15. Lucy
CHAPTER 15
LUCY
T hese last few weeks, my life has been a movie montage. The type where the couple is falling in love and succeeding at work and just living life together. She’s teaching him how to cook, they’re having paint fights while redoing a house, and there’s a bunch of kissing all over town. It’s like 10 Things I Hate About You and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and obviously every Hallmark Christmas movie. So cute and lovey-dovey, you almost can’t watch, but you push through because you secretly wish it was your life.
Or at least, that’s what I used to do. I’d roll my eyes while hiding how much I wanted that.
Now I have it.
Except in our case, it’s studying at the library for finals while holding hands under the table, neither of us staying remotely focused. It’s cuddling on the couch watching The Office or one of the million rom-coms I’ve been forcing Jordan to sit through with me. It’s secretly making eye contact during each of our respective basketball games–Jordan even winked at me after hitting a three and dang, I wanted to declare my love right there in that packed arena.
I never knew watching someone play the sport I also play could be such a turn-on. Let me just say, I have learned something new. Watching Jordan play basketball is a massive turn-on.
I’ve been in such a state of bliss that not even Sasha’s relentless remarks can tear me down. Both on the court and off, she won’t stop looking for ways to undermine me. A few games ago, I had an off shooting night, which gave her some ammo at practice the next day. Unfortunately for her, Jordan and I went stargazing that night and he took my mind off any basketball anxiety that otherwise could have derailed me.
He had me rolling with laughter as he made up constellations and pointed at random stars, giving me their fake origin stories. I forgot all about practice and all the anxiety I was feeling in anticipation of my game the following day.
I ended up scoring thirty-three points and leading us to a huge win. The best part of the whole day was Jordan waiting outside the locker room to hug me so tightly, he picked me up off the ground. All my teammates cheered as they walked out the door after me.
Except for one. Obviously.
As fun as all those picturesque moments have been, my favorite part has been Jordan opening up to me. It was so obvious that he’d never really talked about himself. Sure, he could talk about his game and who he was as a basketball player. After all, he never shies away from a little trash talk. But actually divulging real details about his life requires a level of vulnerability that’s foreign to him.
Every day, he makes a little more progress. That first morning when I forced him to answer my questions, we ended up hanging around our house for hours, drinking coffee and eating homemade blueberry pancakes. Once I got him going, he had a lot to say.
Some of it broke my heart. I learned about his parents–how his mom is sweet and hardworking and loyal, and how his dad has been trying to live vicariously through Jordan since he was young. The way Jordan explained it framed it as fairly as possible. He tried to maintain a diplomatic and even emotionally removed demeanor as he spoke. But I caught glimpses of the deeply rooted hurt underneath it all.
This led to a discussion about the scandal surrounding his transfer. The real story isn’t nearly as juicy as the ones floating around the media and even our campus–those centered around baby mamas and throwing games. What actually happened is just plain sad.
With every tidbit I learn, I fall for Jordan a little further. He’s so kind, especially for a person who had very little kindness shown to him. He’s loving for someone who was so hurt by the people he loved. And he’s so hardworking and disciplined for a kid who grew up with almost no structure outside of being in a gym.
There’s also the added bonus that watching him play basketball is so hot. I mean, dang, he looks so good. His arms are so muscular, and drenching someone that sexy in sweat should be a crime because of what it does to my thoughts. Someone must have removed the PG filter I previously had installed because my mind is going to some never-before-seen places.
As I trudge through the early December snow, I wonder if this is what falling in love feels like. My heart races when he walks into a room. I have to bite back a smile when his name pops up on my phone. Every time we touch, a swarm of butterflies erupts in my stomach. All I want is to see him succeed, to know what he’s thinking, to know what his dreams are.
When it boils down, I want is for him to be happy.
And everything in me wants to be the thing that makes him the happiest.
Oh, geez. I’m really in it now.
How did this happen to me? I definitely didn’t go looking for it. I had no interest in falling in love. Not that I’m quite in love. I’m love adjacent. But I’m relatively certain there’s no stopping this train.
When my phone pings and my heart leaps in my chest hoping it’s Jordan, I know for a fact that I couldn’t stop these feelings even if I wanted to.
Hey cutie:) Can I take you to dinner tonight?
He can literally take me anywhere anytime.
Yup can’t wait!
One more message.
Dress a little fancy. Please and thank you. Pick you up at 6.
Well, all righty then. I was sitting here thinking we would be heading to Chipotle or something. “Fancy” isn’t something we’ve ever done before. Although I can’t say I don’t want it. It’s totally how you visualize going on a date when you’re a little girl.
This is exactly the type of thing my dad used to do for my mom, especially in his final months. He’d wear a suit and tie, and my mom would break out her nicest dress. They’d go to places previously reserved for special occasions because at that point, every extra moment we had with my dad was a special occasion.
My dad’s new motto surrounding their date nights became, “Life’s too short not to eat the fun foods and wear the fun clothes.” It was slightly morbid, considering how sick he was. But I also loved how he refused not to be joyful. Even in the suffering.
I hadn’t realized my eyes were filling with tears until one rolls down my cheek. Ugh, grief really bites you at the most random times. I went from totally fine to crying on the sidewalk all because of the idea of dressing fancy.
Hurriedly wiping my tears, I notice the noise wafting from the house. I can hear it from the porch. All three of my roommates are definitely in the living room and definitely discussing something in impassioned tones. Though to be fair, we discuss basically everything like it’s the most important topic on earth, so it could be nothing. Don’t get us started on pant sizes or the texture of ice–we will treat it like we are testifying in front of the Supreme Court.
Upon opening the door, I discover the object of their debate.
There’s a flat box wrapped in Christmas paper sitting on the coffee table. It actually fits the Christmas aesthetic of our house to a T. Our little Charlie Brown Christmas tree is engulfed in lights and being weighed down with a few too many ornaments. The package is covered in brown paper and has a simple red bow.
It’s unmarked, though, which is odd.
Britt speaks first. “Lucy, were you expecting a package?”
I shake my head. She nods like this just confirms her point.
“Okay, so it’s obviously for one of us but we don’t know who, or it’s someone else’s but we have no clue where to take it. So either way, we should probably open it.”
Britt is the most impatient of the four of us. Kya is more tentative.
“Maybe let’s wait a little bit to see if someone comes looking for it. We don’t want to ruin someone’s Christmas by taking their surprise. ”
But AJ is the doer. She leaves the room, returning moments later with scissors. She cuts the ribbon and pulls off the lid of the box. Once inside the wrapping, we find a tiny envelope with one word written on it.
Lucy .
Britt purses her lips, giving me a suspicious look. “I thought you said you weren’t expecting a package.”
I’m as confused as they are. “I’m not.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Got plans tonight?”
The red in my face perfectly matches the red of the bow. “Umm, yes. Jordan is taking me to dinner.”
The collective eye roll that occurs is so synchronous, it looks rehearsed. Britt dives into her high-pitched Lucy impression to mock me. “Oh, I don’t know what this could possibly be. I’m just an innocent little girl with a smoking-hot boyfriend who’s taking me out to dinner tonight. But golly gee, the present could never be for little ol’ me.”
Her Southern accent really drives home my ignorance of the situation. I snatch the card from a laughing Kya as I mutter a weak reply. “He’s not officially my boyfriend.”
I slide the card open and read:
Lucy, I’ve never done something like this before but I wanted to do something special for you. Selfishly, I knew you’d look gorgeous in this dress. The girl at the store seemed to think so as well. Full disclosure—when they found out it was for you, they gave it to me for free as long as you post a picture in it and tag them. I’m pretty sure the girl working there was obsessed with you–not as much as I am, though… obviously. Can’t wait to see you soon.
-Jordan
My roomies are crowded around me, reading the note as well. Once she gets to the end, AJ slumps to the floor. Then she looks up at me, half annoyed, half amused.
“I’m with Britt. How did you not know the package was for you? He’s not your boyfriend–” She emphasizes the word with air quotes. “—but he sure as hell treats you like his girlfriend.”
I shrug. I don’t know what to say to that. He hasn’t officially asked, so it’s not officially official yet. It’s still in the gray area, despite what my feelings are telling me.
“I mean, yeah, I?—”
Britt cuts me off. “Just open the box. I want to know if he has good taste or if he’s corny or just like, wanting you to wear basically nothing. I mean, obviously he’d probably prefer the least amount of clothing possible, but for a public dinner, that might not be on the table.”
I’m holding the box and staring at her impatiently, eyebrows raised. “Are you done?”
She mimes zipping her lips.
I slowly and dramatically remove the tissue paper, tossing it over my shoulder with a flourish. Then I ask for a drum roll–which Kya generously gives me–as I lift the dress out and hold it up.
Britt groans, flopping herself back on the couch. “Great. So, he has good style, too? Why did you have to meet him first? Man, some people have all the luck.”
She’s right. The dress is exactly something I’d pick out. With a simple white knit material, long sleeves, and reaching almost to the floor, it’s gorgeous. I head into my room for a full-body transformation–this sweat isn’t going to wash itself off.
An hour and a half later, I strut out to do a model walk for my roommates. They’re all cuddled up on the couch, a vat of popcorn in the middle, watching Bridgerton .
Wolf whistles and applause abound as I do a spin. My makeup is intentionally understated, with a pale pink lip and light eyeliner. My hair is once again curled–I must like this guy if I’ve already curled my stick-straight hair twice for him.
The dress he chose looks pretty perfect, if I do say so myself. It hugs my body all the way down. Basketball players aren’t tiny, but we often make up for it with our curves. I have the weight room to thank for that.
Just as AJ starts her terrible Lady Whistledown impersonation telling me I’m the diamond of the season, I’m saved by the doorbell. AJ beats me to the door and throws it open.
“Come on in, young man.”
Her voice has dropped twenty octaves as I realize she’s pretending to be the dad of the house. Britt jumps in with her high-pitched old lady voice. “Well, aren’t you two just the cutest thing west of the Appalachian Mountains.”
I finally catch a glimpse of Jordan’s ridiculously chiseled face, and he appears to be very entertained by the whole bit. We all turn expectantly to Kya, who has her hands over her eyes. She peeks one out.
“I think I was supposed to bark or something and pretend to be a guard dog, but I really didn’t want to participate. Still don’t.”
Man, I love my roommates.
Still laughing, I pull Jordan out the door, and right before it closes, Britt shouts after us. “Don’t mess this up, Mr. Mitchell! Your girl is a dime piece!”