Chapter 9 Confirm the Menu #2
Annoyed, Jordan says, “The one I sent Amy. With bullet points for the best man. Things like ‘week before’ tasks. ‘Day of’ tasks. Questions about whether she wants a bridal shower or bachelorette party—”
“Nooo,” Jamie whines. “No more wedding talk, Jordan. I’m getting video for Denz.”
His phone is focused on the huddle. The camera follows Mikah as he happily dashes back onto the field.
Embarrassed, Jordan pockets his own phone. As much as he needs to, he’s not here to do work. He’s here for Mikah. To make sure he doesn’t feel alone. The way Jordan had at his age.
While studying the game, he says, “You do that too?”
“Do what?”
“Record videos for Denz? So he can watch Mikah’s games later?”
“All the time.”
Jordan can hear the affectionate smile in Jamie’s voice. He doesn’t look to confirm. It’s safer that way.
“I know he wishes he was here to see Mikah kick ass,” Jamie comments. “I wish he was here. Sometimes.”
Jordan hums.
“Do you?” Jamie says.
“All the time,” Jordan whispers.
He hasn’t said that aloud to anyone. He’s barely admitted it to himself. But it’s true.
His world is different when Denz is around. He’s the life of every party, but he’s also funny in those quiet moments. He was always understanding on those days when Jordan hated the world but couldn’t put into words why.
Jordan knows California is better for Denz. Freeing. He’s creating his own life. A life with Braylon. But there’s a selfish part of him that still wants Denz here.
After a beat, Jamie says, “I miss him too. Constantly.”
The breeze shifts. It brushes curling bangs off Jamie’s forehead. Jordan turns to watch. Jamie stares back. Soft, tiny lines wrinkle his forehead. His mouth curves in a curious way, like he wants to say something else but is giving Jordan room to speak first.
Jordan does. “We’d probably get in so much trouble together if he was here. The three of us.”
“So much trouble,” Jamie repeats.
“He’s doing all of Atlanta a favor.”
Jamie nods commiseratingly. “I’m surprised there aren’t a bunch of those old-school WANTED posters with our faces on them hanging up at every gas station around the city.”
“Beware this trio,” Jordan narrates, “they love ice pops, Starbursts, and starting little fires.”
“I don’t know how you didn’t turn into a pyromaniac.”
“Who says I didn’t?”
Jamie laughs.
Jordan shakes with his own chuckle. He doesn’t care that Jamie’s halfway leaning on him, his breathy gasps ghosting Jordan’s cheek.
This is so … natural. So very them, like when they were teenagers.
“Why were we so terrible back then?” Jamie says between wheezes.
“Because we were young and dumb?”
“Speak for yourself. I’m a year older,” Jamie points out. “I was very mature for my age. Wise beyond my years.”
Jordan snorts. “Wow. You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“What’s next? Gonna offer Mikah’s teammates cannabis cupcakes?”
“Don’t start,” Jamie says, low and raspy.
Jordan bats his eyelashes innocently. “Start what?”
“You know.”
Jordan doesn’t, actually. That doesn’t stop him from saying, “Wasn’t it you who always started things?”
“No.”
“If I recall correctly—”
“Which you don’t, because you have a bad memory. The aftereffects of consuming too many weed brownies.”
“That you supplied.”
Jamie inches closer. His eyes are dark, endless pools of brown. Around the edges of Jordan’s vision, he sees the corners of Jamie’s mouth twitch. This is dangerously familiar. He should gravitate away from it, but logic fails to exist whenever he’s with Jamie.
Jordan counts the beats until Jamie says something.
But it’s the burly, sunburnt white man two rows above them that speaks first.
“Come on, number eight! Quit losing us the game!”
Jordan’s attention snaps away from Jamie. He glances toward the field.
Mikah stands in the middle, rubbing the back of his head. He’s alone, shoulders drooped. His teammates chase the opposing players toward their goal.
Jordan whips around to Sunburn Guy. “Hey!” he growls. “Back off.”
“Why? That your kid?”
A retort rises in Jordan’s chest. He considers throwing a punch. God, what would Kami think if he got banned for life from Mikah’s soccer games? It doesn’t happen though. Jordan’s not fast enough.
Rather, Jamie’s faster. He reaches into Jordan’s lap. Threads their fingers together before lifting their hands above his head.
“He’s our son,” Jamie announces.
Sunburn Guy blinks rapidly. Jordan does too.
In the stands, more than a few people watch carefully.
Unfazed, Jamie carries on. “Can’t you tell? He’s got my hair and my husband’s aristocratic jawline.”
Sunburn Guy’s beady blue eyes shift from them to Mikah and back. Whispers break out around him. He raises his hands, apologetic. “I didn’t mean—I’m not … he’s really good. Your kid. Fast and, uh. So-sorry.”
Jamie gives him one final glare. Sunburn Guy wilts. Jordan clenches his ass tightly to stop himself from laughing.
A chorus of “Let’s go, number eight!” bursts forth from the others.
Grinning, Jamie turns to the field. He ducks his head with a whisper, “People get super uncomfortable when you call them homophobic in public. Or racist. Transphobic. Ableist. Fatphobic. Sexist. You get the picture.”
Jordan does. “What the fuck is an aristocratic jawline?”
“I don’t know! I heard it in a rom-com.”
“What, like a Regency film?”
“Maybe? Some Jane Austen adaptation?”
Jordan rolls his eyes to stop from cracking up. His brain concentrates on what’s happening in his lap. Where Jamie’s still holding his hand. The soft grip Jordan hasn’t pulled away from.
He probably should.
Right now.
Or, like, in a minute. After the tips of his fingers finish tracing the veins on the back of Jamie’s hand.
Or when he hears Kami’s distinct voice call, “Jordan! Jamie!”
Jordan jerks his hand away. He wipes sweat and whatever that was onto his joggers. He watches as Kami and Suraj make their way over.
Hugs and handshakes are exchanged. Suraj brushes off the open seats just below Jordan and Jamie before Kami sits down.
She twists around to ask, “Did we miss much?”
“I hope not,” Suraj says. He waves eagerly in Mikah’s direction.
Jordan’s silent, more concerned with what Kami did or didn’t see five seconds ago.
Clearly, Jamie’s unaffected.
“Nope,” he says. “Only that number eight’s great.”
Another chant of “Let’s go, number eight!” echoes in the air.
“Wow.” Kami clutches her chest, shocked. “I didn’t know Mikah had so many fans.”
Jamie beams. “He’s their fave.”
Politely, Jordan elbows Jamie to stop him from glaring over his shoulder in Sunburn Guy’s direction.
“Thanks for being here, Jordan,” Kami says. “You too, Jamie.”
Jamie throws an arm around Jordan’s shoulders. If he notices Jordan’s stiff posture, he doesn’t mention it. “We wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
“Yup,” Jordan says roughly.
He lets himself get drawn back into the game. Mikah steals the ball from the other team. Jamie shouts as loud as Kami. But nothing’s noisier than Suraj whistling. When Mikah’s team scores, Jordan finds himself on his feet with everyone else, clapping like a maniac.
It’s not the cleanest game. The kids have more grass stains than goals. But Jordan can’t get enough. It’s the kind of low-stakes intensity he misses about youth sports. Where winning seems secondary to making someone in the bleachers proud of you.
By the end, one thought settles into Jordan’s overheated brain:
Not once did he shrug Jamie’s arm off his shoulders.
“MVP! MVP! MVP!”
Suraj hasn’t stopped chanting since the end of the game. While parents and guardians gather their exhausted players, he holds court centerfield. Mikah’s perched on his shoulders, laughing.
This is their third victory lap in five minutes.
Near the bleachers, Kami hugs herself, watching them. Her smile’s cheek-achingly wide.
Jordan’s is too.
He only ever gets to see Mikah and Suraj together at the monthly family dinners Auntie Leena hosts. And that’s if Suraj isn’t working a shift at the hospital. He tends to be quieter, more subdued around the other Carters. Like he’s still trying to win them over. But not here.
Here, Suraj is loud. Uninhibited.
He twirls Mikah around like a helicopter. Smacks proud kisses to his forehead. He doesn’t hesitate to hoist Mikah back onto his shoulders for another lap when Mikah begs for more.
It’s nice. Different. In a good way, of course.
“Someone’s happy.”
Jordan jumps, startled by Jamie’s singsong voice. But when he looks, Jamie’s at Kami’s side. He bumps her shoulder.
Her nose wrinkles with embarrassment. “Please, stop.”
“No, come on. This is great,” Jamie says, arm flung around her tense shoulders. “Kamila Carter in love is my favorite thing!”
“Shut up.”
Jamie ignores her weak protest. “You’ve obviously got it bad for him, which, I must say—a future doctor with those gorgeous cheekbones and he’s great with kids? Exquisite taste, my dear.”
Kami cackles.
And Jordan feels a quick spike of … something at the way Jamie stares at Suraj.
“Down, boy,” Kami warns, teasingly. “Don’t even think about it.”
Jamie holds up surrender hands. “I wouldn’t dare. Besides, I’m…” he trails off. His eyes cut in Jordan’s direction. They don’t linger. Jordan doesn’t read into it. At least, not too much.
“You’re one to talk,” Kami says to Jamie. “Isn’t there someone new in your life? It’s not like you to be single this long. Who is she? He? They?”
Jordan watches carefully as blush streams down Jamie’s cheeks.
“No one new,” he says.
Kami turns her attention to Jordan, unconvinced. “Is he lying?”
Throat dry, Jordan croaks, “How would I know?”
“He’s your friend, doofus.”
“Yeah, but—I mean … it’s his life and—”
Jamie lets out an insufferable groan. He ends Jordan’s misery with: “Her name’s Sloane. It’s not serious. We’ve been on a few dates. She’s not my girlfriend. We’re not in a relationship. Happy now, Auntie C.C. Junior?”
Kami’s jaw clicks shut. She looks as if Jamie has just ripped her soul from her body and all that’s left is a pale, wide-eyed, rigid corpse.
Despite his best efforts, Jordan cracks up. An all-out, hands-on-his-knees, gasping-for-air guffaw. While he recovers, Kami throws an elbow into Jamie’s ribs.
“You’re not funny.”
Jamie wheezes, “You had it coming.”
“Whatever.”
Kami welcomes a breathless Mikah with open arms. After pressing a kiss to her temple, Suraj says, “We’re going for celebratory ice cream at Jeni’s.”
“Yes!” Mikah yelps.
Kami’s eyes roam between Jordan and Jamie. “You two want in?”
Jordan’s gaze reflexively cuts to Jamie. He’s caught mid-stretch, the drooping sun haloing his silhouette. The hem of his button-down rides up. A flash of dark hair peeks from his waistband. He shrugs.
“I’m gonna stick around. Get some fresh air.”
“Have fun with that,” Suraj says. “I’m gross and sweaty and I didn’t even play soccer.”
Jamie smiles. It’s not pointed at anyone in particular. But, for some reason, Jordan’s skin gets even warmer.
It’s the heat. Atlanta summers are suffocating.
Kami nudges him. “Coming?”
He considers it. Ice cream would be nice. As would central air-conditioning. And a shower. Maybe a good old-fashioned Jedi mind-wipe so he won’t keep thinking about how soft Jamie’s skin was as he held Jordan’s hand.
“I—” He swallows the crack in his voice. “I’ll stay too.” His eyes move to Jamie. “If that’s cool?”
Jamie’s face lights up like he wouldn’t have it any other way.