Chapter 16 Approve the Seating Chart #2
“We want our son happy,” Jeff tells him in the least convincing voice.
“And if he’s not?”
“He is,” Liz argues. “How would you know? You’re not his best friend. You’re not Denzel. You’re just—”
Jordan’s narrowed eyes dare her to finish.
She changes her tone. “Not just anyone is right for our son. We raised him. We know what’s best.”
“Do you?” Jordan challenges.
Jeff downs his second drink. “Listen, I’m sure you think you’re being noble. Doing a good deed by making us—his parents—seem like we’re controlling. You’re wrong.” He lifts his chin as if to look further down on Jordan. “We’re helping. Sloane’s helping. You’re being rude and unprofessional.”
Silence takes over their little circle.
The party carries on. Glasses refilled, musicians strumming, laughter bubbling up from every corner. But when Jordan looks at Jamie, all he sees is sadness. A gray, washed-out version of the man who makes him feel like …
Like he’s the best version of himself.
Rage bleeds over Jordan’s vision. He’s had enough.
“You can’t buy the son you wanted,” he growls.
Liz’s shrewd brown eyes widen. She stammers, “H-how dare you imply—”
“Hey, hey.”
Out of nowhere, Sloane sweeps in like a gorgeous angel dropped straight out of heaven and into Jordan’s own personal hell. She rests a hand high on Jamie’s chest.
“Everything okay?”
“No,” Jeff spits.
“Jordan,” Sloane says, her voice endearing, “maybe we should take this elsewhere?”
Jordan glares at her, trying to compose himself.
Liz sucks in a breath. “It’s fine, sweetie. I’m glad you’re here.” She smiles at Sloane and Jamie. The picture-perfect couple. One she and her husband approve of.
Jamie rolls his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.
Swallowing hard, Jordan says, “For the record: Jamie’s the best person I’ve ever known.” He finds Jamie’s eyes. “He’s kind. Funny. Thoughtful. Way too loyal.”
Dying summer sunlight kisses its way across Jamie’s now blank expression.
Jordan turns his gaze to the Peterses and Sloane. “You’re lucky to know him. To have him around. He makes everyone better. Maybe you’re too busy deciding what and who he needs to see that.”
He doesn’t wait for their reactions. Jordan turns to leave.
Well, he tries to.
Instead, Jamie grips him by the elbow. He tugs Jordan through the swarm of guests and out the tent.
Usually, in romance movies, when the hero pulls his love interest from a big party, it’s to confess his deep, unavoidable feelings.
To sweep them into his arms. Kiss passionately while some classic ’80s song that has nothing to do with the moment plays in the background.
Because of Denz, Jordan’s been forced to watch enough Bridget Jones movies to know what happens next.
In reality, there’s no unforgettable ballad.
No passionate embrace or perfectly crafted confession.
No toe-curling kiss.
Instead, it’s Jordan, standing in the middle of the McClintocks’ pristine lawn, breathless, his shirt wrinkled from Jamie’s grip.
It’s Jamie, mouth pinched, cheeks almost maroon, eyes full of anger.
It’s painful seconds of silence under a purpling sky, all the aesthetically beautiful decorations Jordan hand-selected for the dinner doing nothing to lighten the mood circling them.
“How could you?” Jamie finally seethes.
Jordan blinks. “Wait, are you mad?”
“I can’t believe you.”
Jordan takes a step back, shocked. “You are mad. For what?”
“You shouldn’t have said that,” Jamie says, voice low.
“Said what? How lucky they are to have you in their lives?” Jordan folds his arms. “That you deserve to choose who you date? That they shouldn’t try to buy the son they want?”
“Any of it.”
“Is this a joke?” Jordan says indignantly.
Jamie rubs a frustrated hand over his face. “No.”
“Good. Because I’m not laughing.” Jordan sighs. “They were out of line, Jamie. I was defending—”
“I don’t need you to swoop in with your cape on,” Jamie snaps, his expression hard. “I don’t need to be fucking saved.” He paces in a small circle. “I told you I’m working on things with my parents. That I need space.”
“So, what? You want me to let them trash you right in front of me?”
“Yes!”
“You came to me, Jamie,” Jordan says in a low growl. “I was minding my business. I was working. Now I’m out here trying to figure out what the fuck you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“No, I don’t,” Jordan argues. “You smile at me from across a party, then get mad at me. You kiss me and have sex with me and tell me you’re tired of chasing the way you felt when we first kissed, then let Sloane come in and—” He waves his hand in the air.
Jamie’s eyes widen as if he can’t believe Jordan knows about how he felt. As if he doesn’t remember saying it out loud in the first place.
But Jordan’s too far gone to backtrack.
“You look at me like—” Jordan hates the thickness in his throat. That sharp burn at the back of his nose, like tears are a breath away. “Like I’m the only person you want. You say you always want me around, then tell me you’re not right for me.”
He inhales deeply before continuing.
“You want me to figure myself out. But I don’t even know who you are.”
Jamie pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s different.”
“Is it? Is it really, Jamie?”
“Of course it is!” Jamie hisses. “This is my family. Don’t pretend things aren’t the same with yours. I talk to Denz. I know the stories.”
Jordan stiffens.
Denz and Jamie have been friends for over thirteen years. Jordan’s always wondered what secrets Denz shared with him. What things Jamie knows. How much of Jordan’s own life—his grandparents, what happened with his biological dad—has been disclosed. He’s never had the nerve to ask.
“This isn’t about them,” he says.
“Yeah?” Jamie says hoarsely. “Who is this about?”
“Us. If there even is an us. If there ever was.”
Jamie stares at him, glassy-eyed, mouth open. Words never make it out.
“Hey, Jordan, we need to get things rolling and Amy’s not—”
Javi stops short in front of them. His eyes trace back and forth.
Jamie sniffs, dragging the sleeve of his jacket across his nose. Jordan drops his arms, iPad still in one hand, shoulders tight.
Javi raises an eyebrow, pivoting to Jordan. “Mierda, is this about the other night? Our kiss?”
And Jordan’s almost certain this has happened in one of those Bridget Jones movies.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“The … what?” Jamie croaks.
“Oh.” Javi’s face goes scarily pale. “Never mind. Forget I—I’ll just go set up for the speeches.”
He runs back toward the tent. Disappears like he was never there. Too bad that doesn’t undo what he’s said.
Time slows. Jordan’s forced to watch as the shock, misery, and hurt unfold across Jamie’s face at half speed.
Jordan cautiously steps forward. “It’s not what you think.”
Jamie lurches away. “Isn’t it? Tell me, Jordan, what am I thinking?” He wrecks his hair with one hand. “Since my parents are so bad at knowing what’s best for me, tell me what I think about you kissing another man.”
Jordan can’t. His brain has already made a wrong left turn, so his mouth spits out, “You’ve been dating Sloane.”
“Hanging out,” Jamie corrects. “And you know the fuck why.”
“Am I just supposed to be okay with it?”
“Why did you come to my apartment that day?” Jamie bites out.
“You were sick.”
“Is that all?” Jamie throws up his hands. “Or were you trying to see how you felt about me? Did you want to know if kissing me was as good as kissing him?”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Jamie laughs humorlessly. “Wow. You did compare us.”
“No! That’s not what I—” Jordan can feel himself cracking. His voice. His resolve. The armor of perfection and being great and never letting anyone leave him behind again.
“Why do you care what’s happening in my life?” Jamie inquires. “Why do I matter so much?”
Jordan stares and stares at Jamie, his eyes stinging, chest heavy. After all this time, he still can’t put it into words. He can’t explain why or what Jamie means to him. That he’s never felt like this for another man. Maybe not for anyone.
He can’t figure out how to tell Jamie that he wishes he didn’t feel this way. That he wishes there was an easy answer to everything. But there isn’t.
So Jordan’s left blinking, speechless.
Jamie lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I think,” he tries. “I think you need to get out more. Date more. See if that helps. Do things that make you happy and less…” he trails off.
Jordan chews on the inside of his cheek. His hands tremble. He’s barely holding on to his iPad. Barely holding in the anger and hurt coagulating in his throat.
“Is that how you really feel?” he says.
Jamie swallows but never speaks.
“And what you said the other day? When you were sick? Did you mean that?”
Another beat of silence.
Jamie cracks his knuckles. Then tugs at his shirt collar. He does everything to avoid the unwavering look Jordan gives him.
Defeated, he says, “I told you: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. I’m not right—”
“What does that mean, Jamie?”
All Jordan’s rage, his frustration, is crammed into those five words.
“It means—” Jamie sniffs, eyes downcast. “We need space, Jordan. I have family shit. You have a life to live. We just need to … figure it out.”
That’s the thing: Jordan was figuring it out.
After December, he had his career. His priorities. Jordan was doing a spectacular job at working tirelessly, living off adrenaline and goals, and avoiding everything in between. Like that weird ache behind his ribs. The confusion suffocating his breaths.
Then this stupid wedding happened.
Jamie happened. Again.
He welcomed Jamie right back into that comfortable corner of his chest where Jordan feels like he’s enough. Where he feels safe. Wanted.
Jamie blinks at him. “I’m sorry.”
Jordan doesn’t believe him. Not a single fucking word. But he doesn’t get a choice in this decision. Just like the last time. All he gets to do is pretend it’s okay when Jamie walks sadly back to the tent.
Actually, Jordan does have a choice.
He can’t stop Jamie from leaving him behind. But he sure as hell doesn’t have to stand around and cry about it.
Technically, he can’t. He’s still working. There are speeches to be made. Toasts to have. Tonight’s about Amy and Sam and the start of their happily-ever-after.
It’s Jordan’s job to ensure that happens.
Or find someone capable of filling in for him.
He fixes his shirtsleeves. Straightens his tie. After a couple of calm, even breaths, Jordan forces his face into the happiest, most put-together expression possible. He can survive tonight. Of course he can.
He’s Jordan fucking Carter.
Inside the tent, the guests mill around. They gladly drink away their boredom. Sam looks fidgety next to his parents. No sign of Amy. Before the McClintocks spot him, Jordan turns on his heels to search the crowd.
He skips over the corner where Jeff and Liz are holding court with their small group of yes-people. Jamie is nowhere in sight. But a pretty, emerald-eyed, sun-kissed woman walks determinedly in Jordan’s direction.
Nope. Jordan has no time for Sloane and whatever awful names she probably wants to call him. He ducks around a middle-aged couple and legs it to the back of the tent where he finally finds who he’s looking for.
“I am so sorry,” Javi sputters, hands raised like he’s afraid Jordan might punch him.
He’s considered it. Maybe later.
“Shut up, Javi,” Jordan bites out, maintaining a wide grin for any of the servers who pass by.
“If you’re gonna kill me,” Javi pleads, “at least let me call my primo Angelo. I need to warn him about my sex toy drawer before my ma finds it—”
“I’m not going to kill you.” Jordan pauses. “You have a sex toy drawer?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Evidently, everyone except for Jordan.
He shakes his head. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Javi raises a thick eyebrow. “This isn’t about me fucking things up between you and Jamie?”
Oh, it’s definitely about that.
“No,” Jordan snarls. “I need the rest of this dinner to run smoothly.”
Javi nods, still not fully convinced Jordan doesn’t have an axe behind his back, an unmarked van, and a spot on the Belt Line trail to bury his corpse.
“Without me,” Jordan adds.
“?Qué?”
Jordan shoves his iPad into Javi’s chest. “I need a break. Some fresh air.”
Javi looks around the tent, as if wondering what other air Jordan needs since they’re already outside. A valid point he ignores.
“You’re in charge. Just follow the checklist.” Jordan unlocks the iPad. “You already know what to do. You’re a pro.”
“Is this a test?”
“What? No.”
“Are you being held hostage? Is this a cry for help?”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “Yes. Help me by doing your damn job.”
Javi considers it for a second. “I’m changing the order of the speeches. And I’m cutting the slideshow Lydia made. No one’s drunk enough for that.”
“Sure, whatever,” Jordan agrees. “It’s your funeral.”
Javi smirks. He turns the iPad around, scrolling. “Oh, and Amy hasn’t made an appearance yet.”
Jordan pauses, thinking. “I’ll take care of that.”
Eventually.
Right now, Jordan needs to get the hell out of here. He reaches behind the bar to blindly snatch the most expensive bottle of chilled champagne from a bucket of ice. Shoulders back, chin high, Jordan strides calmly out of the tent.