Chapter 18 Verify the Final Head Count #3
He shouldn’t have to be afraid. Nic loves him. She’s his safety net. He’s surrounded by people who either are or strongly support queer people. This is where he should be able to say this.
Against the thickness in his throat, Jordan says, “I’m struggling with my identity. No, I mean, I don’t know. But … I’m not straight.”
“Thank fuck,” Nic says with a sigh. “How depressing would that be?”
Jordan plows on. “I’m not sure what label fits me.”
Nic grins. “I could tell.”
“You could? Outside of the Jamie thing?”
“Jordan, we know our own kind.”
That tugs a small smile from his lips.
“Braylon knew about me before I did,” she admits. “That’s why he encouraged me to volunteer here. Explore their resources. I told you I had reasons.”
“Did you like what you found?”
She bites on her lower lip. “I did.” She looks toward the main building. “Wanna look around more? Do some reading? Whit’s a tyrant, but she’s a pretty helpful person to talk to. I’ll stay with you. Be your queer Yoda.”
He laughs. It’s a full, bright noise.
“That’d be cool.”
“Cool,” she echoes. A smirk teases the corners of her mouth. “But first, there’s a slam-dunk contest. Time to show these amateurs why Jordan Anthony Carter’s jersey still hangs from the rafters at your old high school.”
The rest of the day goes without incident. Well, without a catastrophic incident.
While manning the food table, Jordan’s eyes catch on a familiar face.
“Jess?”
She smiles awkwardly in that I should know you, but I don’t way for a solid beat. He’s not offended. It wasn’t a first date he wants to remember either.
Recognition finally kicks in. She says, “Jordan? You’re here.”
“So are you.” He fumbles out a grin of his own.
Jess looks good. She’s wearing a peach romper, her hair tucked into a messy bun. August sunlight is ripe against her dark brown skin. Next to her is a curvy woman with beachy curls, a light fawn complexion, and big hazel eyes. They’re holding hands.
Oh.
“Wow,” he stammers. “I mean … I didn’t know—”
“That I was bisexual?” Jess offers.
“Well, yeah.”
“Helps if you don’t spend part of your date with someone knocking over drinks,” she says with a teasing glint in her eyes.
He rubs the back of his head, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” She laughs. “I wouldn’t have met Rosamaria”—she squeezes the woman’s hand tighter—“at that artisanal ice cream shop down the road from the restaurant if you didn’t.”
Rosamaria beams. There’s a small gap between her front teeth. “We both wanted the last scoop of mint chocolate chip.”
“The rest is history,” Jess says fondly.
Jordan’s jaw drops. Fuck him. They met at the same ice cream place he had planned on walking to that night. His “perfect” love story ended tragically so theirs could begin. The universe works in strange, un-fucking-believable ways.
“I’m happy for you,” he says, meaning it.
Jess gives him a genuine smile.
“You look good, Jordan. Different, but good.”
Not much has changed in a few hours. But it’s there, the difference. Deep in his bone marrow, he feels it.
A line of anxious attendees builds behind Jess and Rosamaria. Jordan gestures to the food he’s supposed to be serving. “What can I get you? Gourmet popcorn? Soft pretzel bites? Er, uh … hot dog?”
Rosamaria turns her head to snort.
Jess raises a sharp eyebrow. “Only on occasion,” she says with a devious wink, and Jordan dissolves into laughter.
Gradually, the tournament winds down. Atlanta’s heat index in August is already intolerable.
Combined with a full day of playing basketball outside?
Everyone’s drenched and spent before 5 PM.
The remaining WNBA players hand out trophies to the winners, but Jordan manages to wrangle prizes for all the teams.
God, when did he become that “everyone’s a winner” parent who gives out blue ribbons to anyone who participates?
He sticks around for cleanup. It’s a 24 Carter Gold tradition Uncle Kenny started with his first events. Jordan breaks down tables and wipes surfaces and ties trash bags.
After, Whit drags him up to the second floor with Nic. It’s filled with more books on queerness than Jordan knew existed. Not once does Whit make him feel like he’s some clueless, confused, pathetic idiot. In fact, she sends him downstairs with homework and her cell number.
“Call me if you have any questions. Any, Jordan.”
Whit might be terribly frightening, but Jordan’s glad she’s on his side.
For now, at least.
By the time Jordan exits Skye’s the Limit, sunset has turned the clouds pink. From the sidewalk, the city’s silhouette is beautiful. Pointed skyscrapers grazing the heavens. Honeyed light dancing off the glass towers. He can see why Nora Bridger chose this location.
He’s halfway to his car when a voice calls, “So you’re really leaving without speaking to me, huh? Very unprofessional.”
Jordan’s head turns to look.
It’s Javi. He crosses his arms. Even after a hard day’s work, he still manages to look annoyingly handsome.
Jordan hates him.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Javi says coolly, “since you haven’t said anything to me since the engagement dinner.”
Fine. Jordan deserves that.
“Why did you lie for me?” he asks.
Javi eyes him for a beat, then sighs. “As much as this pains me to admit, I’m not perfect.”
“Seriously? That’s news to me,” Jordan deadpans.
“Ha,” Javi says dryly. “Look, I did my fair share of regretful shit at Elite Events. Whiskey shots at birthday parties. Attending a client’s bachelor party.
Hooking up with a bride’s brother. Cousin.
Her ex.” He rubs his chin, thoughtfully.
“Never puked on a client’s lawn, though. That raised the bar.”
“What can I say? I’m a trendsetter.”
“I’ve been there, Jordan,” Javi tells him. “My ma says your twenties are for making mistakes, being unsure, and a certified clusterfuck.”
“What are your thirties for?”
“Reinventing yourself, less drinking, better sex…” Javi lists everything on his fingers. “Don’t get me started on what she said your forties are for.”
A laugh bubbles out of Jordan.
“Also,” Javi says, more serious, “you were hurting.”
Jordan’s back stiffens. He can’t quite make eye contact.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you and—” Javi stops short when Jordan grimaces. He gives a commiserative frown. “I know what that’s like. The last thing you needed were people like the McClintocks looking down at you when they already think we’re—”
“Beneath them?” Jordan inserts.
“Exactly.”
They wade around in silence. Javi watches the sun fall behind the skyline. Jordan stares at his shoes, thinking of how wrong he was. He wrote Javi’s ambition off as overconfidence, arrogance. His sharp tongue as cruelty rather than a defense mechanism.
They might not operate the same way, approach situations with similar solutions, but they’re not that different.
“Thank you,” he says, meeting Javi’s gaze. “I crossed a line.”
The corners of Javi’s mouth twitch into a shy smile. “Kind of like the line I crossed when I kissed you?”
Jordan rolls his eyes, grinning.
“You know,” Javi starts, strolling closer, “I’m relieved Jamie’s the reason you looked like you wanted to die after we kissed that night.”
“I didn’t—”
Javi waves his rebuttal off. “I thought I was a bad kisser.” He bats his pretty eyelashes. “But I’m not, am I?”
Jordan flips him off. “Stop fishing for compliments.”
“I have a reputation to protect.”
“Trust me,” Jordan says, lips curling into a smirk, “you don’t want to know what they write about you on the bathroom stalls.”
“Oh, I know.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Most of it’s true.”
Yep, it’s official. Jordan hates him. There’s no turning back.
He studies the white building behind Javi. It stands out against everything else on this street. A beacon, a place big enough for so many people like Javi.
People like us, Jordan thinks, smiling.
“We should come here more,” Jordan suggests, nodding to Skye’s the Limit. “Do more events. Or hang out.”
“Without the drinking and kissing?”
“Especially that last part.”
“Sounds dull.” Javi grins. “So, what? We’re … friends? Is that too much?”
Jordan makes a face. “Definitely too much.”
“Don’t let my kindness at the McClintocks’ fool you,” Javi warns. “I still plan on beating you to that promotion.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m getting fired, so.”
“Come on, Jor-Bear. Throwing in the towel already? Where’s that competitive spirit?”
“I don’t need that to outperform you, Javier.” Jordan beams for him. “You’ll never be in my league.”
“Ah, there’s the second-best event coordinator at 24 Carter Gold we all love.”
They laugh. Jordan’s still not in the clear. There’s no telling if he’ll have a job worth fighting for in the future. But at least he has whatever this is with Javi. It’s not so bad.
Sometimes.