She’s doesn’t do relationships. I get that. She doesn’t ever want to be tied down to a guy. I get that too. But treating me like I’m an interchangeable piece in her chess game of a life and her big master plan isn’t fair. Because I know that she cares about me in a way that scares the shit out of her. And that means something.
She’s crazy about me, and I’m crazy about her, which makes this whole thing that much more infuriating. If Jenna would just accept that we have a good thing together I’d back off. I truly would. But the girl is stubborn and obsessed with control. And while I admire her boldness and hardheadedness, it also really pisses me off sometimes. Like right now.
* * *
“Ooh! Ooh!” Jenna jerks the car to the right and pulls over.
“What now?” I say groggily.
I didn’t sleep well last night—surprise, surprise—so the moment we left the motel I shut my eyes and hoped for a nap. No such luck.
I look around. “We’ve only driven two miles from the motel. Do you have to go to the bathroom already? My God. You have the world’s smallest bladder.”
“No, Jack. Look!” She points out the window at the sidewalk, crowded with people and paintings. “It’s the art festival that woman was talking about last night.”
I open my mouth to object, because going to a morning art festival is pretty much the last thing I want to do at the crack of dawn, but when I see the joy in Jenna’s eyes my lips press together in silence.
God, she’s beautiful when she’s happy. Why can’t she be beautiful and easy to deal with? Is that so much to ask?
“Can we check it out?” She looks at me like a three-year-old asking for candy and I already know I’m at her mercy. “Please?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
“Really?” Her eyes sparkle and it does something to my chest. Something irritatingly wonderful and I want to make her eyes sparkle like that all the time.
God, I’m so lost to her, it’s pathetic.
“Really.” I nod.
We get out of the car, Jenna leaping out like she’s heading to a carnival, and me stiffly unfolding myself from the passenger seat, and she leads me by the hand down the sidewalk.
I look down at our adjoined hands and smirk. She’s so giddy, she doesn’t realize she’s holding my hand. This little art festival detour might not be so bad after all.
We go from tent to tent to vendor to tent to vendor, looking at paintings and sculptures and jewelry and metalwork. Blown glass and quilts and every other form of art seems to be on display at the festival, dotting the scenery with bright colors and shapes.
Jenna looks like she’s in heaven, smiling at every tent and cooing over every sculpture. She touches a silver necklace and a ring with a red stone, and stares at melancholy paintings and dancers in the street. Then she cheerfully moves along, chatting with every artist she sees and smiling for no reason.
I don’t think I ever realized how happy art made her. I know that it’s her passion, of course. But passion and happiness are different things—sometimes even rivals—so I never thought to connect the two.
But seeing her now, here, surrounded by all these colors and works of creation, I want nothing more than to bring her to an art festival every day.
“Ooh! My sisters would love these.” She picks up a few handheld fans, each painted with a different colored peacock, and opens them up. She smiles as she fans herself with one. “My mom calls us girls her little peacocks, because we’re loud, colorful, and filled with attitude.”
I snort. “That’s you, spot-on.” I think about my friend Ethan and bite back another snort because it’s also him, spot-on. “How many sisters do you have again?” I ask.
“Three.” She nods. “I’m my mom’s only biological child, but she fostered Penny, Raine, and Shyla when they were all younger and ended up adopting each one, which was great because I was attached to them the moment I first saw them.”
I nod. “Was that after your dad left?”
“Yeah,” she says. “He took off when I was little and Mom could barely afford to feed me.”
“Whoa,” I say quietly to this new information. “That sucks.”
I had no idea Jenna’s childhood faced any struggles like that.
She shrugs. “We were better off without him, you know? Eventually Mom got a decent job, though. Then we were able to move into a little house. That’s when Mom started fostering.”
I smile. “It sounds like your mom is pretty amazing.”
“Oh, she is.” She smiles back. “She definitely is.”
She buys a few of the painted fans then we head back toward her car. We pass the jewelry tent again and she stops to admire the red-stoned ring once more. Her fingers turn it over and her lips part as she takes it in.