Chapter 12 Register the Gifts #3
He can’t imagine Kami doing that. Uncle Kenny either. Denz has been openly out since college. Jordan doesn’t remember a single client turning away from him because he’s gay. The company wouldn’t have allowed it.
“Two weeks later,” Javi says, “I quit.”
Jordan grabs his wrist before he can take another slurp. “Wait. You didn’t fight it?”
“Fight what?”
“What Katharine did to you!”
Javi eyes Jordan’s fingers wound aggressively around his wrist. With a sheepish grimace, Jordan lets go.
Javi swirls his Jack and ginger. “No. I didn’t fight.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m just little Javier Velasco.
From Little Havana in Miami. My ma still cleans houses around the city.
I grew up in hair salons with my tías. In neighborhoods Katharine would never march her Louboutins in.
” He exhales hard. His hand trembles around his glass.
“I’ve always had to prove myself. That I’m great enough. ”
Jordan thinks to comment, but decides not to.
“People like us”—Javi motions a finger between his and Jordan’s faces, their very not-white skin—“we fight for our spots. Nothing’s ever given. Not by them.”
Jordan chews on his lip. He knows what Javi means.
Exhaling, Javi adds, “I didn’t want to fight. Not when I had better options.”
Jordan whispers, “24 Carter Gold.”
Finally, Javi grins. “Denz is fully out. Everywhere. And people love it! His sexuality has never affected his career. The company had his back, and I don’t think it’s because he was the boss’s son.”
Jordan smiles too. “It wasn’t.”
“I saw something great in him and—”
“You wanted to emulate that?”
“Fuck no.” Javi guffaws loudly. “I wanted to be better.”
Jordan clinks his glass to Javi’s. “Now that I can relate to.”
Javi lowers his empty glass. “Let’s go, Carter. You’re falling behind. Or are you going to let me beat you at another thing?”
“When did you beat me the first time?”
There’s a glint in Javi’s eyes Jordan can’t dissect. He’s not buzzed, but heat swirls beneath his skin. All the bar’s edges are turning smooth.
Two swallows later, he orders another.
On Javi’s third drink, he says, “It’s sweet what you’re doing.”
“What?”
“With Skye’s the Limit. I didn’t have places like that when I came out. Then again, I got a late start, so.”
Jordan flexes a curious eyebrow.
The ice rattles in Javi’s glass as he takes a healthy gulp.
He tells Jordan about coming out. How he didn’t realize—not fully—he was queer until he was twenty-two.
He snorts through a story about always dating a different girl while at George Washington University.
That he was “such a slut for flirting,” and all his guy friends loved him for it.
Javi’s voice lowers, rough and nervous, as he recounts kissing his first boy. How unexpected it was. How he unraveled afterward but eventually felt better.
“It’s like I finally saw all the pieces in front of me,” he admits. “Even if I had no clue what to do with them.”
Jordan takes a sip, listening.
Javi spent his senior winter break “figuring his shit out.” By January, he still didn’t know anything. But he started dating a guy.
Then another.
Slowly, Javi felt more and more like himself. He started with coming out to friends. Then, his family—first his tías, then cousins, finally his mom. He had a mild crisis when not everyone took it well. But he decided it wasn’t about how they felt.
He grins over the mouth of his glass. “It was about me.”
The corners of Jordan’s mouth rise.
“Anyway.” Javi tugs at his collar. “It’s cool there are places like Skye. Somewhere to feel less lonely. That’s why I wanted to help today.”
“Not to annoy me?”
“Oh, that too. Always that.”
He shoots Jordan a wild smirk. The back of Jordan’s neck prickles. He focuses on his next sip.
Javi plucks the lime wedge from his own glass, sucking. Juice spills from the corners of his lips. “So, you and Jamie—what’s the deal there?”
An ice cube shoots past Jordan’s tongue, into his throat. He coughs harshly. “Excuse me?”
Javi side-eyes him. “Asere, please. Back at Skye, when your cousin brought him up? I know that look.”
“You don’t know anything,” Jordan snaps.
“You’re right. It’s wrong of me to assume,” Javi says. “But I just unloaded a bunch of my messy history to you, so if you ever want to talk—I’m not the worst person.”
“That’s still up for debate,” Jordan counters with a small smile.
Javi shrugs. “I’ll take that.”
They sit and sip. Jordan considers everything Javi’s told him. About his coming out. How, unlike Denz and Jamie, he didn’t know who he was as a teen. All the trial and error—a lot of error—but he’s here now.
That has to mean something, right?
Jordan releases a long-suffering sigh. “It’s … complicated. Jamie and me. Well, me.”
For a solid five seconds, Javi stares at him. Quiet, observing.
Jordan feels cornered. He shouldn’t have said anything.
Then, Javi beams at him. “Next round on me?”
Jordan’s shoulders relax. He flags down their bartender as the buzz finally kicks in.
Outside, they’re not drunk drunk. Only a teeny bit tipsy. That space between unexplainably happy and weirdly confused.
That last round might’ve done them in.
Jordan’s functional enough to order them both rideshares. They wait a few feet from the doors. Midtown is sparkling like a fistful of jewels held to the light.
Strictly speaking, Jordan could walk home. His apartment’s a mile or so away. But that’s a mile too far in his current condition. Plus, he’s enjoying Javi’s company. That might also be the alcohol talking.
Jordan leans back against the bar’s white brick exterior. Warmth spills through him. The burn of vodka and sour of lime and fizz of club soda. He likes it. Likes the way it makes him all smiley and numb.
Javi looks the same way.
He’s facing Jordan, arms crossed. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Tattoo on display. Four drinks later, he still has that stupid, villainous mustache and chin-strap beard, but it draws attention to his lips. Pink, fluffy lips.
Not bad to look at.
Fuck, Jordan should’ve stopped after two drinks.
Their cars are seven minutes away. Two of those minutes, they just stand and stare at each other.
One minute is dedicated to watching a coterie of drag queens pile into the bar.
Another is Jordan laughing and Javi’s mouth upturned in an easy smirk.
The next is Jordan arching an eyebrow and Javi closing the gap between them, hands planted on either side of Jordan’s head.
Everything’s too fuzzy for Jordan to think.
Javi angles his head.
For a long beat, Jordan doesn’t move. He lets Javi kiss him, fast and eager. His brain slips in and out of the haze, cycling through how he got here. From wanting to punch Javi’s face to their mouths smashed together.
Then, he trips over this:
You’re still figuring yourself out and I—I don’t think I’m the right person for that.
Jordan stumbles on:
Grindr messages. Blind dates. Javi saying how kissing one boy gave him the pieces, but he had to kiss another and another and more until he got the full picture.
Finally, Jordan lands on this:
He experiments with pushing into the kiss. Sliding a hand across the nape of Javi’s neck. He tries changing his approach. Javi palms his waist and drags him closer, and Jordan goes. He settles into it.
When he comes up for air, Jordan feels …
Nothing.
It’s not like the nervous, feverish rush of a first kiss in a dark basement bedroom.
It’s not like the slow, comforting kiss with a girl who makes you feel normal.
It’s not a sweaty, aching kiss that tastes like raspberry lime popsicles and summer heat and finally.
This is just two mouths pressed together. A thing Jordan’s done before. But it’s not what he hoped for.
He eases back. “Sorry, um. That was—”
Javi’s eyes widen with embarrassment. He staggers away, wiping a hand down his face, swearing lowly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no,” Jordan tries. “I shouldn’t have. We’re tipsy and … shit, we’re cool.”
“Fuck,” Javi repeats, face in his hands. “I really didn’t mean to—I mean, I did. But, like.” His arms fall slack against his side. “That was clearly over the line.”
“Javi, it’s fine. I’m just not—”
Jordan has no idea how to finish that sentence. He should. But he doesn’t.
A hint of rejection forms in the corners of Javi’s eyes. As if he thinks Jordan’s implying Javi’s the issue. Which isn’t true. But Jordan can’t find the right words to explain what the real issue is.
So when his rideshare pulls up, Jordan word-vomits, “Um, I should go. Don’t want to lose that five-star rating. We’re good, Javi. Forget it happened. See you at the office,” and slumps into the back seat without waiting for Javi to respond.