Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

He hops down from the rocks and stalks over to where I’m standing. He gestures for the camera, so I hand it to him slowly and watch as he brings it up to his face and points it at something across the creek.

“My dad’s last name was Bakker,” he says, the click of the shutter sounding between his words. “That’s with two K’s.” He turns slightly, pointing the camera at something else.

“Jesse Bakker.” I roll it off my tongue, and he nods, snapping another picture with a click.

“When my dad met my mom, she was already pretty well-known. Everyone knew Doctor Vanessa Hernandez was on track to be a powerhouse surgeon. Plus, you know, she is proud of being a Mexican woman in a field dominated by white men. So, when Dad inevitably won her over with his charm and she agreed to marry him, she wasn’t too keen on the idea of changing her name.” Click.

“I don’t blame her,” I say. I wouldn’t have wanted to either.

“Exactly. So, when they got married, instead of hyphenating or anything else, my dad decided to take her name.” He pulls the camera down and smiles at me. “He’s kinda a huge simp and her biggest fanboy.” A laugh bursts out of me at the pride in his voice, and the shutter clicks again. “So, my dad became Jesse Hernandez first. Then I was born, and I look exactly like my mother—except she’s like five nothing and weighs as much as my biceps.” I laugh again, barely registering the click of the shutter. “So, they named me Jesse after my father. And I became Jesse Hernandez, Jr.” Click. “See? A happy accident.”

“I like it,” I say with a smile. He turns and points the camera at me, and I throw my hands up. “Don’t!” I shout, but I hear the click anyway.

He meets my eyes pointedly.

“You know you’re gorgeous, right?” His question makes me sway on my feet.

“What? No. Stop,” I stutter out, and he takes a few steps toward me, until I’m mere feet from him. I start to turn away, but he reaches out and puts his hand lightly on my arm.

“I’m serious, Jocelyn. You’re gorgeous.”

“Shut up, Jesse.” My face heats to burning, and I avert my eyes.

“You’re fucking hot,” he says, his voice low and playful. I wish he wasn’t so playful. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. I don’t think I’m unattractive, but hot? No. And he’s...him. I cover my face with my hands and huff; my cheeks are warm to the touch.

“You’re a MILF, Classic,” he says, and I snort-laugh into my hands, making me even more embarrassed. “A regular Mom I’d Like to F—”

“Okay!” I squeal, cutting him off, and he bursts into belly-deep laughter that I can’t help but match. My forehead presses into his chest simply because my laughter is making my knees weak, and his arms wrap around me to keep me steady. That’s all it is.

I calm myself down then take a few steps backward, widening the distance between us. I need to get a grip, and I need to do it while not engulfed in his spicy leather scent. I force a scowl, then meet his eyes. Click. He snaps a photo.

“Asshole,” I snark, clamping my lips shut to fight my smile, and he winks.

“Your turn,” Jesse says, then gestures for me to follow him back to the trail.

“My turn for what?”

“To tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?” I speak the words before thinking them through, then regret them immediately. I can’t act like I’m an open book because I’m not an open book.

“What are you comfortable telling me?” he asks, and my shoulders relax. Is he this perceptive with everyone?

“Hmmmm.” I think for a moment. “I was named after my dad’s mother, but she died before I was born, so I never met her.”

“She must have been pretty great, though, if your parents wanted to name you after her.”

I follow him as we weave through the trees and make our way over the trail’s path.

“Maybe. I don’t actually know anything about her. I was put in foster care when I was eight.” June’s age. The realization rocks me to my core.

“That must have been rough,” Jesse muses thoughtfully, and I shrug even though he can’t see me.

“It was and it wasn’t. My dad went to jail for armed robbery, and my mom wasn’t up to mom-ing. She dropped me off at a Friday night fish fry at a Methodist church, and I haven’t seen her since.”

“Damn, Joss.” He halts in his tracks and turns to face me. “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, it kind of is, isn’t it?” I laugh, and he eyes me quizzically. “Do you ever have moments where you think to yourself ‘wow, I could be way more messed up than I am?’”

“All the fucking time,” he deadpans. “Literally all the fucking time.”

The connection I feel with him surprises me, like a jolt of warmth through my veins. I can’t know for sure, but something tells me he’d understand a lot more than I’m willing to reveal.

My laugh breaks first, followed quickly by his, until we’re, once again, giggling like fools, and I have to wipe the evidence from my cheeks. I’m grateful our trail is empty of other people because, otherwise, I’d be feeling extremely self-conscious.

“Have you always liked photography?”

“I took a photography class in high school and really enjoyed it.” I was pretty good at it too. Won an award and was featured in the local travel highlights magazine—the one they put in state rest stops and stuff to attract tourists. I don’t tell Jesse that. Instead, I lie. “I kinda lost interest, and then let it fall by the wayside.”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back, I know that Patrick is the reason I stopped pursuing photography. He’d put down my work, criticize it, call it a waste of time and money. I cringe at the memory.

I don’t know why you’re putting so much effort into this hobby, Lyn. You should just stick to what you’re good at.

And so, I stopped.

“I do that with a lot of stuff,” Jesse says, then taps at his temple. “Start a hobby and then lose interest and move on to the next thing. Jack of Many Trades, Master of One.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “Well, maybe two.”

I laugh. “What are the two?”

“I’m pretty good at knitting, and I’m gonna be a boss ass surgeon.”

“Two good things.”

I halt and crouch down to take a picture of a patch of wildflowers blooming along the side of the trail. Whites and yellows and oranges speckling the green and brown forest floor.

“They’re going to be everywhere soon,” Jesse muses, and I glance up to find him watching me.

“What are?”

“The wildflowers.”

I nod. He’s right. By summer, the park floor will be carpeted in wildflowers.

“The unsung heroes of nature.” I brush my fingers lightly over the blooms, careful not to touch them.

“How do you figure?”

“They nourish birds, bees, and animals, help to sustain whole ecosystems. They’re resilient too. Can grow in even the most unfavorable conditions. Harsh winters, dry spells. You name it, wildflowers can usually withstand it.” I stand up and brush my hands off on my jeans. “All while radiating a humble sort of beauty.”