing my gaze to Jesse’s. A small smile curves his lips. “Even less.”
I pinch the nearest body part I can reach. Jesse yelps, prying my hand away from his thigh. He dissolves into laughter, and the pressure in my chest eases a little. “See? A few weeks ago, I never would’ve thought you’re the kind of girl with crab pincers for fingers.”
Jesse settles into bed, drawing the cover over his waist. He reaches for the light and stops short.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You can turn it off.”
Night envelops the room. Jesse turns on his side, facing me. I fold my hands under my head, grateful the bruise on my temple and thigh are on the same side of my body. I can’t turn over, but at least I don’t have to lie flat on my back.
Movement rustles from Jesse’s side. He draws a pillow into the space between us. I ignore a spark of hurt. He’s just being thoughtful. A divider pillow is way less awkward than waking up tangled around each other.
“How about me?” comes the quiet, intense question just as I’m settling into sleep. “What did you think about me?”
For one mean, petty second, I almost say,I didn’t.It’s not the truth, but the words would cut Jesse too quickly for him to see the lie in them.
“You scared me.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His chest rises and falls, and I find myself slowing my breath to match his.
“Do I still scare you?”
I lay my fingers on the pillow between us. I hate this pillow, I decide. Why does he think we need it? As though I need a pillow to stay away from Jesse. As though I might reach out to him otherwise, do somethingsilly like rest my head on his chest and curl myself like a quotation mark around him.
Jesse is still waiting for an answer.
“Even more,” I whisper.
A dark shape watches me from the ceiling.
To my right, Jesse sleeps. His even breaths dissolve in the deep, drowning silence. A lock of black hair lies over his temple.
The shape scuttles out of view. I keep watching Jesse, ignoring the pulse pounding in my ears. Half of me wants him to wake up and switch the light on. Watch him rake a hand through his tousled hair and squint irritably at the ceiling.
