Chapter 18 Verify the Final Head Count #2
Will he date again? Does he want to?
Can he and Jamie ever be friends? Will this ever stop hurting?
Why does it hurt in the first place?
No answers come to him. Only the night’s silence. That and his phone vibrating underneath him.
He rolls over to pluck it free. The notification isn’t an email from Kami or a missed FaceTime call from Denz or even a Hey I miss you text from Jamie. It’s a calendar reminder for Saturday:
NIC’S BASKETBALL TOURNAMENT @ SKYE’S THE LIMIT!
The disappointment Jordan anticipated never arises. Instead, he smiles into the darkness.
Jordan is late.
He’s never late. He’s an obsessively-on-time, most-likely-early kind of professional. Today, however, he has a good excuse:
Breakfast with his mom and Tevin.
They wanted to have the Talk. Not that one, thankfully. No, it was the one about where his head was at, outside of work.
With his life.
When Jordan didn’t have an immediate answer, it was the first time he realized work has been his life.
The one place he’s put all his energy into.
Just like basketball and school. Since he was ten years old and found out that not only did his grandparents reject his biological dad, but he rejected Jordan. Never even fought to see him.
He’s never reached out to get to know Jordan.
Never cared to try.
Everything crashed down on Jordan. He’s always invested in things he could show off.
Basketball trophies and excellent test scores and scholarships.
Promotions and his apartment. A collection of items to prove to his bio dad—to a ghost who didn’t even bother sending him birthday cards—that he was worth fighting for.
That he was … great.
Was any of it worth it? If the other side of the coin is that he’s overcompetitive, and driven to a fault, and lonely?
Jordan doesn’t have an immediate answer. But he has more questions.
When Cheryl switched to the topic of dating, Jordan tensed up. But it wasn’t what he thought. His mom swore no more blind dates. No more interfering.
“I just want you to be happy,” she told him.
“We,” Tevin added enthusiastically, “want you to be honest too.”
It sounded like a hint. He didn’t clarify further, though. Tevin’s a fun dad. The best dad. But he’s also a man that’s half deep, hidden wisdom and half Internet meme comedian.
Jordan’s never sure which one will show up. Either way, he’s grateful to have them—both of them—in his life.
Right up until Cheryl said, “So, is there a certain someone already in your life?”
Jordan paid the bill and got the hell out.
Which is how he finds himself walking through Skye’s the Limit an hour late for the tournament.
He expects mayhem. Pure, unsupervised chaos. Also, a rightfully enraged Nic ready to practice her wicked left jab all over his face. What he’s met by is a thunderous noise. War cries and happy cheers and the distinct bass of good dance music.
Outside, on the basketball court, a three-on-three is in full swing. It seems everyone’s chosen a different favorite. Competing chants of “Team Gold” and “Team Pink” ring out from the packed bleachers.
It’s a better turnout than Jordan could’ve predicted.
Near the far end, Nora Bridger, the founder and CEO of Skye’s the Limit and a handful of staff work the tables set up with vendor donations.
The DJ spins classic hip-hop and current pop hits, along with songs from a Pride playlist the teens curated.
Inside, furniture’s been shifted out of the way for a raffle.
The prizes are courtside Atlanta Hawks tickets and autographed jerseys.
A whistle blows. “Foul!”
Whit is dressed in referee stripes. She looks more like a club bouncer than a basketball official, but at least she’s maintaining order. Jordan slips covertly along the sidelines, avoiding her death glare.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Nic says when he reaches her. She’s wearing a lightweight rose-print jacket over a vintage Michael Jordan Bulls jersey and track shorts. Jordan opted for a Steph Curry T-shirt and designer joggers.
He holds up apologetic hands. “Sorry. It’s been … a week.”
“I heard.”
Jordan should be surprised, but he’s not. “Family group chat?”
“No,” she says with an eye roll. “Shockingly, I have an older sister that calls me on occasion.”
“That means Denz was busy.”
She lets out a longing sigh. “Braylon surprised him with a Palm Springs getaway. Their relationship is so goals.”
“Sorry, did you say gross?”
“Anyway.” Nic hands an armful of water bottles to a passing teen volunteer. She turns back to Jordan with sympathetic eyes. “Sorry about everything that’s going on. If it’s any consolation, Kami’s torn up about it.”
It is. A little.
Jordan’s not here to talk about work though. “I’m glad my lateness didn’t disrupt any plans. Looks like everything’s under control.”
“You didn’t think I was capable?”
“No, no,” he says. “I believed in you.”
She casts a doubtful glare in his direction.
“I mean, you are a Carter after all.”
That earns Jordan the punch in the bicep he was forecasting.
“Don’t,” she warns. “You’re not recruiting me into the family cult. Besides, I can’t take full credit for how good things are going. Eighty percent is me. The other twenty is him.”
She gestures to a corner of the court where a small mob of teens squeals at a group Jordan’s just now realizing are members of the Atlanta Dream, the local WNBA team. He’s confused as to how they found out about the tournament. Until he sees who’s standing in the center of the gathering.
The morning sun looks good on Javi. He’s in pink and navy casual wear. His hair is artfully messy for once. He laughs at something one of the players says. There’s not a single thing about his appearance that screams his job is in jeopardy.
Must be nice, Jordan thinks. Just as quickly, he regrets it. Javi saved his ass from the McClintocks. From the rest of the event-planning industry. He should be thankful.
He smiles for Nic. “Glad it all worked out.”
She squints. “Something’s going on.”
“Yeah, some kids are shotgunning Gatorades like this is a frat party.”
“No, besides that. You’ve been acting weird for months.”
He crosses his arms, defensively. “I haven’t.”
She mimics his pose. “You have. It’s me, Jordan. I know when something’s up.”
Jordan rocks on his heels. He fights the urge to change the subject. It wouldn’t work. Nic is relentless. If competitiveness is his Carter trait, stubbornness is hers.
“I’m working through it,” he says.
“It’s Jamie, isn’t it? Did you two break up?”
Jordan’s muscles have never seized so rapidly in his life. “W-we were never—no, that’s not … that’s not a thing.”
Nic laughs in his face.
“Nicola,” he says, frustrated, “there’s nothing between—”
“Oh, please.” She tilts her head. “You either get super tense or flustered like a schoolboy on the playground whenever I bring him up. You got all worked up when I asked if he was coming for the Fourth of July. And when he didn’t show up—”
“He was busy.” At least, Jordan thinks Jamie was. He never asked. “And I was fine.”
“I have eyes, Jordan,” Nic says with the confidence of a lawyer three seconds from making a witness crack on the stand. “It was blatantly apparent last summer.”
Jordan bites his lip. Was he truly that obvious? Did anyone else notice? Was that what Tevin was talking about?
“We’re friends,” he says hoarsely.
“Friends in lo—”
A high-pitched noise springs from Jordan’s throat. Luckily, it happens at the same time the game buzzer goes off. The teams switch out. Nora’s giving a brief speech on the microphone. No one cares what he and Nic are talking about.
Still, Jordan creeps in close and whispers, “We are not … that.”
Nic puckers her lips, unpersuaded. “Jordan, I’m intuitive as fuck.
I knew Kami had a secret boyfriend before she told any of us.
I knew my dad was retiring because he feared my mom would leave him after I graduated high school.
I knew Denz and Braylon would get back together. I know Braylon’s gonna propose—”
“Wait, Braylon’s proposing?”
“I’m pretty sure he will. One day?” Nic’s face twists up. “Point is, I have an innate sense about these things.”
“That UPenn education sure is paying off.”
She jabs a finger in his chest. “I know there’s more to you and Jamie than you say. So spill.”
He stares at her. This is Nic. They understand each other. When the rest of their family leans left, they lean right. He should tell her.
The problem is, he doesn’t know how to say what’s going on in his head, in his chest.
Nic decides for him. “I’m pan.”
“You’re—?”
“Pansexual,” she finishes for him, grinning.
His brow furrows. “But you’ve never said anything. To the family. To me.”
She gives him a look like, hello, kettle, meet the pot, which, okay, is fair.
It catches him off guard. Should it, though?
Jordan assumed Nic was straight. Because that’s always the default. It’s what everyone is until they say otherwise.
But that’s bullshit.
Yes, Nic has always been private. She kept her circle of friends away from their family. And Jordan’s never actually heard about her dating anyone. So what? That doesn’t automatically make her straight.
“I tell who I want to,” Nic says. “My identity is mine. I don’t owe anyone that. I deserve the right to decide how much and who I share myself with.”
Jordan nods slowly. He processes what she said. The way she said it. Like it’s the most obvious thing.
“I figured,” she says warmly, “you needed to hear that.”
A whistle blows. The next game starts. The DJ transitions from Salt-N-Pepa to Troye Sivan, but all Jordan can hear is, I deserve the right to decide how much and who I share myself with.
It shouldn’t be so profound. So loudly obvious. But here Jordan is, mouth dry and heart thumping, trying to find courage for something that shouldn’t require it.