HEAL YOU | JENLISA

SEVENTEEN

LISA

* * *

IT’S KIND OF CORNY, BUT THE PALACE OF FINE ARTS IS ONE OF my favorite places in the city. I love the columns and the lights and the water. It’s romantic. Lots of people do their weddings here, and yeah, I like weddings. Sometimes I get teary when people say their vows—if they’re good vows or they’re said with feeling. It gets me every time when old dads cry, maybe because I wish my dad cared about me that way.

“This place doesn’t look real,” Jennie says as she looks around with wonder, reverently touching her fingertips to the reddish stone on one of the columns while we walk through the gardens.

“It gets better this way,” I say, and lead her down the colonnade to the rotunda.

Inside, she tilts her head back and gazes at the intricate geometric patterns on the ceiling. Light reflects off the surface of the water outside, and waves ripple over the hexagonal shapes overhead. It’s a work of architectural genius, but what captivates me is Jennie’s profile, the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, how much I like seeing her in my jacket.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss a girl in the middle of this room,” I confess, feeling determined and a little bit queasy at what I’m planning to do.

She grins at me, and light dances in her eyes. “I bet you’ve taken lots of girls here.”

“I have.” I stride to the exact center of the echoing space.

“Do you kiss them all right there?” she asks, hanging close to the walls, away from me.

“Nah,” I say.

“Why?”

“It never felt right before.”

She tries to smile, but her lips won’t quite cooperate. “Maybe with the right person.”

I hold my hand out toward her, inviting her to join me here in the center. “The view is best right here. It’s perfectly symmetrical.” I have a feeling she loves symmetry like cats love catnip.

She takes a few steps toward me but stops out of my reach. Looking up at the ceiling, she smiles and says, “You’re right. The view is better here. I love this.”

“You’re not in the middle, Jennie.”

She bites her lip and takes one more step toward me.

I capture one of her hands and gently pull her to the middle with me. “You don’t want to stand next to me?”

She meets my eyes for the barest fraction of a second before glancing away. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to … do things with me.”

“I don’t.”

A smile flashes on her mouth as she nods. “Okay, good.”

Courage, I tell myself. She sent me a heart emoji. I can do this. Steeling myself, I tuck a tendril of her hair behind her ear. When her cheek twitches, I ask, “Do you mind when I do that?”

She starts to shake her head, but stops. “I like the sentiment.”

“But?” I ask.

With her gaze trained up at the ceiling, she adds, “But … it bothers me when people touch my hair.”

I store that information away and run the backs of my fingers along her cheek and cup her jaw in my hand, bringing her attention back to me. “What about when I touch you like this?”

She takes a shaky breath and exhales. “It’s okay.”

“Okay good, or okay bad?”

Her lips curve. “Okay good.”