7. Orion
Orion
It’s quiet at The Pardon tonight. The lights are low and the music isn’t too loud. Thank God, because my head is still pounding.
I was on the fence about coming out, but on balance, I’m not all that mad Jordan dragged me out.
Rowan and Riley were here when we arrived, already a few good rounds in.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen them, so it’s nice to catch up.
Rowan is one of those super together guys who always knows where he’s supposed to be and what he’s supposed to be doing.
He acts a little older than the rest of us, which can make him seem a little unapproachable, but he isn’t.
Not when you get to know him. I’m not saying he’s the kind of guy you should fuck with because he definitely isn’t, but he’s good people all the same.
Riley is the type whose exterior doesn’t match his interior at all.
He’s built like a brick shithouse, but he cries during rom-coms. He isn’t embarrassed about it either.
He’s easy to be around, even for me. Kind of like a teddy bear who didn’t get the memo that he’s the size of a grizzly.
I like him a lot. I tell Jordan so all the time. It drives him crazy.
Jordan does this thing where he acts crazy possessive of me. He’s done it since we were kids, and he still hasn’t gotten bored of it. He’s like that. If he does something once or twice and gets a good response, he sticks with it for life.
I’m pretty sure he only does it to make me feel better about myself, but I can’t deny that I enjoy the hell out of it all the same.
We have the same dumb conversation whenever we’ve hung out with other people.
I’ll say something about having had a good time with someone, or that I think they’re nice, or interesting, or whatever, and Jordan makes a face like he’s bitten into a lemon.
He says super dumb shit like, “What? Are you going to be their friend now? Are you going to drop me? Kick me to the curb after all these years? That’s fucked up, O, and you know it. ”
I roll my eyes and try not to show how much I like that he responds that way. If I play my cards right, I can provoke him to say even more unhinged shit. It’s the best.
Jordan and I head to the bar to buy our drinks.
We get stopped by a couple of girls. One of them I’m not all that concerned about because she’s not his type, and the other I’m less a fan of.
Her name is Nat. I’ve met her a few times, and I don’t love the way she looks at Jordan.
Like he’s red meat, and she has an iron deficiency.
Unfortunately, he’s looking uber-hot tonight, so I know there’s no way he’s not going to draw attention.
He’s wearing pale, washed-out jeans and a white T-shirt.
It’s a look that shouldn’t be a lot, but on him, it is.
It really is. I’ve never managed to work out if it’s his body or the way he carries himself, but something about him makes it possible for him to throw any old thing on and look insanely good. Not just good, stylish. Put together.
This T-shirt is a little shorter than the ones he usually wears, falling slightly below his jeans button and acting like a slutty striptease every time he moves his arms.
Speaking of his arms, this particular T-shirt is a little snug around his biceps. Not in a try-hard way. In a my-arms-are-so-sexy-my-T-shirt-can’t-handle-it way.
It’s making it really fucking hard for me to think straight.
Jordan flashes his fake ID and orders a Bud Light for himself and me.
By the time we get back to our table, Andy and West have arrived.
They’re sophomores like us. They shared a room in the same dorm Riley and Rowan lived in last year, but Andy moved out at the start of this academic year.
They’re still practically joined at the hip though.
Andy’s an art major. West is some kind of math genius.
Jordan greets them with extreme enthusiasm, issuing hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back like it’s his job. My greeting is more controlled. Practiced. I’m exactly as polite to them as society dictates is appropriate, no more, no less. Especially to Andy.
Andy is openly gay, and he’s the kind of guy who’s very difficult to be around when you’re closeted.
He has one of those faces that’s almost impossible to look at and keep your mouth closed at the same time.
He looks like the reason the phrase tall, dark, and handsome was invented.
He’s put his own spin on the phrase, though, with over-long wavy hair and sad eyes that all but whisper the word “sex.”
It’s hard to know how long to make eye contact with him and be sure it’s coming across as strictly platonic.
Andy’s a really good guy, and I’d like to be better friends with him, but whenever I’m around him, I spend most of my time in a cold sweat from worrying someone will notice me looking at him.
Or that he’ll stop looking at West long enough to clock me.
To make matters worse, Andy’s friend Sarah is out with them tonight. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s very nice. That’s not the issue. The issue is that the last three times I’ve seen her, Summer has been with her.
Sure enough, as soon as we’ve finished the whole greeting rigmarole, I look up, and there she is.
Summer Deacon.
My face instantly feels hotter than it did before, and I look around, hoping to spot a possible exit. Jordan is sitting next to me, and West is beside him, boxing me into a booth seat. Unless I ask them to move and cause everyone to shuffle their seats, I’m going nowhere.
Shit.
Jordan spots Summer seconds after I do. “Told you you should’ve worn my lucky shirt tonight,” he says to me under his breath.
His lucky shirt is a plain black tank from The Gap. It’s in no way memorable as far as tops go, but Jordan is convinced that he never strikes out when he wears it. He thinks the garment has been imbued with seductive magic or something, when really, it’s just tight and his body is smoking hot.
He raises his hand and waves her over. “Hey, Summer, over here.”
Summer stalks toward us, and everyone at the table, except for Andy, takes a deep breath.
She is so beautiful she hardly looks real.
She has long silver-white hair that cascades down her back in the kind of waves girls usually get when they sleep with braids, and a face so flawless that I kind of feel sorry for straight guys who encounter her.
I can’t really blame them for the way they act around her.
The awful thing is that her looks are far from the most interesting thing about her.
She’s smart with a dark sense of humor and almost no desire to please people.
She doesn’t suffer fools and has no qualms calling people out on their bullshit.
She’s the kind of girl who’s deeply intimidating to most men and likes that about herself.
She’s confident in a quiet way that comes from an unshakable place.
A place that I can only assume—as I’m far from an expert on such matters—is accessible exclusively to those who like themselves on a fundamental level.
She’s way more than the average guy could ever hope to handle.
To put it another way, she’s the exact kind of girl who could take Jordan down.
No girl has ever made me feel like this.
Not only jealous, but scared. Terrified.
Certain, in a deep, twisting, terrible way, that if Jordan gets naked with her, he won’t be okay.
He won’t show her out in the morning without a care in the world, and sure as shit won’t say, “Nah,” when I ask if he’s going to see her again.
I’ve known Jordan long enough to know his type well.
I can spot girls he’ll be attracted to from across a room, whether I want to or not.
He’s into looks, of course he is, but that’s not the main thing he’s into.
He cares more about personality, and there’s a very specific personality type that makes him weak.
He likes women who are fearless. Fiery. Wild, with unpredictable temperaments and a lot to say for themselves.
The first time I met Summer, I saw all those things at once.
Her presence is large and mesmerizing. It reached out to me, wound around my heart and throat, and squeezed hard.
I saw her, and something inside me died, shriveling into a dried husk.
Something sad and pathetic. Something that thinks of Jordan as mine even though I know damn well he’s not.
Before I ever said a word to her, I recognized her for what she is. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Not perfect as a human being. Of course not. No one’s perfect. Summer is something much worse than that.
She’s perfect for Jordan.
I didn’t mean for what happened to happen. I swear I didn’t. I saw her, and my heart stopped. I stood stock still, unable to speak, as she walked toward us.
Jordan saw my reaction.
He accurately perceived that I was affected by her, but he misinterpreted the reason. He slung a heavy arm around my shoulder and spoke quietly so the people around us wouldn’t hear. “You calling dibs on her, bud?”
I croaked something short and dry that he took to mean yes.
To his credit, he didn’t show any sign of resentment or even disappointment. “Okay, I got you. Follow my lead, Imma talk you up.”
And talk me up, he did. He told Summer more about me than most people know.
He gave her a detailed account of the places I’ve lived, where I’ve traveled.
He covered my hobbies and interests and touched on my stellar academics, then pivoted to amusing anecdotes when she didn’t look all that interested in my GPA.
He was relentless.
I swear to God, at one point, I heard him telling her that I have a close and healthy relationship with my mom.
It was deeply uncomfortable to watch.
I spent most of the rest of that night beet red and unable to string an eloquent sentence together. Jordan took it as a sure sign that I have it bad for Summer.