One of them rushes to ask, “Are you sleeping with Jesse?”

I shake my head and focus on the napkin in my lap. When my mother signed the permission slip for shadow day, she also had to sign nondisclosure agreements, stating that I would keep everything I learn about Jesse a secret. Confidentiality agreement or not, no way in hell would I hurt him. We didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but I know what it’s like to be betrayed.

“You’re friends with him then? Do you know why he’s quitting the business?”

My breathing speeds up, and I can’t catch it. Where is the manager? Why hasn’t he thrown these jerks out? Flash, flash, flash, flash. Click, click, click.

“Give us something,” the other guy says.

“I’ve got no comment,” I say as Jesse approaches our table, his eyebrow raised. He stands there for a long moment, staring at me. Flash, flash, flash, flash.

“Come on guys, beat it,” Jesse says nonchalantly, sliding into his seat. The paparazzi grab a few more pics of us—click, click, click, click—but they vamoose after Jesse gives them a stare that would scare the devil.

When we’re alone again, Jesse chooses another piece of bread from the basket. He glances at me, giving me a smile. A genuine smile that lights up his face. It sends shivers rippling over my skin.

“I heard everything,” he says finally.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s all good,” Jesse says. “A lot of girls would lie to the press, say they’re dating me or whatever, you know? It’s happened before.” He looks away and stares through the window at the choppy river. I know he thinks the worst of people, but does he not trust anyone?

“I get what that’s like,” I say.

“How could you possibly?”

“I understand what it’s like to trust somebody… I know how bad it feels when they let you down or betray you.”

He picks up a black crayon and starts drawing a night sky above the horse. “Go on.”

For some reason, maybe because this is only for one day, I feel okay telling him the truth, which I haven’t been able to tell my family. Maybe if I’m honest, he’ll open up to me too. Isn’t that what Dr. Salter wanted?

“I got kicked out of my band last week.”

His caramel eyes meet mine. “Why would a band let a guitarist like you go?”

“Different tastes in music,” I mutter and pinch my arm to distract from the pain in my chest. “They only wanted to play heavy metal and refused to branch out like I wanted. So they asked me to leave.”

“That’s silly. If you wanna be a musician, you gotta study a wide variety of music.”

I peek up at him. That’s what I think—a band should sample from different genres to find a unique tone. Like Queen. They started out with a hard sound and then eventually developed their own style. Hearing Jesse say that makes me feel better, but I’m still band-less, and Wannabe Rocker audition videos are due in two weeks.

“What are you gonna do?” Jesse asks.

I shrug, and that’s when the server comes to drop off our drinks. When she’s gone, I change the subject. I doodle music notes and a flower. “You ever had a day like Ferris Bueller did? Where you did whatever you wanted?”

This mischievous grin sneaks onto his face. “So you really want to shadow me today, no matter what I do?”

I lift an eyebrow, smiling.

“Definitely.”

• • •

After gorging on brisket, we walk back to where Jesse parked his Harley. The two paparazzi guys from earlier are there, along with some new guys and even a lady, all snapping pictures of us while we climb on Jesse’s bike.

“Jesse!” a reporter calls, his camera flashing and clicking. “New girlfriend?”

“Nah.” He nudges me. “I’m not her type.”

I run fingers through my bleached hair, mussing it, and focus on the asphalt so the press can’t see my eyes. Suddenly a black town car pulls up right next to the press, and the two publicists from earlier, Tracy and Gina, climb out of the backseat. One of them rushes over to the paparazzi to do damage control. The other wobbles our way in her black high heels.

“Jesse!” she calls out. “Where have you been?”

“Hold on, Maya,” Jesse says, revving his engine, and I throw my arms around his middle and grip his waist. The next thing I know, we’re barreling down Second Avenue, with the black town car and half a dozen paparazzi on our tails. I feel like I’m in a chase scene from a movie. Hell. Yes.