I glanced down as I said, “I want to write love stories.”
“Junebug,” Jesse said, pursing his lips. “I didn’t think you had it in you!” He held up his hands. “Wait, are we talking buff fairies and vampires? Were you reading for research?”
I slapped him gently on the arm and rolled my eyes as I laughed again. “I don’t want to write spicy romance, Jesse, though there isnothingwrong with that.” I admonished him with a harsh stare.
He held his hands up in surrender.
I took a deep breath and really tried to convey my dream. “Ilovelove stories—the kind that has your heart leaping from your chest. Ones that change a reader’s life. Make them believe in true love. Soulmates. I want to write at least one great, epic love story that lasts through the ages.” I felt slightly embarrassed by my confession, but Jesse appeared fascinated.
“You said youwantto…” Jesse said, an implied question in his tone.
I sighed. “I haven’t written a single love story yet. At least, not one like I want to.”
“Why?”
I focused on the horses in the distance as I whispered, “Because I don’t know what it feels like.” I turned to Jesse, to see him frowning in confusion.
“Whatwhatfeels like?”
“Love,” I said on a defeated sigh. “I want to write about love, but I don’t know what it feels like tobein love. Or tobeloved.” My heart fell, and for a moment, I let myself embrace a true fear. “And if this treatment doesn’t work…I never will.”
When only silence met my ears, I turned to Jesse to see an unreadable expression on his face. He was still holding thefootball at his chest, but his attention was focused entirely on me.
The tips of my ears burned under his heavy attention. I played with the end of my headscarf and said, “So now you know what the notebook is for,” I said. “For the day that something happens and I can begin the love story I believe I was destined to write.”
“You have the notebook on hand just in case?” he asked, and I immediately felt silly.
“Stupid, I know,” I said, and stepped away from the fence.
Jesse reached out and placed his hand gently on my wrist, stopping me from heading back inside. “Not stupid,” he said seriously, which made me swallow my embarrassment. “It’s not stupid at all.”
A rare serious expression on his face, he opened his mouth to speak again when Bailey opened the door behind us. “Jesse, June?” he called. “Your group is up.”
I inhaled through my nose and headed back inside. Jesse caught up to me and put out his fist.
I looked up at him, puzzled.
“Group two for the win!” he said, and I met his fist bump with my own.
“Group two for the win,” I echoed, and Jesse took my hand again, leading me inside.
The desire to write something burned through me again. It wasn’t the start of a book. It wasn’t even an idea. But maybe I could write a few sentences—a few sentences about a boy taking my hand in his and how it caused my heart to swell in my chest.
And if I only ever had that, at least it was something.
It was a start.
CHAPTER 7
Jesse
Six days later…
Irolled over in bed just in time to grab the hospital-issued bucket beside me. I coughed as my body tried in vain to bring up whatever was left in my stomach—but there wasn’t anything. Four days of the trial’s super-powerful chemo cocktail had not been simply uncomfortable; it had been brutal. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my throat felt so dry, I could barely swallow.
A knock sounded on my suite’s door, and Susan, my nurse, came through. She had a cold, damp cloth and a fresh jug of water in her hands. “How are you doing, sweetie?” she asked. Susan had been my savior these past few days.
I hadn’t seen anyone for five days since we’d been sent to our rooms for treatment. I had sat in bed and binged watched TV shows while receiving the chemo through the IV next to my bed. The immunotherapy started in a few days’ time, right now we were on rest and I was so thankful that the chemo part of phase one was over. I had increasingly felt worse each day. Today, I feltcompletely broken. But I was getting antsy being in this room alone.
