Chapter 4

Noah

The problem with lying to yourself is that eventually, the truth claws its way out.

I’ve been telling myself for years that I bug Jessa because it’s easy. Because she’s reactive, and I like the way she gets flustered. That’s it. Simple.

But it’s not.

If I’m honest—and I almost never am, even in my own head—it started way before she became “sensitive Jessa.”

It started in middle school.

Back then, Jessa was different. Not unrecognizable—she still had the dark eyes, the messy hair, the sharp tongue—but she laughed more. She’d shoot water through her teeth at Jackson during lunch, or race us to the corner store after practice and somehow always win, even though her legs were half the size of ours.

She wasn’t invisible back then. She didn’t try to be.

I noticed her before I even realized I was noticing her. The way her grin curved higher on the right side. The way she’d wrinkle her nose when she concentrated. The way she never backed down, even when she should have.

I liked it.

Too much.

And that scared the hell out of me.

Because she was Jackson’s twin. And Jackson’s my guy—my quarterback, my brother from another mother. There’s an unspoken rule: sisters are off-limits. Period.

So instead of admitting I was drawn to her, I started pushing her away. Teasing, needling, whatever you want to call it. It was easier to play the jerk than to let anyone—including her—guess how I actually felt.

And over the years, that mask stuck.

Now everyone, including Jessa, believes I really am that guy. The one who points out her extra butter, or makes cracks in the cafeteria.

But underneath it? Every time I say something, every time I watch her react, there’s this other layer.

I’m watching her mouth.

I’m watching her eyes.

I’m thinking things I shouldn’t think. 

Last week was the worst.

We were at Jackson’s, sprawled on the couch, watching film. Jessa came in with a bowl of popcorn, pretending she didn’t care if we ate it all. She sat on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

And when she laughed—actually laughed at some dumb commentary on TV—it hit me like a helmet to the ribs.

I hadn’t heard that laugh in a long time.

It wasn’t sharp or defensive. It wasn’t trying to hide. It was just… real.

I couldn’t stop staring.

And then she glanced up, caught me looking, and everything inside me knotted tight. Because for a second, I swear she knew.

Knew that I’d been watching her.

Knew that maybe, underneath all the teasing, I wanted her.

The worst part?

I don’t want to stop.

I tell myself I should. That she deserves better than being some secret I bury under sarcasm. That Jackson would kill me if he knew.

But then she glares at me across the table, or snaps back with some fiery retort, and it’s like gasoline on a match. I can’t quit.

It’s like the closer I get to the edge, the more I want to see what happens if I jump.

What happens if I stop hiding behind jokes and just say it.

That I like the way she looks in oversized T-shirts. That I notice how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. That I’ve thought about what her mouth would feel like against mine more times than I can admit.

That the reason I agitate her isn’t because she’s sensitive.

It’s because she makes me feel exposed.

And the only way I know how to handle it is to make her feel the same.

Lying here now, staring at the ceiling in the dark, I know I’m screwed.

Because sooner or later, I won’t be able to keep pretending.

And when that happens, everything—my friendship with Jackson, the team, the fragile balance we’ve all built—could go up in flames.

But the truth?

If it means Jessa finally sees me the way I see her…

I might just light the match myself.