Who is She?

I found the drawing under a bunch of Jesse's papers when I was rooting around in his house. He was still sleeping, lying curled up on his side, eyes shut and looking like a kid, the way he does.

I was bored, and there was no reason to wake him. Brock was at my Grandma's and there wasn't much else to do. Some of my old girlfriends used to tell me, used to joke about how they went through their men's stuff and found whatever, either funny or depressing.

Jesse was still such a mystery, I had to see if I could figure him out, find something that said who he is, who he was.

There was a stack of papers on a table, just a bunch of bills, and then under it was where I found it – a big piece of paper, canvas maybe, 11x17, and on it was a beautiful drawing, colored pencil it looked like, of a beautiful girl with black hair and brown eyes.

I swallowed, staring at it, instantly knowing that this girl wasn't a fiction of Jesse's imagination – she was real, but who was she? Where was she? Did Jesse still love her?

I was staring so hard that I didn't hear him coming up behind me.

"Hey," Jesse called, and I whirled around. Caught – shit. I was still holding the paper in my hand, and I tried desperately to talk my way out of it.

"I… uh…"

"Oh," Jesse said, and he reached out and slowly took the picture from me. When I was assured that he wasn't about to beat my head in for going through his stuff, I swallowed.

"Who is she?" I squeaked it out, wanting – not wanting – to know. Jesse didn't look at me; he stared at the picture instead.

"Her name was Jane." His voice was barely above a whisper, and it was like he was somewhere else. Somewhere bad. Dark.

"She died?" I asked quietly. When he nodded, I didn't like how I felt – a little relieved, maybe, that she wouldn't come back and whisk him away, take him away from me.

"It was an accident. An overdose," Jesse explained, still not meeting my eyes, but hers instead.

"I'm sorry." Jesse didn't answer. "What was she like?" I moved to his side, to look at her, too. Jane.

"She drew, too. She was a tattoo artist – but didn't have any tattoos." He smiled sadly.

"You loved her." He nodded.

"Jesse?" He turned and looked at me for the first time. "Draw me?"