Chapter 2
? Hire the Wedding Planner
He never forgets to set his alarm. Never hits Snooze when the chirp-chirp of “Morning Bliss” fills his bedroom. He’s a man of routine and schedules. It’s comforting to him. Nothing changes.
Until this morning.
When Jordan’s alarm goes off, he politely taps it quiet. Well, more like slams his open palm against the screen until it shuts up.
Instead of instantly hopping out of bed, he stares at the ceiling. A minute goes by. Then two. Three turns to five.
He knows what his next steps are. Go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, drink a glass of water, pull on his workout clothes, head downstairs to the gym. But his brain and body aren’t on the same page.
The last moments of his date with Jess keep replaying in his head.
The spilled wine. Almost knocking Asa flat on their ass. Tequila splashed on his blazer. His instinctive head turn when Jess went to kiss him. That scruffy bartender—who certainly wasn’t who Jordan thought he was—watching it all.
Jordan throws a hand over his eyes. “Fuck!”
This spiraling isn’t good for his mental state.
Especially not today.
Six minutes later than he’s supposed to, Jordan crawls out of bed.
He stumbles through his usual routine. Most of it goes without incident.
He’s only halfway through brushing his teeth when he remembers to add the toothpaste.
And he manages to catch himself before walking out of his apartment with his shirt inside out.
That’s the worst of it.
Until he gets to his apartment building’s gym, where he realizes he forgot his sweat towel. Just lovely. No weights for him this morning.
He sulks his way over to the treadmills.
The wall of machines faces a large window. Outside, Midtown Atlanta is bathed in the sunrise’s light. All the glass and stone buildings stretch like fingers toward the multicolored sky.
Jordan loves this view. He can watch the early risers dip in and out of coffee shops. Patio umbrellas popping open as cafés prepare for the day. Cars zooming over the roads still damp from last night’s storm. Buses idling on corners.
The gym itself is fairly empty. Only a handful of residents mill around. One guy goes hard on the bench press, grunting his way to either more gains or major rotator-cuff damage. Everyone else is posing for their phones, pretending to work out for social media content.
They all give him a friendly head nod.
He waves back.
The first day Jordan visited Peach & Oak Apartments, he fell in love.
It’s nice, well-maintained. A little on the gentrified side, but affordable.
Nothing like the luxury place Denz once rented in the heart of downtown Atlanta.
Or the top-floor penthouse his mom and Tevin share, the one he grew up in.
But this is all his.
An eight-hundred-square-foot, one-bedroom smart apartment. The first real adult thing he’s ever had.
Up until last year, Jordan was only an assistant at 24 Carter Gold. The salary was great. It was also half of what he makes now as an event coordinator. Not even a quarter of what he’ll earn once he gets promoted to events manager. If he nails his latest assignment, that is.
Which he will. Starting today.
Jordan slides his wireless earbuds in. He scrolls to his new go-to podcast: Spine Breakers, and settles his phone on the treadmill’s holder.
No, it’s not a series about chiropractors.
Or a duo of “experts” giving out sex tips.
Instead, the podcast follows two earnest readers as they discuss their favorite romance novels.
Romance isn’t Jordan’s first pick—for books or movies. But the hosts are hilarious. Their banter is just the right blend of humor and hysterics to keep Jordan’s brain busy for a thirty-five-minute workout.
Too bad an incoming FaceTime call stops him before he can hit Play.
He stares at the name on the screen with a frown. It’s not even 6:30 AM. He half expects it to be his boss. Or his mom. But it’s neither.
Jordan sets the treadmill’s speed on low before answering.
“Braylon’s gonna kill me!” comes through the speaker before the video connects.
Jordan’s not sure whether to laugh or contact the FBI. He opts for the former.
“What did you do?”
“Me? Why is it my fault?”
“Because you’re you, Denz.”
His cousin flips him off.
Denz is the perfect mix of Uncle Kenny and Auntie Leena. Rich brown skin, thick eyebrows. A slightly wide forehead that you rarely notice because of his short, textured sponge curls. Denz has a great smile too. Very photogenic, which helps with his enormous social media presence.
That smile is nowhere in sight now. He looks equally wired and exhausted.
“Why are you up anyway?” Jordan grimaces. “It’s three AM there.”
Denz lives in California. He moved last year after realizing being CEO of the family business wasn’t his real passion. Oh, and to be with the man he’s loved since college.
“Because my boyfriend is going to murder me,” Denz says around a yawn. “Keep up.”
“I am.”
With the treadmill, at least. Jordan increases the speed. He builds a steady rhythm.
“Why is Braylon planning to end your life?”
Denz holds up a white mug to the camera. It says, NOBODY LIKES A SOGGY BOTTOM in bold text with a Union Jack underneath.
Jordan shakes his head. Braylon’s influence over Denz has reached new levels of ridiculousness.
“I drank the last of Braylon’s tea,” Denz whispers. Like Braylon’s somewhere hiding in the shadows, waiting to toss Denz out the window.
Jordan’s confident Braylon wouldn’t. He shrugs. “So? Buy him some more.”
“I can’t. It’s fancy tea. From the UK.”
“Tea is tea.”
A hysterical laugh slips past Denz’s lips. “You obviously don’t know Braylon.”
“Is that why you called, cuz? Do you need help picking out a headstone?”
“I called,” Denz says, annoyed, “because I knew you wouldn’t call me. Today’s the big day, right?”
Jordan grins.
He’s never had a real best friend. The kind you meet on the first day of kindergarten.
That you share crayons and juice boxes and secrets with.
Go through every new and awkward phase of childhood together with.
That one person you fall out with in high school over switching lunch tables and then still cry with during graduation.
Jordan has had close variations of friends. Guys from the basketball team. His classmates. Yazzie. But no one like Denz.
Braylon once told Denz that family doesn’t count as friends, but Jordan disagrees. His cousin is the only person who knows Jordan’s best and worst sides.
Well, the only one besides maybe Jamie.
But Jordan’s not thinking about him right now. Or, like, the rest of today. The rest of the week or month.
There’s not a square available on Jordan’s calendar for Jamie Peters.
“Jordan?”
He flinches at Denz’s concerned voice. “Hmm?”
“Are you freaking out?”
Jordan snorts. “I’m not freaking out.”
“Because it’s okay if you are.”
“I’m not freaking out,” he repeats.
“If you’re having stress diarrhea, it’s cool. Very normal. Last year, when I was—”
“Denz, I don’t have stress diarrhea!”
Jordan winces. He might’ve shouted that a little too loudly. Instead of looking around to confirm if everyone is staring at him, he focuses on Denz.
“I’m fine,” he hisses.
Over the rim of his mug, Denz stares skeptically. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
Denz’s next expression is hidden behind a notification dropping down on Jordan’s screen. When he recognizes the yellow-and-black logo, Jordan almost stumbles again.
It’s a new Grindr message.
It’s a mystery why Jordan even still has the app. He never uses it. He barely created a profile. All his dates are ones his mom fixes him up with. Besides, he didn’t download Grindr with the intention of hooking up anyway.
He hasn’t done anything with another man. Unless you count that little thing with Jamie from a decade ago. Jordan certainly doesn’t.
Denz starts talking about something. A new client he’s working with?
Jordan increases the treadmill speed.
Thing is, Jordan’s never labeled himself straight. He hasn’t denied being it either. Straight people don’t have to label themselves. They’re rarely even asked about it. There’s no big speech to friends and family or the entire fucking internet about who they date or choose to sleep with.
Straight is—annoyingly—still considered the default. It’s just assumed from birth.
But Jordan hates assumptions.
Especially since he’s not sure what he is.
Yazzie was his one girlfriend in high school. He liked her. They laughed and watched movies and occasionally kissed. It was all very chill.
When college came around, they mutually agreed to end things. A long-distance friendship is easier than a long-distance relationship.
Since then, Jordan’s exclusively dated women. Which has been fine, minus last night. Yet the desire to take things further has never been there.
He doesn’t know why.
Maybe because it’s never felt like it did with Yazzie.
Or that night with Jamie.
The memory unfolds like a blooming flower: Mario Kart frozen on the TV. A bluish glow threaded through Jamie’s brown hair. His strong hands cupping Jordan’s face and neck. The heat and decadence of his mouth. Shock running through Jordan’s veins.
He’s not gay.
He’s pretty sure he’s not gay.
His eyes never linger on other men in the gym. Or in the showers. When he’s walking down a street. He can appreciate a nice jawline or defined calves, the occasional broad chest. But he doesn’t want any of them.
He never has.
It shouldn’t be this confusing. Jordan’s twenty-five. Shouldn’t he know who he is by now?
“—and date night’s coming up,” Denz is saying. “I want to take him somewhere nice. Maybe in WeHo?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jordan runs faster.
Honestly, he wishes for half the confidence Denz has. He’s been out since senior year of high school. Denz has never shown any signs of doubting his identity.