Chapter 10 the Floral Design
? Select the Floral Design
“So, Sloane’s not … a girlfriend?”
The second the question leaves his mouth, Jordan winces, his face agonizingly hot.
He’s the worst.
“I mean,” Jordan stammers, “your girlfriend. She’s not, um, your girlfriend?”
Without looking at Jordan, Jamie says, “Nope.”
“And you’ve only been on a few dates?”
“A few,” Jamie confirms.
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
“So, it’s not … like…” God, why is Jordan still talking? Why hasn’t someone—anyone—put him out of his misery yet? “It’s not serious?”
Head thrown back, Jamie barks a laugh out to the slowly pinking sky.
“Shit, Jordan, how long have you been wanting to ask that one?”
Too long, Jordan thinks, but says, “It just came to me,” instead.
Jamie shoots him a doubtful look.
Whatever. He can’t prove anything.
“No,” Jamie says, a smile moseying across his mouth like his amusement is barely being contained. “It’s not serious.”
They sidestep a group of teens fresh from the aquatic center’s pool. Their shorts drip all over the path and a chlorine-and-coconut-sunscreen scent trails them.
“Is there a reason you’re asking?” Jamie asks.
Jordan shrugs. “Nope. Just being a friend.”
“A friend,” Jamie parrots, his smile turning sly.
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, no. Please continue. Be a … friend.”
“I will.”
“Good,” Jamie says.
“Good,” Jordan repeats a little too enthusiastically.
They fall silent again. Jordan shoves his hands into his pockets. Jamie kicks a loose rock into the grass. On a nearby bench, someone’s reading a well-loved copy of One Last Stop. Jordan looks off into the distance, pretending he doesn’t want to know what Jamie’s thinking.
As if sensing Jordan’s reluctant curiosity, Jamie says, “For the record: I’m the reason Sloane and I aren’t serious.”
Jordan doesn’t comment. He half turns his head so Jamie knows he’s listening.
“My parents aren’t happy about that detail,” Jamie continues. “They’re why any of this is happening. Why Sloane and me are … hanging out.”
Jordan trips on nothing. He catches himself before eating pavement.
“Sorry, what?”
“I shouldn’t have—” Jamie’s eyes turn sad. “I don’t want to get into it.”
Jordan’s mouth opens, before he presses his lips back together.
As much as he wants to know, as bad as he wants to peel back all the layers of this Jamie Peters and find the Jamie Noah underneath—the parts of him he keeps hidden even from Denz—Jordan doesn’t press.
Just like Jamie’s never pressured him about his identity.
The memory sticks out like a piece of sea glass in the sand, colorful and rare. Late last summer in an empty parking lot. Sitting in the back of Jamie’s Jeep Cherokee with the liftgate open. It was Jordan’s idea to go to an Atlanta United FC game. It was Jamie’s suggestion to stargaze after.
“Who doesn’t love staring at the moon? Like, can you believe we get to do that?” he asked.
Jordan, in fact, could not.
So there they were. Shoulder to shoulder. Sharing a bag of leftover nachos. Washed in the moon’s milky white glow. Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” buzzing low through the speakers.
Out of nowhere, Jamie said, “Do you think you’re queer?”
Jordan almost dropped the bag. Almost swallowed his tongue. Jamie, however, kept chewing. It was like he’d just asked Jordan his favorite color.
He’d never asked Jordan about whether he was queer or not before.
Jordan didn’t have an immediate answer.
At the time, he’d spent so much energy not asking himself that question. He just liked being around Jamie. Eating late-night diner pie. Laughing until their faces hurt in sticky bars. Enjoying the casualness of whatever it was they had.
(Yes, the kiss from when they were young was somewhere in the back of his mind too. But not in an overwhelming way. Just … there.)
Don Henley transitioned to a Lana Del Rey number Jordan didn’t recognize. Finally, he said, “I … don’t know.”
A beat.
Jamie nodded. “Okay, cool.”
Then he moved on. He started rambling about some new rom-com obsession. He never asked again. There was no pressure. Jamie left it alone.
Now, Jordan gives him that same courtesy. He decides not to push the topic of Jamie’s parents and Sloane.
In a soft voice, he says, “Okay, cool.”
Jamie sucks on his lower lip. He goes silent again. But, after a few steps, he drifts a little closer to Jordan. That’s been happening a lot lately. It happened before, of course, but it felt less intentional.
Like an accident.
Jordan doesn’t mind. He just notices it, that’s all.
Early-evening joggers pass by. Southern red oaks and American beech trees cast shadows around the path. Their branches let in puddles of sunlight. It paints Jamie’s tense expression golden.
He sighs. “It’s—”
His words are cut short by a surprised gasp. By … Bruno Mars?
“No fucking way,” Jamie says, laughing.
Jordan’s gaze follows Jamie’s crinkled stare. “No fucking way,” he repeats, shocked and horrified and on the verge of losing his shit.
He can’t believe this is happening. Here. Right now.
Somewhere close by, a Bluetooth speaker pumps out “Marry You.”
It starts with a group of joggers wearing matching pastel sweatsuits.
They stop for a coordinated shoulder shimmy in the middle of the pathway.
Suddenly, two men in business suits hit perfect pirouettes.
A skateboarder hops off her longboard to do a high kick.
Someone with a face full of glitter and a skintight leotard vogues their way into the small crowd that keeps growing.
Jamie points to the left. “Look!”
The dripping teens from the pool join in. People run up to do the Macarena. A grandfather and grandchild pop and lock in front of them.
It’s the kind of thing you don’t expect to see at the park. Something from a Broadway musical’s opening act. Or straight out of those ’80s dance movies Jordan’s mom loves.
Or on YouTube, in one of those corny—
Holy shit, Jordan almost screams.
Jamie does. “It’s a flash mob proposal!”
As if on cue, the mass of dancers parts. A twentysomething East Asian woman slinks through. She points at a pretty Black woman seated on a bench.
Bruno Mars croons on. The Black woman sob-laughs. Her girlfriend leads the crowd into the “Thriller” dance sequence. It’s absolute mayhem. A choreographed train wreck Jordan can’t look away from.
A gentle hand closes around his elbow. It’s Jamie, grinning conspiratorially.
Jordan’s stomach drops into his feet.
“Oh no,” he says.
“Oh yes.”
“Jamie, we can’t.”
“We have to!”
Jordan tries to back away. Jamie keeps pulling him closer. “I don’t even know the dance,” he whines.
“You filthy liar,” Jamie accuses, still smiling. “I know you do. Your mom has shown me photos of you and Denz…”
On Monday morning, Jordan’s marching right down to city hall to demand a complete name change. He’ll burn his birth certificate. A Carter no more.
Until then …
Something warm and nostalgic flits through Jamie’s eyes. Jordan’s helpless to it. A goofy-grinning, heart-thudding, pathetic goner.
He allows Jamie to drag him into the belly of madness.
Strangers surround him. Over a dozen people dancing. Only half of them actually have any rhythm. No one cares. Especially not Jamie, who moves like a zombie from Shaun of the Dead rather than an undead dancer with any concept of staying on beat.
Jordan’s mortified on his behalf.
Still, the teens whoop. The men in suits encourage him. Bruno Mars croons “If you’re ready, like I’m ready” to their side of the park.
Jamie looks at Jordan with a wild and unguarded expression.
It’s a dare. A challenge Jordan refuses to back down from.
The choreography comes to him instantly. Muscle memory at its best. He claps his hands above his head. Drags his feet on the grass. A shoulder shrug, then a head turn.
When the crowd switches to the “Single Ladies” dance, he’s right there, step for step. To his right—bless him—Jamie fails to keep up. He shakes more with laughter than rhythm. It’s an undeniable flavor of cuteness that Jordan gravitates to.
“Stop laughing at me!” Jamie shouts.
“I can’t help it!”
“Well, try!”
Jordan tugs Jamie to him. “C’mere, Zac Efron.”
Something flashes in Jamie’s eyes. It’s like lightning. It crackles in Jordan’s belly.
“Watch me,” he instructs.
And Jamie does. Through every hand gesture. Every two-step. His gaze never leaves Jordan’s body. Not until the East Asian woman drops to one knee in front of her girlfriend.
Jordan has Jamie’s happy squeal in one ear, Bruno Mars’s swoony “Just say I do” in the other.
The Black woman shouts “Yes!” and they kiss.
“See,” Jamie says over the roaring crowd, “I have great ideas.”
Sunlight starts to fade behind infinitely tall skyscrapers. The music continues, but it’s a muted backdrop to the cheering. A quiet whisper under the racing of Jordan’s heart.
From the dancing.
From the spontaneity.
From the way he can tell Jamie’s smiling even without looking.
Despite himself, Jordan says, “Yeah, Jamie, you really do.”
With adrenaline in their blood and the sky turning a gorgeous shade of wine, Jamie leads them back onto the path. Deeper into the park. They don’t speak, but their grins grow with every step.
The air cools to a comfortable warmth. Jamie brushes his damp bangs back. Jordan peels his sweat-sticky shirt from his chest.
He willingly goes wherever Jamie takes him.
Once more, Jamie doesn’t disappoint.
They trade Bruno Mars for excited barking. The dog park is alive with noise. All the dogs are thriving as they chase each other, tongues lolling. Their owners lean on the fencing or scroll their phones while sitting on the benches.
Nearby: A King of Pops cart awaits.
Jamie faces him. “Strawberry lemonade’s still your favorite?”
Jordan ignores the little flutter behind his ribs. His lips pucker defiantly. “No. Chocolate sea salt.”
“Are you lying?”
“No,” Jordan repeats.
Jamie reaches out, his thumb and index finger pinching Jordan’s left nipple through his shirt. He twists hard.