Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(75)

“I guess that one wasn’t meant to be,” Jesse offers softly. He lifts the pen, making a spectacle of clicking the top several times.

I playfully pull my blanket to my face to cover my nervous smile, equal parts curious about and wary of what he’s going to prompt me with. I’ve found that Amber relies on cues from our surroundings as a resource. Meredith’s a little more creative, throwing out things like “Barbie doll” and “gymnastics,” things that may relate to my childhood. Both treat the exercise as a light, unchallenging way to help me.

A prick in my gut tells me that Jesse may not take that approach.

“Tire.”

What? Wait. Meredith told me he’s a mechanic. I guess that makes sense. “Flat.” I watch him scribble the words down, his pen strokes long but neat. The knuckles on his right hand are red and bruised. I assume from punching Dean.

“Hotel.”

Hotel . . . Hotel . . . Hotel . . . “Bed?”

My cheeks heat as I watch his hand scribble the words down. Not because there’s anything unusual. Because the second word that popped into my head after “bed” was “Jesse.”

“Water.”

“Yes?”

“No . . . I mean, ‘Water.’ I hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh! Tattoo. Your sister’s already done that one.”

“Why tattoo?” he asks softly, his eyes on the page, his hand ready to write.

“I have one, right here.” I tap my pelvis, drawing his attention to it. Heat spreads through my legs and thighs instantly.

“Okay. The second word that comes to mind. Water.”

I close my eyes and let my mind go blank. Water . . . Water . . . Water . . . “Stream.” Like that stream that runs behind the barn. I sigh. “I think my new life is bleeding into my thoughts. That’s not going to help this exercise much.”

He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Tattoo.”

“Water . . . No! Wait.” I reach out to touch his arm, to stop him from writing that down. “That’s too obvious.”

The bicep muscle beneath my fingertips tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Okay. What, then?”

Tattoo . . . Tattoo . . . Tattoo.

Jesse.

I can’t even think straight anymore, with him here. “I don’t . . . next word,” I demand, flustered.

“Scar.”

“Ugly.” I didn’t really mean to blurt that out. There are plenty of other words that I could use—ones that don’t make me sound weak and whiny and quite so vulnerable—but I can’t deny that it’s the first thing that popped into my mind.

The pen sits poised over the paper in his frozen grip for long seconds, as both shame and anger swirl like an angry cloud within me. It’s one thing to fear that you’re ugly; it’s an entirely different thing to acknowledge it out loud to another person. Especially when that other person is a guy who you seem to be developing a crush on.

There’s really nothing he can say: agree with me and kick me while I’m down, or try to argue with me, knowing I won’t believe him.

He tucks the pen into the spine and closes the book.

Probably the best option.

I quietly watch him get up and stoke the fire with another log, opening the vent to let more heat in. I’m expecting him to grab his shoes and jacket and say good night, but he doesn’t. Instead he lies back down beside me, but closer this time, the itchy checkered blanket that I have cocooned myself within the only barrier between us.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“Why did you punch that guy at the bar?”

“I didn’t like the way he was touching you.”

I watch, waiting for him to say something else. I watch until his chest begins to rise and fall at a lower rate and his full lips just barely part. Until I realize that the damn boy from next door has fallen asleep in my apartment.

It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m no longer on the floor. The last thing I remember is listening to Jesse breathe. I guess I fell asleep.

That means Jesse carried me to bed.

Thanks to the pre-dawn light streaming in through the sliding door, I can see that he’s not here now, though the fire is burning bright, as if someone just fed it. My alarm clock is flashing big bold red numbers at me, so the power’s back on.

And my journal sits beside it.

I reach over and open it to the last page, with Jesse’s narrow scrawl, his last entry:

Scar = Resilient.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Jesse

then

“What the f**k are you doing, Jesse!” Boone hisses, his eyes darting from the living room to my bedroom, where I left Alex with her bags.

“Did you not just see her face?”

“Yeah, I did. I also know who did that to her. Make her go to the hospital, the cops. Convince her to ditch the ass**le. But don’t shack up with her in our apartment. Jeez . . .” He pushes his hands through his gelled hair, sending his perfectly styled long waves into disarray.

“I tried. She won’t do any of that. But she is going to leave him.”

He blows a mouthful of air out, his hands resting on his hips. “I hope you’re right. For both your sakes. And mine, since I’m your roommate and it’ll be hard for me to deny that she was here if Rust ever hears about this.”