Chapter 6 Pick Out the Bridesmaids’ Dresses
? Pick Out the Bridesmaids’ Dresses
Of fucking course Jamie’s seeing someone.
Why wouldn’t he be? This is Jamie’s thing. He dates freely. Without remorse or explanation. He starts and ends relationships quicker than Jordan changes his boxers.
It’s never been an issue before. Jamie deserves happiness. To be in love.
Jordan wouldn’t want anything less for him.
So why is he so … angry?
Furious, actually. Because of one dance? Because Jordan let a silly, irrelevant moment between them distract him from his job? Because this isn’t the first time he allowed it to happen? Because, for a fleeting second, Jordan inserted himself into that picture of happiness and love?
“Fuck you, Ed Sheeran,” he seethes quietly at his desk.
It’s Friday morning. Two days since visiting the Piedmont Conservatory. Two days since Amy and Sam picked the venue. Two days since he met Sloane. The woman Jamie’s been on a “few dates” with.
But he’s cool. Not at all pouting like a fussy toddler in need of a juice box.
He slurps on his mango-banana smoothie while scrolling through his updated wedding list. Work still needs to be done. Boxes checked.
Sadly, after a minute, Jordan’s eyes stray to his phone. He left Instagram open. Somehow, he found the profile for @xoxoslosmith.
Sloane’s account.
That counts as work, right? Research. He’s merely doing his due diligence to learn everything about the friends in Amy and Sam’s life.
Sloane’s grid is simple. Generic photos with family. Beach vacations and barbeques and Christmases in front of a lavish tree. She didn’t attend Brighton. Instead, she went to a private Catholic school in northeast Atlanta.
That means there’s no Amy-related content.
Jordan scrolls more.
He gets Sloane throwing her graduation cap in the air at UNC-Chapel Hill.
Sloane on a hike, a tousled dark head and vaguely familiar broad shoulders walking in front of her.
Sloane with Aspen’s snowy mountains in the background.
Her parents and Jamie’s parents and Jamie himself.
In the photo, his smile is half the size of the one Jordan’s accustomed to.
But he’s there. With her.
What did Jordan expect? Jamie made it clear where they stood. He’s not “right” for Jordan.
“Clearly, he’s perfect for Sloane,” Jordan grumbles.
Sloane’s latest post is of her cuddling a white Maltese. Behind her, nearly blurred from focus, is Jamie. He’s been caught, mid-laugh.
The caption: hunky hugs and doggo kisses! xoxo Slo.
Jordan’s going to set his phone on fire.
It vibrates before he can. The notification preview drops down. A message from Grindr.
He grimaces.
Jordan should delete the app. He only uses it to chat. Never to hook up, unlike most other users.
Still, to get away from Sloane’s cavity-inducing sweetness, he thumbs open Grindr.
Three months ago, Jordan got a message from GrownAndZesty:
Hi we’re both new here so I thought it’d be cool if I sat at your lunch table.
It caught Jordan off guard. But it also made him laugh.
So he replied:
Only if you share your fruit snacks.
They’ve messaged each other sporadically ever since. He doesn’t know GrownAndZesty’s real name. Jordan hasn’t shared his either. His profile pic is just a headless shot of him tying a tie. But he knows GrownAndZesty is thirty years old, a chef at a restaurant in Peachtree Hills, and kind of funny.
Like drunk-uncle-joke funny. A step above Ellen funny.
Both their profiles are set to “Looking For: Friends.” Their interactions have been very casual. Until this morning. When the new message pops up, it reads:
Hi. haven’t heard from you in a min. missed our talks. busy this weekend? ??
Underneath is a photo.
A dick pic.
Jordan chokes on his smoothie. The phone slips from his hands. Hurriedly, while trying to catch his breath, he closes out Grindr. No one’s near his office—everyone seems to have a million things to do today—but he’s not taking any risks.
With an aggressive swipe, he finally deletes the app.
This is what he gets for trying. What was he thinking? That having a dating—a hookup—app would magically help him understand himself better? That he’d meet a nice guy? That he’d suddenly realize what he wanted was to date a nice guy?
Well, thanks, Grindr. Jordan knows what he doesn’t want. Guys like GrownAndZesty and their unsolicited dick pics.
He drops his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
Problem is, Jordan thought he was into Jess. She was smart and witty and had good energy. But he didn’t have the urge to kiss her. Or to go home with her either.
Isn’t that what he should’ve wanted, though?
Shouldn’t Jordan desire anything other than to slow dance in the middle of an empty greenhouse with a man he can’t—and isn’t fully sure if he wants to—have?
His head hurts. Most likely from brain freeze.
“You look like you’re gonna vomit.”
Or maybe it’s the man leaning in his office doorway, full lips pulled into a smirk, the rolled sleeves and three undone buttons of his white collared shirt showing off far too much skin.
“What do you want, Javi?” Jordan mumbles into his hands.
“No ‘good morning’? ‘Nice to see you’?”
“It’s too early for lying.”
“Ouch.” Javi steps inside, uninvited.
Jordan drops his hands, sighing. “No, please, come in. I wasn’t busy at all.”
“You didn’t look like it.” Javi flops into the chair opposite Jordan’s desk. He whistles lowly. “Is it true? You booked the Piedmont Conservatory? In August?”
“Yes, I did,” Jordan says with an edge.
“How’d you pull that off?”
“Why?” Jordan leans back in his chair, mirroring Javi’s earlier smugness. “Impressed?”
“In disbelief,” Javi counters. “You’re a rookie. I can’t imagine they’d open their events slot early just for you.”
“Well, they did. They’re aware of how great I am.”
“Did you use your uncle’s name?”
“I didn’t have to. My reputation speaks for itself.”
Javi snorts. “Reputation for being our boss’s former assistant? For being the watered-down Denzel Carter?”
Jordan recognizes what Javi’s doing. He’s seen it on the basketball court too many times. The gamesmanship. Trash-talking. Javi’s trying to get under his skin.
He doesn’t take the bait.
Calmly, he says, “Does it kill you? Being the newbie? Praying every day for Kami to give you a small, minuscule, insignificant task while I plan one of Atlanta’s biggest weddings?”
Javi doesn’t answer.
Jordan leans forward. “Does it destroy your soul knowing that Kami’s former assistant is better than you?”
Finally, a muscle in Javi’s jaw flexes.
Jordan relaxes back into his chair, satisfied.
After a beat, Javi’s brown eyes wander around the office. Over Jordan’s shelf of succulents. His canvas painting of Malibu Pier hangs next to a fitted LA Lakers hat. The whiteboard on one wall is covered in dates and notes.
Something suddenly changes in Javi’s expression.
He folds his hands behind his head. His shirtsleeves bunch up more. The beginnings of a tattoo are revealed. Tucked on the inside of his elbow. Delicate black ink forms the outline of a flower.
A white mariposa.
Jordan recognizes it from an arrangement Uncle Kenny ordered years ago for a party. Except this one’s petals are filled in with bold shades of red and blue, a white star where the pistil would be.
The Cuban flag.
“I love competitions,” Javi announces. “Especially when the other guy’s nowhere on my level.”
A retort builds in Jordan’s throat. He stops himself when someone knocks on his door.
Cheryl steps inside, frowning.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, Jor-Bear.” She exhales.
Javi sits up, intrigued. Fire spreads wildly through Jordan’s face as he says, “We’re at work, Mom, remember?”
She waves him off. “I heard about Jess.”
Well, fuck.
He meant to follow up with his mom about that. Preferably before she could get in contact with Jess. “Listen, Mom,” he tries, “can we—”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t think she was the one, anyway.”
Jordan almost laughs hysterically.
Just last week, his mom was picking out the engagement ring. He’s not surprised by the change, though. It never fails. Cheryl gets attached to the idea of Jordan being in love. Then, when it inevitably doesn’t work out, she finds a reason why the problem was his date, not Jordan.
He loves that about her. She never sees him as the issue. Even when he doesn’t agree.
“Honestly, she missed out,” Cheryl goes on. “Does she think she’s better than you?”
Jordan winces. “Um, no?”
“Because you’re a catch!”
“Thanks, but—”
“Who cares if she works at the CDC? Big deal.” Cheryl huffs, hands on her hips. “I heard they’re the ones creating that new flu strain going around Atlanta. Chemical warfare is what it is. I don’t trust our government.”
Javi throws a hand over his mouth. From the bounce of his shoulders, he’s trying hard not to laugh.
“Mom, they did not—”
Cheryl cuts him off again. “She’s old news anyway. Already forgotten.” She looks thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I’m gonna have to reach out to Madame Lorraine again.”
“The psychic you don’t believe in?” Jordan reminds her.
“Yes, son. Like I just said—Madame Lorraine, your auntie Eva’s psychic.”
Jordan forces himself not to roll his eyes.
Cheryl procures her phone from out of nowhere like one of those Now You See Me magicians. She starts scrolling. “Her prediction said you’d fall in love with a woman whose name starts with a—”
“Actually,” Jordan interrupts, his voice pitched too high. He almost knocks over his smoothie, clicking his computer monitor awake. “I have so much to do for the McClintock wedding—”
“Jor-Bear, this’ll only take a second.”
“Mom,” he strains.
Javi is watching their exchange way too closely.
Nervous sweat itches against Jordan’s hairline. “This isn’t necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” Cheryl disputes. “You’re a Carter. A single, handsome, well-established Black man who any woman would snatch up—”
“Yes, Jor-Bear,” Javi says, amused. “Listen to her.”
Cheryl perks up. “Thank you! I knew I liked you, Javier. Even though you worked for the enemy.”
“Oh, it’s Jav—”