23. Orion
Orion
Islink into the apartment later than usual, making up a bullshit excuse about having eaten on campus when Jordan offers me dinner. I haven’t eaten, and I’m lying about it because I’m currently embroiled in the deepest level of overthinking imaginable.
Obviously, Jordan didn’t mean it when he offered to have sex with me.
He was talking out of his ass. Anyone can see that.
He got himself into one of his turbo-charged problem-solving modes, and he said something he didn’t mean.
He’d had some tequila beforehand, and maybe it hit harder than it usually does.
Sometimes he gets more fucked up if his mood is heightened before he drinks.
I’m sure that’s what happened. He was upset because we argued. We don’t fight often, but he hates it when we do. He did some shots, and then he said things he didn’t mean. It’s that simple.
I’m a hundred percent sure that’s what happened. But because my overthinking really is a form of mental illness at this point, I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, and I’m doing things I usually do when I manage to convince myself I have what it takes to bottom before going cruising.
This time will be the same as all those times. I know that. I’m going to walk out of the bathroom in a minute. The fresh, unsteamy air will hit me, and I’ll be mortally embarrassed that I even wasted my time thinking it would happen.
Come to think of it, I might not even need to leave the bathroom before it hits me tonight. I’m still in the shower, rinsing shampoo from my hair, and I’m already embarrassed by my actions.
Oh well. I guess I’ll have to put this down to a lesson learned, though I do wish I could stop having to learn this particular lesson. It’s so goddamn boring to learn the same thing over and over again.
I think I’m going to have to develop a new problem soon, so I can start learning lessons about something different.
Yeah. I’m going to start working on that.
I’ve come out to Jordan now, so I should probably come out to my mom sometime in the near future.
Maybe I can get some debilitating anxiety about that, and it will distract me enough that I stop douching for no reason.
God, that would be nice.
I step out of the shower, dry myself, and wrap my towel around my waist.
I open the bathroom door absently, expecting the hallway to be empty, and nearly jump out of my skin when it isn’t.
Jordan is standing directly across from me, leaning back against the wall with both hands deep in his pockets.
He tilts his head back when he sees me. Burned paper and frayed edges doing something truly spectacular to his lips.
He looks real and unreal. The same as he has a million times before, but there’s something about him tonight that gives rise to a pang of longing that’s so endless I can’t get air into my lungs.
A seriousness about Jordan’s demeanor makes my voice stick in my throat.
I’ve seen him looking at people like this. I know this look. The penetrating gaze. Gold flames flickering in the shadows. I’ve seen him looking at girls like this more times than I can count. I recognize it, and though it makes no sense when directed at me, I know what it means.
Jordan Slater is down to fuck.
I’ve never seen him looking at me like this though. Never. Not once. Not even when I’ve tried to conjure it up in my dreams. His smile is easy and free like always, but there’s a heat in his eyes that lands differently when it’s aimed at me.
Jesus.
What’s going on?
Am I hallucinating?
God, I hope not. I’m not equipped to deal with that kind of thing at all.
Jordan cocks his head toward his bedroom door, and his smile fades completely. What’s left in its place is a simmering suggestion that makes my heart race. I’m almost completely positive I’m right, but if this isn’t what I think it is, his expression is very, very confusing.
“What do you say, O? You wanna?”
I glance left and right surreptitiously and then work my gaze slowly up his body.
He’s wearing an old pale-pink T-shirt and low-slung sweatpants.
Dark charcoal ones that fit like a dream.
A sex dream on steroids. A slut show with all the bells and whistles.
His hands are balled in his pockets, causing the fabric to stretch as it curves over them, but despite that, I can see the clear outline of a hefty bulge between them.
Wait.
Is he hard?
Sweet Jesus. I think he is. And he’s not trying to hide it. If anything, his hips are thrust forward slightly, so I can’t miss it. Blood rushes to my cock so hard and fast my head spins.
Now, I’m almost positive I know what’s happening because Jordan is being about as subtle as a slap in the face, but I can’t quite make myself believe it.
“W-what do you mean?” I ask, adopting an unpleasant, nasal tone.
His lips remain neutral, but a glimmer of fondness lights his eyes. He was expecting the question, or at least he isn’t surprised by it. “I mean, do you want me to do you, Orion?” He takes a step toward me. The space between us sizzles and cracks. “D’you want me to punch your V-card?”
The smile is back and more confusing than ever.
He’s smiling at me like he always does. Like he’s my friend.
Like he knows he’s being a shithead, but he’s not going to let that stop him because he also knows I have the same dumb sense of humor he does.
“Break your seal… Pop your cherry… Deflower you?”
“Deflower?” I snort, wrinkling my nose. “Deflower? Ugh. That’s cringe, man. Don’t talk like that. Not even you can pull it off.”
Of course that only provokes him. He’s enjoying the hell out of this conversation, and he’s nowhere near done.
His eyebrows are arched comically high, and they creep a little higher with each ridiculous euphemism he comes up with.
“Wanna earn your stripes? Turn in your spurs? Consummate our…friendship?”
“Consummate our friendship? Seriously? Ew.”
His hands are still in his pockets, but he’s taken another step toward me.
At least, that’s what I think until I look down.
When I do, I notice he isn’t the one who took the step.
I did. I’ve migrated to the middle of the hallway to meet him without meaning to.
I’m standing so close to him that I can hear his voice through my skin.
I can feel the hair on his arms against mine.
No, not against my arms. Against the palm of my hand.
My hand moves, and I realize I’m touching him.
I’m as close as I can get to him, naked except for my towel, and I’m running my hand up his forearm slowly. Intentionally. I’ve never touched him like this. Never. I’ve used a considerable amount of energy to make sure I don’t. It should feel foreign. Brand new and awkward.
It doesn’t.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world.
It feels so right that it feels strange we haven’t been doing it all along.
Now, I admit that I’m so horny I can’t feel my face, and my decision-making faculties might not be at their best, but even so, I know having sex with Jordan would be a mistake. A gargantuan, life-changing mistake.
It’s not often that one has this kind of clarity, especially not before you do something.
Usually, you do something and then realize afterward that it was a bad decision.
Usually, when you make a decision, you think it’s the right thing to do.
You weigh your options and make the best choice you can at the time.
It’s rare, I think, to find yourself in a situation like this. Where you know for a fact that you’re making a mistake before you even make it.
But here’s the thing: in life, we regret the things we don’t do more than the things we do.
It’s true. Ask anyone. Your grandma. Your elderly neighbor. Talk to people who’ve lived a lot or are near the end of their life, and ask what their biggest regret is. Almost every single person will list things they didn’t do.
Opportunities they missed. Chances they didn’t take.
It’s a universal truth. Verity. A fundamental reality none of us can escape.
Even though I know in my bones that sleeping with Jordan is a gargantuan error, deciding whether or not to do it isn’t a difficult decision.
It’s easy because I know as surely as I’m standing here, living and breathing, that if I don’t do it, it will be my biggest regret.
It will be the thing that makes me toss and turn on my deathbed.
The watershed moment. The great if only that defines me.
The singular regret that would echo through me for the rest of my life.
It’s no secret that I want Jordan. I’ve wanted him since before I knew for sure what this kind of want is, or what it means.
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
I want him so much that I don’t know if it’s possible for me to want anyone else.
I want him in the best and worst way, and I know, I know that for as long as I live, if I don’t take him up on his offer, I’m going to hate myself for it.
I know myself well enough to know that if I don’t do it, I’ll never be able to stop thinking about it. I’ll be trapped in an endless loop of what if. I’ll be hopelessly in love with Jordan forever, unable to move on, if I pass this opportunity up.
Before I have time to reply, Jordan waggles his eyebrows and says, “I’m really good at sex, you know.”
It shouldn’t be at all attractive that he’s like this. An idiot and arrogant at the same time. But it is.
“I know that, asshole. I’ve heard you fucking girls to within an inch of their lives for years.”
His lips peel back and his eyes don’t leave mine. “I’ll bet you have.”
It’s not what he says that affects me. It’s the way he says it. A brown-sugar voice with a flame lit beneath it.
He’s flirting, I realize with a jolt. Jordan is flirting with me.