Page 17 of I Saw Her First
“We shouldn’t…” I grimace. I don’t know how to tell him I’m still not ready for sex, even after he’s been so patient, so I say the only thing I can think of. “Your dad’s home. It feels weird to do anything with him here.”
Jess gives a resigned sigh, nodding. “I don’t love living here either,” he mutters, adjusting the front of his jeans. “I will find a place of my own, I promise. I have some debts to pay, and then I need to save a little, but after that, I’ll be free.”
I’m surprised to feel relief trickle through me, knowing that will probably take a few months. A few months to decide if he’s really the right guy to do this with. To see if we might just happen to fall in love.
“It’s okay,” I reassure him. “But we could cuddle?”
He slips his arms around me and tucks me into his side. We lie like that for a long time, until I feel Jesse’s soft, rhythmic breathing fan over the shell of my ear. Outside his window, the rain has stopped, and I disentangle myself from his arms and slip from the bed, careful not to disturb him. I stand for a moment and gaze at him, his massive frame sprawled on the bed, his wavy hair across his forehead. He really is cute.
Unbidden, Weston flashes into my mind. I can see so much of Weston in Jesse, and I can almost imagine what he would have looked like at this age.
I catch myself, pushing the thoughts from my head. It’s no longer appropriate to think about Weston, for many reasons, and I need to sort my shit out.
On Jesse’s desk, I spy a notepad, and scribble a little note of goodbye, then tuck it onto his nightstand. I have an early start at Joe’s, and I’m longing for a shower and my own bed, even if it is half the size of this one.
Padding from the room, I pull the door shut quietly and tiptoe down the stairs. Weston must have gone to bed too, as the house is dark. I’ll have to thank him tomorrow at Joe’s for dinner—if he shows up. There’s a momentary flicker of uncertainty in my chest, but it passes. After our conversation in the kitchen earlier, I know he’ll be back.
I slip into the downstairs bathroom and change back into my top, which is mostly dry. In the kitchen, I fold Jesse’s sweatshirt carefully and place it on the marble island. I turn to go, but movement from the corner of my eye makes me pause. In the living room under a lone reading lamp, fiddling with the Nikon camera, I notice Weston. A half-empty glass of red wine sits on the coffee table, and something about the entire scene makes my heart clench with loneliness. I imagine him sitting there with his wife, two glasses of wine on the table. There was probably chatting and laughter, and so much love. But this scene before me just feels so… desolate. Before I know what I’m doing, I cross the kitchen into the living room to be closer to him. So he doesn’t have to be so alone.
He hears me and glances up, his face in shadow. He looks tired and lost, like the man I first saw at Joe’s last year.
“I’ve had this since I was a kid,” Weston murmurs, turning the camera in his hand. “I used to love shooting pictures on it.”
“Maybe you should try doing that again,” I suggest, knowing damn well it’s the advice I need to give to myself.
He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t even know what I’d shoot now.”
I nod, because I know exactly what he means. Where do you start after having not done something for so long? What if you’ve forgotten how to do it? What if it doesn’t make you feel as good as you’d hoped? Or worse—what if it does?
He sets the camera on the coffee table with a sigh. “Are you heading off?”
“I have an early start tomorrow.”
Weston’s eyes meet mine, ringed with exhaustion and something else I can’t quite pinpoint. Sorrow, maybe?
“Of course. So do I.” He rises to his feet, pushing his mouth into a smile. “Let me call you an Uber.”
“It’s okay, I was going to take the subway from Clarke Street.”
His eyebrows draw together. “No, I’ll call you an Uber. I don’t want you on the subway alone at this time of night.”
I want to tell him I’m always on the subway alone at this time of night, but there’s something about the concern in his voice that I relent.
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps at the screen. “Two minutes. I’ll walk you out.”
“Thanks.” We shuffle through the kitchen and I motion to the Yankees hoodie in passing. “I’ve left that here for Jess. Please thank him for me.”
Weston’s eyes move over the sweatshirt and he gives a single nod, saying nothing.
At the front door, I thank him again for dinner.
“You’re welcome, Daisy, and I want you to know you’re welcome here, any time. I know things are tense between me and Jess, but I’ll stay out of your way.”
I open my mouth to say that’s not necessary—that’s not what I want—then close it again. Maybe that would be easiest, after all.
My ride pulls up and Weston gives me a tired smile as I retreat down the steps. “See you at Joe’s in a few hours.”
