“Longish,” he said, then smiled at me. “And it was curly.”
“Really?” I asked, wondering how curly. “Do you have a picture?”
Jesse pulled out his phone and searched through it. Finally, he turned the screen, and I was met with a smiling Jesse in hisfootball uniform, loosely curled hair that was a few inches long, enough to give him that just rolled out of bed look. He was stunning in this picture, but… “You’re just a handsome without it,” I said, surprised by my own candor.
“Well, hair doth not maketh the man,” he said, and I giggled at his terrible attempt at an English accent.
“Look at Jesse Shakespeare here!” I teased, and Jesse lifted his hand and ran his thumb over my cheek. My breath paused, and I was pretty sure all the air around us did too.
“You like literature, Junebug. I thought I’d try and impress you and shoot my shot.” I swallowed back a spatter of nerves that danced inside of me, and then Jesse lifted his hand toward my head. “Can I?” he asked.
My anxiety slammed back into me.
Jesse must have seen it because he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Junebug. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
He lowered his hand, but I took hold of his wrist before he dropped it to his side.
His eyes were wide. “Honestly, June, I shouldn’t have asked?—”
“Please,” I pushed out. “I…” I took a deep breath, centering myself the best I could. “I want you to.”
Carefully and tenderly, Jesse’s calloused fingertips ran over my bald scalp. Goose bumps broke out all over me, and I shivered at how strange it felt. Jesse’s hand paused. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back.
“No, please don’t stop,” I said, surprising myself. “It just tickles.” I smiled and urged him continue by bringing his hand back to my head. “No one has touched my head before.”
“Do you have a picture of you before cancer?” he asked.
I reached into the pocket of my pajamas and pulled out my cell. I found a picture my daddy had taken of me while on a trip to the Texan novelist Katherine Anne Porter’s home. I turned itto show Jesse, completely self-conscious. I looked so different now. I was thinner, paler, and bald. My biggest fear was that he’d see the me from before and wonder what the heck he was doing here with the me from now.
Jesse studied the picture, taking in my long, dark hair that fell in waves past my shoulders. It was thick and healthy. Then, handing me my cell back, said, “You’re just as beautiful without hair now too.”
I studied his face to make sure he meant it. There was nothing but 100 percent honesty in his face.
Jesse lowered his hand but took hold of mine and gripped it tightly. We stared in silence at the rising sun, and I thought back to his picture from before cancer.
“How did you find out you were sick?” I asked.
Jesse shifted in his seat. He laid his cheek on the top of my head. His cheek was soft, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “What?” he asked in confusion.
“Your cheek is the warmest hat I’ve ever had.”
“Then I’ll sit with you as much as you need me to, Junebug. Anything for you.” The butterflies swooped and soared in my stomach. Clearing his throat, he said, “By the time we realized I was sick, it was already too late.”
I froze at that and traced the small scars on the back of Jesse’s hand with my free hand’s fingertips. I felt him shiver and couldn’t help but adore how it felt to cause such a reaction within him. I’d gone from being terrified to show him my true self to feeling content to sit as the me from now by his side.
“Being a football player, I was used to aches and pains. I trained hard and had to fight to keep my weight on. My fitness was my priority. I’m naturally leaner than I need to be for a QB, so I didn’t question why I was losing so much weight or why my throwing arm was hurting—it was always somewhat sore, as I used it so much.”
I could see that being the case. Although they weren’t my friends at school, anyone could see the football team trained crazy hard.
Jesse sighed. “It wasn’t until I collapsed on the field during training that the doc tested my blood. They thought I might be anemic or something, and that was why I was losing color in my face.” He squeezed my hand tighter. I pressed my cheek into his shoulder, trying to give silent support. “My throwing arm was weakening, and it was agony. We thought maybe I’d torn something. The doc ran more tests. We didn’t know at the time, but he’d seen an anomaly in my blood—my leukemia had gathered in my shoulder and that was what was causing me all the pain.
“Two days later, I was diagnosed with AML, stage four.”
I closed my eyes. That had to have been brutal.
“It was only four months ago.” I lifted my head in surprise. Jesse circled his finger to indicate the ranch. “That’s why I was a good candidate for here. I was so far gone that the usual treatment barely touched me.” He swallowed, and I saw a flash of fear shining in his eyes. “I didn’t know if I’d even make it to this point.”
“Jesse,” I whispered. He must have been so scared. The conversation he’d had with my daddy when I’d first arrived now made sense. “That’s how my daddy saw highlights of you playing. You reallywereplaying with cancer. You just didn’t know.”
