Chapter 11 Schedule the Wedding-Dress Fitting #2
“Honey, you are slaying!” a voice announces.
“In a room full of eights, you’re a fifteen,” someone else says.
Very slowly, Jordan turns his head.
Two statuesque shoppers emerge from around the corner. One is Black with smooth skin, flawless cat-eye makeup, and glitter-dusted lips. The other is Latine, slick hair and high cheekbones and a devastating jawline.
Jordan is speechless. In utter awe of them. By the sound of his gasp, Jamie is too.
“Sorry, we don’t mean to interrupt,” the Latine one says. “I’m Esteban. This is my soulmate-to-be, Lach. They were eavesdropping—”
“I was doing my civic duty as a customer,” Lach corrects, extending their hand. “He’s the one who yanked me over here.”
Jordan shakes Lach’s hand, then Esteban’s.
“Marisol just finished our fitting,” Esteban explains.
“And let me tell you”—Lach eyes Amy—“I didn’t look half as glamorous as you do in that number.”
Amy’s cheeks turn a new shade of rose.
Marisol rests her hands on her hips. “Are you shaming my work?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Lach gasps out.
“You’re a god, Marisol,” Esteban insists. “My thighs have never looked that good in white.”
Marisol grins.
Esteban pivots back to Amy. “Your friends are right, honey. You can’t let everyone else’s plans get in the way of what you want.”
“Lord knows I didn’t,” Lach says, wrapping an arm around Esteban’s waist.
“This is your big day,” Esteban says.
“Mm-hmm. If you don’t love that dress, try on another,” Lach tells her.
Esteban nods. “And another.”
“And another!” Jamie puts in, giggling.
Lach snaps their fingers. “Try ’em all on, honeybunches. What’s it gonna hurt?”
Amy starts to think again. Her fingers twist into the fabric of her dress, then stop, smoothing it out. She glances at Jamie, a question forming on her lips.
Jordan quickly intercepts.
“No,” he says with a smile. “For once, this is your choice.”
Amy looks like she’d rather shit herself à la Bridesmaids than decide on her own. But she does. One exhale later, she says to Marisol, “Would it be okay if I saw a few other options?”
Marisol shrugs. “My next appointment’s not until two.”
“Ohmygosh, let’s do it!”
Lach and Esteban squeal at Amy’s sudden burst of excitement. They help her down from the riser. Arms hooked in hers, they “we’re off to see the wizard” skip away toward the racks of dresses and changing rooms.
Marisol exits too.
That leaves Jordan and Jamie and the not-so-quiet buzz building in their systems.
Jordan angles his head in Jamie’s direction.
Late-morning sun washes over him. He’s soft and dreamy; things he kind of always is.
The only time Jordan’s seen him otherwise was at Lucky Mickey’s Tavern.
Behind a busy bar, outlined in the harsh glow of neon signs and multiple flat screens and overhead lighting that’s never flattering on anyone unless you’re drunk.
“How’s work going?”
Jamie lets out a humorless laugh. “You don’t really want to hear about that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You do?”
“Don’t get me wrong—your drinks are lethal,” Jordan clarifies. “The CIA should hire you to help create new torture methods.” He laughs when Jamie gives him a weak shove. “But you’re great at the other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
Jordan stares at him, like he can’t believe he needs to say it.
Clearly, he does.
“Jamie, you make people’s worst days bearable.”
He’s witnessed it firsthand. One night, in a low-lit dive bar with average food and way too much ’90s music playing. Like always, Jamie invited Jordan to drop by. It’s not as if Jordan had anything better to do on a Sunday. Other than getting ready for work the next morning, that is.
A woman in all black sat down next to him. A widower. She spent her morning at her husband’s funeral. All afternoon, she had entertained mourners who only knew surface-level things about the man she had loved for years. Her first and only love.
Within two hours of arriving, she went from sobbing into her old-fashioned to belting Tina Turner’s “The Best” on top of the bar.
All because of Jamie. Of course, he got reprimanded by his boss for breaking at least twenty health code violations.
That didn’t matter to Jamie. He did it to make her happy.
To give her a reason to smile while her entire world was reshaping.
For the rest of his shift, Jamie let that widower talk his ear off. Then, he stuck around to make sure she got safely into a rideshare.
It’s who Jamie is. Kind, loyal, and affectionate, even with strangers. He cares more than anyone Jordan’s ever met.
Jordan tells him as much.
“Thanks.” Jamie pauses. Pink crashes down his cheeks. He rubs the back of his head. “No one—” Another pause. “No one ever says that about me.”
“Sure, they do.”
Jamie shakes his head. “No, they don’t.”
“What about Denz?”
“From time to time.” Jamie hiccups out a laugh. “We were a little too busy watching rom-coms or talking about other things.”
“What about your parents or—” Jordan still can’t say her name out loud. “Someone else?”
“No one.”
“Well.” Jordan picks at invisible lint on his trousers. “They should. You’re incredible, Jamie.”
He says it with a finality. Jordan’s not open to any other argument about how un-fucking-believably amazing Jamie Peters is.
They fall back into silence. Jordan’s phone pings. He ignores it. Jamie’s phone vibrates from somewhere underneath him. He doesn’t reach for it either.
Their eyes stay on each other instead.
It’s electric. Jordan feels the length of Jamie’s gaze move over his skin. He fights with every muscle not to shiver.
Jordan wants to scoot closer. To touch Jamie’s hand. The one that constantly holds his so easily, so naturally. It’s an itch Jordan wants to scratch again and again.
Even with pink, hazy eyes, Jamie’s stare doesn’t waver. He studies Jordan. Like he’s a puzzle and Jamie’s missing the picture on the front of the box. Like he can’t figure out how to piece it all together.
Inside, Jordan feels the same way.
Out of nowhere, Amy’s snort-giggle echoes all the way back to their end of the boutique.
Jordan blinks a few times. “Do you think she’s happy?”
“Who? Amy?”
Jordan nods once.
Jamie half twists to face him. His foot brushes Jordan’s ankle, a familiar action Jordan clings to.
“Yeah,” Jamie says. “She loves Sam. Wholeheartedly.”
“But is she happy giving up everything for him? For his family?”
Jamie considers. His hair’s styled differently today. Bangs smoothed to either side of his forehead. Deep wrinkles form in the middle. “I think,” he starts, “she’s an adult who knows what she’s doing. If she’s not happy now, she will be. Once they’re married.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“I can’t predict the future.”
Jordan grins. “So, no latent psychic abilities?”
Cheryl will be so disappointed.
Quietly, Jamie says, with conviction, “They’re a good match. Maybe not perfect. But who is? Their love looks different from the outside. That doesn’t mean it won’t work out.”
Jordan chews on the inside of his cheek.
Is Jamie still talking about Amy and Sam? Or someone else?
The high is clearly fucking with Jordan’s brain.
“Besides…” Jamie’s foot nudges Jordan’s ankle again. “Perfection is overrated anyway.”
Jordan’s mouth twitches into a smile. Jamie’s does too.
They drift back into their staring contest, unblinking. Lulled by the weed. From a distance, Lach says, “Love that on you!”
“The silhouette is to die for,” Esteban confirms.
Jamie’s head tips back on the love seat. His eyes zone in on the twinkling chandelier suspended from the ceiling. He smirks.
“What’re you thinking about?” Jordan says.
A dreamy exhale passes through Jamie’s lips. “Strawberry lemonade popsicles.”
Heat rises like a tide in Jordan’s face. “Seriously?” He swallows a laugh. “Is that the weed talking?”
“Nope. I told you. The weed’s harmless.”
Is it? Because Jordan’s skin is tingling. From his ankles, all the way up to his hairline.
Jamie lowers his gaze back to Jordan.
Jordan gets lost in how vibrant every color in his irises is. He barely notices the hand inching along the love seat. Not until it stops just short of Jordan’s thigh.
Jamie pinches his lower lip between his teeth like he’s worried he shouldn’t touch Jordan. “I’ve thought about it,” he confesses.
“It?”
“That night. The parking lot.” Jamie’s voice lowers. Rich and velvety. “Kissing you.”
Jordan watches every word form on his pink mouth.
“Lying you on my back seat,” Jamie continues. “Pulling your clothes off.”
With great effort, Jordan breathes in.
“The way you sounded,” Jamie whispers.
Unthinkingly, Jordan shifts. That last inch of space between them evaporates. Jamie’s knuckles skim the outside of his thigh.
“The way you looked. Like you—” Jamie exhales with Jordan. “Like you wanted it as bad as me.”
Jordan did. He does.
His mind swims. Caught in a current of wanting Jamie’s mouth on his again and remembering, Maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You’re still figuring yourself out.…
Does Jamie still feel that way?
He couldn’t. He had kissed Jordan.
His fingers tiptoe up Jordan’s leg, ghosting over the inside of his thigh, up toward—
“I think this is the one!”
Amy’s voice comes around the corner before she does. With just enough time for Jordan to leap from the love seat and almost trip over the small riser as he puts as much distance between Jamie’s hand and whatever is happening in Jordan’s slacks.
He wills himself into a mostly composed state as Amy waddles excitedly into view.
“This is the one,” she repeats, breathless.
The dress is a delicate, lacy number. Off-the-shoulder, sheer puff sleeves. Floral embroidery embellishes every inch of fabric. It’s flowy with an empire waist. All Jordan can imagine is Amy running in a field of tall grass toward her Prince Charming.
“You look incredible.”
“A certified goddess!” Lach proclaims, appearing behind Amy with a beaming Esteban.
“Eat your heart out, Elizabeth Bennet,” Jamie says from the love seat.
Amy swings around to him. Her grin melts into a suspicious pout. “God, Jamie, how high are you? You’re all … sweaty and flushed.”
Jordan finally peeks at Jamie.
A blush runs from his neck up into his cheeks. He’s sitting weirdly now, half leaning forward, legs crossed.
“I’m good,” he insists. “Are you going to get it?”
Amy frowns. “I can’t. My parents—”
“Are not here,” Jamie finishes. “Come on, Ames. You love it.”
Her hands spread across the material, her eyes lighting up. She hesitates. “But—”
“No! They owe you this.”
Jamie starts to stand, then falters, eyes wide. He quickly flops down. Squeezes his legs shut. Jordan hates that he knows why. Hates that he’s dealing with a similar … situation.
Both Esteban and Lach raise curious eyebrows.
That’s it. Jordan’s going to die in a bridal shop.
Jamie clears his throat. “Your parents won’t be around until the rehearsal dinner. No one will notice you picked something else until it’s too late.”
Amy’s fingertips brush over the flowers. The train sways with her as she shifts from foot to foot. Jordan can see the thoughts turning in her pink-rimmed eyes. Jamie truly is a genius. The weed takes Amy’s fucks given from too many to zero in less than five seconds.
“Okay, I’ll get it!”
Jamie fist-pumps the air.
Amy lets out a riotous snort-giggle, then freezes. “Wait! I already did my first fitting. I can’t ask Marisol to—”
“Oh, Marisol,” Esteban and Lach call in perfect harmony.
She pops up like a disgruntled fairy godmother with a tape measure and narrowed eyes. She shoos Amy toward the riser. “Up you go!”
Jordan steps aside. Jamie evacuates the love seat to give Lach and Esteban a front-row seat. He joins Jordan by the door.
“See,” Jordan whispers.
“What?”
“You’re really good at the other stuff.”
Jamie’s mouth softens.
Jordan should be giving Amy his undivided attention.
Or checking his notifications. Answering all eighteen new emails from Javi.
But Jamie’s smile goes sheepish, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to show Jordan this side.
And, fuck him, Jordan can’t force himself to care about anything else but that.
Until the bell above the shop’s door jingles. It swings open.
“There you are!”
Jordan tenses. Wow, he must be really high. Jumping-over-the-moon high. Because that can’t be—there’s no way.
He turns slowly. And it is.
Sloane, sunglasses pushed up into her beach-wavy hair. Her sun-kissed skin glows even more in the shop’s immaculate lighting. She’s wearing a strawberry-print shirtdress.
From the threshold, she smiles at him. “Hi, Jordan.”
“Hi—” He can’t get her name out.
Sloane faces Jamie. “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”
It’s infuriating how easily Jamie’s arms open to half hug her. “Sorry. My phone’s, er—” He stumbles for a moment like his tongue is numb. “My bad.”
She pouts, fake annoyed for a beat.
Jordan’s going to run right through the shop’s display window.
“Dress shopping wasn’t supposed to take this long,” Sloane says.
“That’s my fault!” Amy calls.
Sloane gleefully waves to her.
Over her head, Jamie’s semi-glazed eyes search out Jordan’s expression. He maintains a carefully blank one. It’s not serious, he reminds himself. Jamie said they weren’t in a relationship. She’s not his girlfriend.
Then again, Jordan’s not his boyfriend.
Technically, Jordan’s a friend. A friend Jamie holds hands with. A friend Jamie kissed. A friend he enthusiastically went down on. But not a boyfriend.
The distinction is important.
Why? Jordan’s not sure. He’s too busy watching Sloane tiptoe fingers over the buttons on Jamie’s Henley. Too busy waiting for Jamie to pull away.
He doesn’t.
“We should get going,” Sloane says. She turns to Amy. “If that’s okay? I don’t want to be rude. We’re late for lunch.”
“I’m fine,” Amy shouts back as Marisol pins and tucks her dress. “Jordan’s still here.”
Jordan nods dully at no one in particular.
Sloane tugs on Jamie’s elbow. “Come on, Jamesy. Your parents are waiting.”
“Right,” Jamie says. His eyes never leave Jordan’s face.
Just like that, Jordan’s completely sober. Back in professional mode. But his brain keeps repeating the same three words as Sloane leads Jamie out of the shop:
It’s not serious. It’s not serious. It’s not serious.