Chapter 13 Book the Hotel #2
Jordan moves on to the onion. “But I wanted the dishes I loved. So I watched videos. Learned a bunch of recipes. I’d give my mom a list of groceries, then I’d cook. By myself.”
There’s a slight burn behind his eyelashes. It’s the onions. He starts on the corn next.
“How old were you?” Jamie says.
Jordan pauses to think. “Twelve? No, thirteen.”
“Damn. I was learning how to use deodorant and not freak out about all the hair growing on my crotch at thirteen.”
Jordan laughs. “Oh, I was doing that too.”
He adds the onion, garlic, and corn to the pot of water along with the chicken, some thyme, salt, and allspice. He cranks the heat. Sets a timer.
“I wasn’t very good back then,” Jordan confesses. “But I’m decent now.”
Jamie smiles weakly. “Decent? That’s not a word in Jordan Carter’s vocabulary.”
With a chuckle, Jordan flips him off. But he ponders Jamie’s words. There was a deeper, inadvertent reason he didn’t cook for others: Jordan wasn’t great at it. He doesn’t let others see his flaws. He refuses to give anyone a reason to not like … him.
His eyes slide to Jamie. Sniffly, exhausted Jamie, who never finds a reason to hate Jordan. To use his flaws against him.
An hour ago, Jordan didn’t think twice while shopping for ingredients. About whether allowing Jamie to taste his cooking would change that fact.
He just did it.
The only thing Jordan cares about is Jamie’s health. Even if this is the worst dish Jamie’s ever tasted, Jordan wants him to be okay. To feel a little better.
Jamie coughs. “I didn’t even know we—I had a cutting board.”
“Parting gift from Denz?”
“My money’s on Braylon.”
While the water boils, Jordan starts on the pumpkin and carrots. He’s halfway through a yellow yam when Jamie says, “Is that soup?”
Jordan smiles fondly.
“Growing up, there was this Jamaican grandma who lived across the hall. A real spitfire. She’d smile at you in the elevator, then cuss you out for slamming doors.
” He laughs. “She was a trained opera singer too. Loved the 1977 Carmen cast recording. It played all day long while her cooking made the entire apartment floor smell delicious.”
He dumps everything into the pot, adding more water before switching over to peeling ginger.
“One day, I knocked on her door and asked what she was making.”
“Did she yell at you?”
Jordan grins. “Almost. She invited me in for a bowl of this soup. Said she saw me alone a lot, but that no one’s really lonely when you have great food.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is.”
“Did she teach you the recipe?”
Jordan works methodically. The memories dance beside him. “Once a week, she’d teach me everything she knew. All her childhood favorites.”
Jamie rests his head on his knuckles. “Is she still around?”
Melancholy grabs Jordan’s throat. “No. She died before I left for UCLA. But she came to my high school graduation. Yelled at me for making her sit in the heat.”
They both laugh.
Thunder rumbles outside. Raindrops drum on Jamie’s balcony.
“How’d you get sick?” Jordan asks as he stirs in the soup mix.
“Went to another one of Mikah’s games. Probably shouldn’t have joined the dogpile when they won again.” Jamie’s nose wrinkles. “Think I caught it from one of his teammates.”
“Caught what?”
“Pretty sure it’s that summer flu.”
Jordan winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve watched Notting Hill like eight times.”
“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”
Jamie stretches, then flinches like his muscles do not approve of such activities. “You’ve obviously never fallen under the spell of a young, charismatic Hugh Grant as travel bookshop owner Will Thacker.”
“Can’t say I have.”
“That blue-eyed, clumsy little shit gets me every single time.”
“Do you two need a moment?” Jordan teases. “I think I fell asleep watching that movie on a plane once?”
Jamie looks ready to hurl a pillow at him. If he had the strength, that is.
Jordan covers the pot. He sets another timer. “Have you gone to the doctor?”
“No,” Jamie whispers sheepishly.
Jordan chooses not to admonish him. For now.
Instead, he fills a clean glass with orange juice. Shakes two ibuprofens into his palm. On the sofa, he hands them to Jamie. With slight hesitation, Jordan presses the back of his hand to Jamie’s forehead, then his cheek. His bristly five-o’clock shadow tickles Jordan’s skin.
“No fever,” he says.
Jamie leans into the touch. “It might’ve broken? Mainly it’s been coughing, muscle aches. Some chills and congestion. No vomiting. The headaches keep me up, though.”
Jordan’s hand drops away. Jamie does a poor job of hiding his disappointment.
“Have you taken any medicine?” Jordan asks.
“Sounds like something an adult would do…”
“Jamie.”
“What? Don’t be mean to me. I’m very sick.” He pokes out his bottom lip. Jordan hates how effective it is.
He leans back. An empty bag of Lemonheads crinkles underneath him.
“Do you need me to call in to work for you?”
There’s a beat.
Jamie’s eyes lower. “Er, no?”
“Will it be a problem? With bills, I mean.”
Last time Jordan checked, Jamie was working at five different bars. All part-time. He can’t imagine Jamie gets any sick leave. His luxury apartment is in a great part of downtown. Denz never said it, but Jordan knows a place like this costs a significant amount.
Much more than his own.
Jamie rubs the back of his neck. “Thing about that is…”
Jordan waits.
After clearing his throat several times, Jamie says, “I’m kind of not working. Anywhere. I quit.”
“You quit?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?”
With a sigh so heavy it makes him cough, Jamie manages, “Remember when I said my parents are the reason I’m hanging out with Sloane?”
Jordan nods slowly, confused.
“Since Denz moved, it’s been … difficult.” Jamie sniffs again. “Emotionally and financially. I thought I could afford this apartment by myself. Live up to the lifestyle my parents expect of me. But I can’t.”
“Okay,” Jordan says.
“No, not okay.” Jamie rubs one eye with the heel of his hand. “I’m almost twenty-seven years old, Jordan. Do you know how hard it is to get good insurance on your own? How ridiculously unaffordable healthcare is in this country?”
Shame twists Jordan’s face. “No.”
He doesn’t turn twenty-six for a few more months. Even then, he’s not worried because 24 Carter Gold has incredible employee benefits. Uncle Kenny made sure of that.
“I’m nothing like my parents,” Jamie rasps.
“All my life, I’ve been the rebel. The black sheep.
They never had a problem telling me that.
” He blinks too fast. Wiggles his nose. “When I was younger, I used to believe they filled out a form for a particular kind of child. The right kind of son. Instead, they got me.”
Jordan’s chest tightens. “That’s fucked up. You know that, right?”
Jamie sighs. “Of course. Doesn’t change anything.”
Jordan scoots a little closer.
“I’ve done my best to never depend on them,” Jamie says. “Never seek their approval. I had the friends I wanted. Dated whoever.” His jaw stiffens. “They called it a phase. Like one day I’d suddenly become the son they hoped for. It never happened.”
Jordan inhales with him.
The rain picks up outside.
“After college,” Jamie continues, “I put as much distance between us as possible. We see each other for holidays. Lunch or dinner once a month. And every single time, my dad points out what I’m doing wrong with my life. My mom brings up who I was as a kid. Before I could think for myself.”
Jamie’s hand reaches for his hair. Jordan grabs his wrist before he can. He holds it gently, giving Jamie his full attention.
“They want me to get serious about a career. Money.” Jamie scoffs. “As if that’s all that matters.”
Jordan’s thumb drags along the soft hair on Jamie’s forearm.
“They don’t even love each other,” Jamie spits. “They love the financial security they give each other.”
Quietly, Jordan says, “That’s sad.”
“Like they care.”
Jamie pulls his hand away, and Jordan hates how his fingers briefly miss the connection.
“All I wanted was to prove that wealth and status and flaunting it to everyone isn’t what defines you,” Jamie says.
“It isn’t.”
Jamie’s body sags, tired. Weighed down. There’s something broken in his eyes when he looks at Jordan. “I believed that. But when Denz left … I started to struggle.” His voice breaks as he adds, “And I needed them.”
The thunder growls again. Rain comes even faster, heavier.
Jordan’s eyes stay steady on Jamie.
He never knew. All those months around each other. The times Jamie suggested simple, often free things for them to do. Things Jordan loved because it usually meant it was just them. No distractions, no interruptions.
But there was a reason behind it all.
“They were right,” Jamie says, voice still thick. “I wasn’t serious. And money did matter. So they agreed to help me.” He waves an arm around weakly. “They paid the entire year’s rent. Gave me whatever I needed. Under one condition.”
Instantly, it clicks.
Jordan whispers, “Sloane.”
“To them, she’s the perfect woman,” Jamie confirms. “All I have to do is be seen with her. With them. In front of their friends.” Frustration creases his brow.
“In their circle, Amy and Sam’s wedding is a big deal.
And all my parents want is to make sure their pansexual, bartending, rebel son looks ‘appropriate’ and impresses their crowd. ”
“Jamie, that’s—”
Jordan stops short. The apartment is cast in gray. Shadows crawl up Jamie’s face. They do nothing to disguise his damp eyes. The red of his lower lip from chewing too hard.
Jordan tries again. “Why didn’t you—”
“Ask for help?” Jamie fills in.
“Yeah.”
Jamie lets out a breath. “There are plenty of people who have it far worse than me. Who need real assistance. I have both my parents, who are white and come from old money. I’m privileged as fuck.”
“Fair point, but—”
“I don’t want anyone to fix my problems,” Jamie says firmly. “It’s my family shit. I know how to deal with it.”
“Like this?” Jordan can’t help the rise in his voice. “By playing dress-up? Pretending to be the son they want? While they still get to be the parents who don’t deserve you?”
“It’s not like that.”
“It is,” Jordan argues. “Who you are, who you date. That shouldn’t be up to your parents to decide. That shouldn’t be anyone’s decision.”
“I’m still me.”
“Only when you’re not around them. Or their friends.”
It all makes sense. What Jamie said at the bridal boutique when Jordan asked if Amy was happy.
She’s an adult who knows what she’s doing. If she’s not happy now, she will be.
Jamie wasn’t only talking about her.
And now Jordan’s furious. This isn’t the Jamie he’s always known. The one he’s loved … as a friend.
Jamie’s bangs fall limply over his forehead. “It’s temporary, Jordan. I’ll come up with a better plan. I just need space to figure it out, like…”
Jordan doesn’t need him to finish that sentence. He already knows.
Like you need space to figure yourself out.
The timer on his phone goes off. He lingers on the sofa a second longer. Just enough time to push the hair off Jamie’s brow and say, “Okay.”
He fixes bowls of soup for them. While in the kitchen, he refills Jamie’s glass of orange juice. He balances everything carefully as he returns to the sofa, sitting right beside Jamie this time.
Together, they slurp while rain splatters across Atlanta.
“Mmmmm.”
“Good?” Jordan says.
Jamie nods, then coughs violently. “Spicy too.”
Jordan lifts a challenging eyebrow. “Can’t handle a little spice, Jamie?”
A grin spreads across Jamie’s face. He stretches his long legs across Jordan’s lap. “I can handle a lot of things, Jordan. Spice included.”
Sharp heat curls behind Jordan’s jaw, slips into his ears. Maybe he did add too much ginger?
“Does Denz know?”
Eyes low, Jamie says, “No.”
Of course he doesn’t. If he did, Denz would be on the first flight back to Atlanta. He’d yell and scream and curse Jamie’s entire bloodline all while moving his stuff back in. Braylon would just have to deal. Denz and Jamie have always been that serious about each other.
“We both need one less thing to stress about,” Jamie hoarsely tells him. “I just want some peace.”
His eyes finally reach Jordan’s again.
Jordan doesn’t look away.
Gently, Jamie says, “You’re my peace, Jordan.”
It plunks in Jordan’s chest like a rock tossed into a fountain. The feeling splashes and spills over and takes ages to settle. But it does.
Without his permission, the corners of Jordan’s mouth hitch into a smile. He hides it behind another spoonful.
“Thanks,” Jamie says. “For coming to check on me.”
“I had to,” Jordan says teasingly. “If you die before the wedding, we’ll never make the front page of People.”
“I thought we were aiming for Southern Bride?”
“Think bigger, my young apprentice.”
For the first time, Jamie’s face scrunches into a genuine smile.
After a beat, Jordan says, “I want you to be okay.” He hates the shyness in his voice. The sweet, saccharine sincerity of it.
Jamie eyes him over the soup’s steam. “I am now. But you should probably stay away from me.”
“I’ve had my flu shot, Jamie.”
“Good to know. But I haven’t showered in days. Been too sick to bother. It’s pretty depressing.”
“Oh.”
Another long pause.
Jamie keeps slurping his soup. Keeps looking soft and exhausted. Jordan knows he’s not helpless. He’s a fighter. But even Rocky needed someone in his corner.
That’s the only reason, based on a poorly constructed sports metaphor, for what he says next:
“I can help you.”
Jamie’s head cocks sideways. A confused border collie.
“I can help you shower,” Jordan spells out. “As, you know, a friend.”