Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(80)

She frowns. “I’m not sure yet. Frogs are tied deeply with water, but it doesn’t feel right for you. Your aura,” her fingers swirl with her words, “says resilience and agility.”

Resilience. There’s that word that Jesse wrote in my journal. Every time I hear it, I smile.

“But your spirit hasn’t spoken clearly to me just yet. I’ve heard mere whispers.”

“And what do the whispers say?”

She continues working away at her frog sketch. “That your soul is scarred but it will survive, once it finds what it is searching for. There’s great inner conflict. I see that, too.”

A shiver runs down my back. Some people—Amber included—would probably roll their eyes at Dakota’s ramblings, writing them off as airy and weed-induced and borderline creepy. But I would be happy to sit here until her uncanny skill can shed some light on my spirit.

The door jangles, pulling me away from thoughts of my aura and right into the dark eyes of Jesse Welles.

My heart leaps.

I haven’t spoken to him in days, since the night of the storm. His car has been sitting in his garage, but he hasn’t come out and I haven’t had the nerve to venture over. I’m afraid that I may wear out my welcome. Instead, I’ve sat in my nest of pillows every night, staring at his words in my journal, hoping to hear his footsteps up the stairs.

“Hey.” The side of his mouth kicks up in a smile as he strolls down the aisle, coming to a stop a few feet away from me, sliding his hands into his jeans pockets.

I feel my face burst with heat at the simple word. “Hey. What are you doing here?” Jesse doesn’t seem like the kind of guy in the market for recycled art.

He juts his chin across the street. “On break and grabbing coffee.” His T-shirt reads “Hart Brothers Forestry.”

“Did you find a new job already?”

“Through a buddy I went to school with. They need help clearing after the forest fire. It’s good money. And it’s temporary.”

“No mechanics jobs available yet, I guess?”

“Nope.” He takes the folded blanket from my hand and drops it on the pile for me. Glancing behind me, he offers, “Hey, Dakota. How’s it going?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, still leaning against the counter, her chin in her palm, staring at Jesse. Almost through Jesse. And then it’s as though invisible fingers snap in front of her, because she startles. “Hi, Jesse! It’s good to see you.”

A horn honks from just outside the store. It’s a big green truck with “Hart Brothers” stamped into the side and a young guy sitting in the passenger seat, his hand slapping the side of the door as if to the beat of music.

Jesse gives my waist a light squeeze. “Gotta go. Just wanted to stop by.”

“See you later?” The question’s casual enough.

“Yeah, I’m around.”

I watch him climb into the back of the truck cab. Wondering what the hell “Yeah, I’m around” means. That I’ll see him because he’s around and, by default, I may literally see him? Or should I go visit? Or maybe he’ll come visit? Or . . .

“He has feelings for you.” Dakota’s eyes have that dreamy look in them. “Deep, consuming feelings. The kind that dominate your thoughts and control your decisions. And feed your soul.”

My stomach leaps to my throat, her words sparking something inside me. Hope, that’s what that is. And it’s silly. “We barely know each other, Dakota.”

Her wide mouth spreads into a smile. “And yet you know each other. Your spirits are . . . entwined.”

“Did you smoke something while you were tossing the trash out back?” I exclaim.

That smile simply hangs there for a few seconds. And then she starts to giggle.

Lasagna—one of Ginny’s favorites—is cooling on the stove when I first hear the rumble of Jesse’s car. I practically jump out of my chair and run to the window in time to see him pull into the garage and cut the engine. The door slams and a moment later, he strolls out to the edge of the garage.

And then he turns to my window.

The lights are off in here so I doubt he can see me, and yet he stares for so long that I perhaps think he can.

“I’m around,” I mutter, repeating what he said earlier. Before I can chicken out, I grab two plates and slice into the lasagna with a spatula, heaving sizeable pieces onto them. Covering them with foil, I take the stairs down faster than I normally would, afraid that Jesse will disappear into his attic.

He’s leaning against the back wall, his arms folded over his chest, simply staring at his car when my foot hits the concrete floor. “Does it look different than it did yesterday?”

He smirks. His work clothes are dirty and I see a small scrape on his arm. I’m guessing he’s going to be getting into the shower soon, a visual I don’t need to be having right now.

I hold up the plates. “I thought you and your dad might like dinner.” Dakota’s voice rings out loud inside my head. He has feelings for you.

“Thank you.” He takes the plates and our hands touch briefly.

And that strange sense of comfort I keep feeling around him washes over me in a wave. Regardless of what my mind has decided to protect me from, my senses are telling me that Jesse is safe. That Ginny is wrong about him.