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Page 16 of Write Me For You

I stepped off the porch and headed to the paddock. Ginger, the chestnut gelding I came out here often to fuss, came toward me. He suited his name—he was as vibrant in color as his namesake spice. I ran my hand down his blaze like he preferred and pressed a kiss on his head.

“You’re such a good boy,” I said, and patted his neck.

I listened to Ginger’s breathing, it’s rhythm steady like a meditation. I inhaled and exhaled only to hear, “If I let you kiss my forehead, will I be a good boy too?”

I laughed before I’d even turned around. Around Jesse Taylor, I had laughed more in a week than I had in the past year. I had no idea how he did it, but he definitely made life much more entertaining.

Without turning my head, I patted Ginger and said, “Is the big, bad QB jealous of a horse?”

“Hell yes I am!” he said, and this time, I did turn, only to see him swinging in an egg chair on his suite’s little porch, a red plaid blanket over his legs. He was wearing a long-sleeve black top, and this time, his head was free of a cap. I realized I didn’t have my headscarf on either.

I froze, and anxiety rocketed through me. I was never without my headscarf. It was silly, I knew it was, but it crushed me to be seen without it. My breathing came fast, and I found myself looking down at my hand. I flexed my fingers to be sure they felt like my own.

They did for now.

“Junebug?” Jesse’s voice made me look up and broke me free of my spiral.

I placed my head on my hand on reflex, and Jesse frowned. “I’ll just retrieve my headscarf,” I said, and made a move to go back to my room. I rushed and, in seconds, was back outside, my headscarf firmly in place and my anxiety settled.

Jesse watched me closely, and I could clearly see the question on his face. But he was a gentleman about it and didn’t comment.

I approached where he sat, keeping the blanket around my shoulders for warmth. I was feeling the chill constantly these days. Jesse nodded in the direction of Ginger. “I think he’s been waiting to see if you’d come out.”

“He has?” I asked, looking back at the gelding who was stealing my heart.

“He wasn’t the only one,” Jesse said, and I whipped my attention back to him. My blushes had lessened around him, though the butterflies hadn’t—not even a smidge.

“How long have you been out here?” I asked.

Jesse shrugged. “A coupla hours maybe. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Steroids?”

“Bingo,” he said, pointing at me, then tipping his head to the side. “You?”

I nodded, then stretched, feeling my aching joints.

Jesse shifted over on the egg seat. “Care to join me?”

“Is there room?” I asked.

“Junebug, you weigh as much as a feather, and I’ve lost all the muscle I ever had. I’m practically a walking string bean at this point. We can fit.”

I studied the chair, assessing.

Jesse tapped the space he’d made beside him. “Plus, I’m pretty sure this egg is a double yolker.”

I sputtered out a laugh at that.

Jesse grinned. “Come on, Junebug. I’m cold, and so are you by the look of it. Get warm beside me.”

I shook my head at his cheeky expression but found myself moving toward him.

I sat down on the chair, ignoring his look that screamed See?

We do fit . Jesse placed his blanket over us both, then used his foot to swing us back and forth.

The motion made me feel all cozy and content, but the woodsy, smoky scent of Jesse kept my body wired.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked. His voice had lowered in volume and held a hint of gravel. I had realized that was how he sounded when he was as affected by me as I was him—it was his tell.

“I am,” I said, casting my gaze to the horizon, as the semicircle of the sun began to climb higher into the sky. “This is beautiful,” I said, resting my head back against the egg chair.

I couldn’t get comfortable, and Jesse offered, “You can rest against my shoulder if you’d like.”

I hesitated for just a moment before I followed my heart and pressed my cheek to Jesse’s shoulder. It was soft and comforting and made me completely relax. I smiled as Ginger joined the bay mare he obviously saw as his companion in the paddock.

“You looked good without the headscarf, Junebug,” Jesse said.

Every part of me tensed, and I reached up to play with the tail of my scarf.

In the stretched-out silence, Jesse said, “You believe that, don’t you?”

I shifted when my eyes filled with tears, trying to quickly wipe them dry, but I knew Jesse had seen by the way he tried to move in closer. The truth was, I didn’t believe it. Over two years of treatment in, I couldn’t see it. My confidence had taken as much of a hit as my health.

“I…I struggle with how I look now,” I confessed, shock wrapping around me. I couldn’t believe I had admitted that to Jesse. I shook my head. I didn’t look at him. It was easier sharing these truths without meeting his face.

“I’ve never been a vain person, but…” I sighed heavily. “I can’t really explain it.”

“Junebug,” Jesse said, and pressed his cheek to my head. “I mean this with my entire heart: you are stunning.” My breathing grew shaky. Jesse’s cheek moved against my headscarf. “If anything, your headscarf hides it. You don’t need anything, not even hair, to be beautiful.”

I stared out at the paddock and my vision blurred.

There was no lie in his steady voice. And it made me sad that I couldn’t see it in myself.

My nerves skyrocketed as, reaching up to my head, I slowly pulled off the headscarf.

The morning air kissed my bald head, and it took everything I had not to run back into my room and hide.

I lifted my head, and Jesse watched my every move. I dropped my eyes to my hand. It still felt like mine, but it was trembling.

“Stunning,” Jesse said, and gave me the sweetest smile.

I exhaled and felt something I didn’t expect—a sliver of happiness that I had just opened up to someone—no, not just someone . Jesse. And by the look on his face, I knew what he said was true. For some reason, he really did think I was beautiful.

“You look good too,” I said, fighting a blush.

I slowly brought my hand up toward his head.

“Can I?” I asked. Jesse leaned forward, giving silent permission, and I ran my fingertips along his scalp.

It was smooth and silky under my touch. It was curious—I saw true beauty in Jesse that, for some reason, I couldn’t see in myself.

But I wanted to, more than anything.

“What color was your hair?” I asked, bringing my hand back to my side and resting my cheek against the cushioned back of the swing so I could meet Jesse’s eyes.

“Light brown,” he said, and I could picture it in my head.

“Long or short?”

“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 his football 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 it to 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.”

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