Chapter 20 Write Your Vows
? Write Your Vows
Anxious isn’t the right word for how Jordan feels.
Restless? Maybe. Stressed? Definitely.
It’s the equivalent of standing on the edge of a cliff where you can’t see what’s waiting below but someone’s right behind you, knife to your back, giving you three seconds to jump.
But “anxious” will do for now.
Late morning sunlight halos across the blue-and-pink basketball court. It’s a warm, humid day. Unfortunately, that’s not why Jordan is sweating profusely.
He bounces the ball once, twice, three times to try to shake off the nerves gripping his muscles. It doesn’t work. At least it gives him something to do while he waits.
This isn’t how he pictured spending his Saturday afternoon. To be fair, this isn’t how he pictured his life in general at the beginning of summer. Or last year. Hell, when he was sixteen and kissing someone for the first time. But, well, here he is.
Bouncing a basketball, alone.
Waiting.
When he called Nic the other day, he didn’t have a strategy. No clear path to this working. At least she had ideas. How could she not? She’s the younger sister of Kami, a habitually organized CEO, and Denz, king of schemes.
There’s no way she wasn’t going to at least try to help him.
Still, Jordan’s not used to this balled-up feeling in his gut. The doubt. It’s been building for days. Tying itself into a neat little knot of dread and panic and hesitation. Like when he knows he can’t accomplish something.
Jordan, who plans and practices and perfects everything. Who always succeeds. Who never impulsively puts himself out there for something he’s not prepared for.
But this is different.
Jordan wants this. Not to impress anyone. To prove anything.
He wants this for himself.
If that means he has to carry so much stress in his muscles his knees feel like they’ll give out any second, so be it. Whatever it takes.
It’s another two bounces before he hears the voices. Two people emerge from the back door of Skye’s the Limit’s main building.
“Nic, why would you leave a hurt puppy outside?” says the first voice.
“Because Whit’s allergic,” Nic says.
“Then get her some antibiotics!”
“Do you mean,” Nic starts, and Jordan can hear the mocking smile in her voice, “antihistamines?”
There’s a scoff. A mixture of admonishment and affection as the first voice says, “Never leave a puppy outside in this unforgiving heat.”
Nic sighs, shaking her head as she steps onto the court.
With Jamie.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-scruff-lining-his-jaw Jamie. With his thick, wavy hair looking a rumpled mess. Eyes brown but not quite. He’s in jeans. His pale blue T-shirt has a stain on it.
He looks good. Incredible.
Whatever force that was holding Jordan down relaxes, just a little. Enough for him to say, “Hi.”
Jamie eyes him, surprised. He doesn’t say anything back.
“This is going great so far,” Nic comments.
Jordan squints at her. “Did you say I was an injured puppy to lure him out here?”
“Did you have a better scenario?”
“Well, no, but I didn’t tell you to lie—”
“Decisions were made,” she interrupts. “He’s here. No puppies were harmed. Can we move on now?”
“What the fuck,” Jamie says at last, “is going on?”
“It seems my cousin”—Nic rolls her eyes in Jordan’s direction—“has a problem with my methods of getting you to show up today.”
“You lied to him,” Jordan counters.
“I manipulated the truth. You are hurt. And you do look like a sad puppy.” She smooshes her cheeks together for emphasis.
“I’m leaving,” Jamie announces.
Nic’s reflexes are quick. She presses her hand flat against Jamie’s chest, stopping him. “No,” she says with a smile that looks more like a warning. Don’t cross me. “I’m leaving. You stay. Got it?”
Slowly, Jamie nods.
“Wonderful.” Nic pats his chest roughly. “Have a good talk.”
Then she’s gone.
Jordan stares at Jamie. His stiff posture. The way his focal point is somewhere past Jordan’s shoulder. He forces himself not to be hurt by that. Spins the basketball on his index finger as a distraction.
Gradually, Jamie’s eyes take him in. He starts with Jordan’s old high-tops. The pair of ratty gym shorts he’s wearing. His loose Golden State Warriors jersey. Not exactly “Will Thacker interrupting a press conference to tell Anna how he feels” attire, but theme appropriate.
Jamie meets his gaze. “I’m still angry with you.”
“I know.”
“And hurt too.”
Jordan nods once. “I figured.”
“I—” Jamie exhales. His brows knit. “I don’t know why I’m still standing here.”
“I’m glad you are,” Jordan says with a tiny smile.
“What do you want, Jordan?”
He sounds exhausted. Sad. Jordan tries not to be discouraged by it.
“I want to play a game,” he says.
“What?” Jamie snaps.
“Let’s play a game,” he says again, tossing the ball back and forth between his hands. “You and me.”
Jamie shakes his head. “I don’t want … fuck, why are you—”
“Here are the rules,” Jordan barrels on before he loses the nerve. Before Jamie can stomp away. “We each get five attempts to make a shot. For every ball that goes in the hoop, we’ll tell the other person one thing no one else knows.”
Jamie’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“No interference,” Jordan continues. “I shoot five times, then you. From wherever we want on the court.”
“One thing no one knows,” Jamie says stiffly.
“One thing,” Jordan agrees.
“And if we miss?”
Jordan pauses. He hadn’t quite thought about that part. “We, er … buy the other person King of Pops?”
Jamie’s eyes narrow.
“Okay, look.” Jordan squeezes the ball between his palms. He steels his confidence. “If I miss, you can walk away. If you want. If I miss a single shot, you don’t have to hear anything else I have to say.”
“I don’t?”
“No,” Jordan whispers.
“I can just leave?”
Briefly, Jordan shuts his eyes. He tries to find that younger, championship-winning, scholarship-earning Jordan from high school.
Bobby, one of his old teammates, used to say Jordan had ice in his veins whenever it came time for the fourth quarter.
That Jordan was fearless with the game on the line.
He desperately needs to be that Jordan now.
His eyes open. He smirks. “If I miss even one shot, you can go.”
For a second, Jamie stands motionless, thinking. Watching Jordan like he’s unsure if Jordan’s bluffing or not. But Jordan knows the moment Jamie sees the spark in his eyes. The dare. He’s challenging Jamie to walk away.
And, just like when they were teens, Jamie doesn’t back down.
“Fine. You go first.”
Jordan dribbles the ball a few more times. He gets comfortable with the feel of it. Stretches out the last bits of his nervousness.
He moves to his favorite spot on the court: the three-point line.
Two more bounces before he lines up his shot. When he releases the ball, it soars in a perfect arc. Swishes through the net without touching the rim.
Jamie catches the ball. He turns to Jordan and waits.
Explaining the rules of the game was much easier than actually following through on them.
“Okay,” Jordan says.
He exhales one more time. He can do this. He needs to.
“I’m still figuring out what label really fits me best, but, for right now”—he swallows, smiling—“I think it’s demi. I’m … demisexual.”
Jamie doesn’t blink. “That’s great, but you don’t—”
Jordan holds up a finger. He’s not finished.
“I want you to be the first to know.” Sweat dribbles down his temple. “You’re the first person to hear me say it. Out loud. And I just. I wanted it to be you.”
The corner of Jamie’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, not exactly, but it’s something. He passes the ball back.
Jordan’s next shot catches the backboard before sinking in.
“Other than Yazzie, I never had—never wanted a romantic relationship with anyone else,” Jordan says, his voice a little stronger than before. “I hate going on dates with strangers. I’m not into random hookups. I never thought about people that way … until you.”
Jamie holds on to the ball a second longer this time. He stares and stares. It’s as if he sees the pieces of Jordan’s puzzle for the first time and is quietly trying to put them together.
Jordan lets him.
He concentrates on his next shot, a buzz in his system. It’s slightly off, imperfect, kind of like him currently.
“I didn’t kiss Javi to compare you two,” he says after the ball lands in. “Not intentionally.”
Jamie’s eyebrows lift. Then why?
“I needed to know that what I felt was real,” Jordan explains.
“That I wasn’t attracted to him. Because there’s no connection.
Our kiss felt like nothing. But with you.
” He sucks in a loud breath. “Kissing you is like … like sitting in your pajamas watching movies all day. It’s like soup when you’re sick.
Like being high—so fucking high.” A laugh bubbles in his chest. “Jamie, it’s a rush and it’s comfort and it’s home. ”
He watches Jamie’s throat work as he swallows.
“Kissing you is like—” Jordan’s voice breaks. “Like knowing I’ll never be alone again.”
Jamie fumbles with the ball. He bounces it to Jordan.
The next shot is effortless.
Jordan’s words are not.
“I hate that you said you weren’t the right person for me.” His eyes sting, teeth grinding. “‘Right’ makes it seem like there’s something wrong with you. That I’d have to accept you. But Jamie, who you are isn’t for someone to accept. Or fix.”
Something flashes in Jamie’s eyes.
“You’re Jamie fucking Peters,” Jordan tells him with a wet smile. “You don’t have to be ‘right’ for anyone to love you. Certainly not me.”
Jamie’s stiff. Frozen. Only his chest rises and falls.
Jordan retrieves the ball himself. He moves back into position.
It’s hard to see the goal through his damp lashes. He tries to blink, but tears keep filling his vision. It’s fine. Jordan spent years practicing and perfecting his craft. He might not be great with words, but he’s amazing at basketball.