Chapter 5
Jordan’s truck turns in at exactly three-oh-two the next afternoon, tires crunching up my drive.
I’m already out on the porch steps, jittery in the practical shoes I’d dug from the back of my closet, my hands twisting in my lap.
For the last twenty minutes, I’ve been rehearsing how I’ll play this cool, how I’ll act like it’s just any other day, and I’ve failed spectacularly at all of it.
Jordan doesn’t get out. Their arm dangles out the driver’s window; fingers tap a rhythm on the door, quick and restless, like they can’t sit still.
Another flannel today, open over a gray tank that hugs their torso, sleeves rolled to bare their forearms and the tattoos I pretend I haven’t noticed but absolutely have.
Their sandy hair’s up in that mess of a bun, and I’m not thinking about it, not at all, which is a lie I tell myself as easily as breathing.
I climb into the passenger seat, inhaling warm woodsmoke, black coffee, and something that’s just Jordan, earthy and electric and now as familiar to me as my own skin.
“Hey,” they say, voice casual. Their eyes flick over me, making my heart stutter.
“Hey yourself.” I tug the door shut, the latch thudding home—and it feels final, like closing a chapter and not just a door.
Jordan shifts the truck into reverse, and we’re rolling, down my little street lined with houses and gardens and porch swings nobody ever uses. The quiet between us isn’t awkward, exactly, but it’s sharp-edged, tinged with something that makes my pulse leap.
I break first, because of course I do. “So,” I say, listening to the radio’s gentle thrum (indie folk, maybe, just loud enough to taste but not enough to claim our attention), “Where are we going?”
They grin, just quick and crooked. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
Jordan’s mouth does that thing, corner tugging up in amusement. “Nope. It’s a surprise. Didn’t I say to wear shoes you could get dirty? Gotta keep the mystery alive.”
I cross my arms, eyeing the familiar storefronts of Sleighbell Springs out the window. Same as always; static, as if the whole town is caught between breaths. The steadiness is both a comfort and a complaint.
“You know I hate surprises,” I remind them.
Another grin, this one bigger. “I do. That’s why it’s a surprise and not, say, a color-coded itinerary in your inbox that you can stress-read the night before.”
We turn off Main Street, start winding past the school, the community garden, the park where summer concerts are a ritual. Trees crowd closer; houses thin out. The road narrows, growing wild around the edges, and something inside me does a little somersault. I think I know where we’re going.
There’s the old covered bridge, suddenly right there around the curve, amber light washing the weathered boards, creek sparkling beneath. Jordan pulls over onto the gravel shoulder, shuts off the engine.
Silence. The kind that settles fast and total: no radio, no motor, just the water moving below and the truck ticking as it cools.
I don’t move at first. I settle my hands in my lap, force my face calm.
I’ve rehearsed this scene in my head, always expecting Drew to invade it: Drew’s proposal, Drew’s laughter echoing off the water.
In this town, every corner is a Drew story, and this bridge might as well have his name carved on every plank.
I brace myself, jaw tight, ready for that story.
But Jordan just steps out, waiting by the creek’s edge, hands deep in their pockets. They look at the bridge for a long time, jaw working like there’s something caught behind their teeth.
Then they sit down on a flat stone near the water’s edge, pat the space beside them. I join, knees folding automatically, gravity stronger than my resolve.
Jordan starts talking—not about Drew, not at first. “First time I tried to leave this town, I was seventeen. Packed three shirts, a toothbrush, and a copy of On the Road with more highlights than sense.”
I watch their profile, the sharpness of jaw and cheek, the mouth caught between a smile and something more hesitant.
They keep their hands busy, working at a loose thread on their flannel.
“Made it to Montpelier. Then I turned around. Couldn’t say why, just…
did.” They twist the thread, release, twist again.
“Tried at twenty-two for a job in Burlington. Lasted six months. Came back. Tried again at twenty-six. Eight months. Came back.”
The creek’s song fills the pauses, relentless, a counterpoint to my scattered heartbeat.
“Everybody has a theory. Melvin blames stubbornness. Drew used to say I’m basically a concussed pigeon with no sense of direction.
” The smallest catch on Drew’s name, but Jordan powers on.
“Me? I think it’s just this place. Doesn’t matter if I’m gone six days or six months—it’s the only honest thing I’ve ever known, and I can’t explain that without sounding cheesy as hell. ”
My jaw unclenches, bit by bit. That hard, defensive line in my chest softens, replaced by a slow, confused warmth. This isn’t the Drew story. Not even close.
I find myself asking, “Did you ever figure out why?” My voice sounds unfamiliar, fragile. This question is about Jordan, and only Jordan.
Jordan looks at me, really looks. “Figure out why what?”
“Why you kept coming back. If you couldn’t explain it.”
There’s a beat. The creek fills it, patient as ever.
“I think,” Jordan says, picking through their words, “it’s because the things that hurt here are the same things that held me.
Same people. Same streets. It’s all tangled together, and somewhere along the line, I decided the holding was worth the hurt.
” They stop working the thread, let their hands fall. “Still deciding, some days.”
The honesty of it sits between us, exposed and raw. I’ve known Jordan Vale for years, but I’ve never seen this side—the one that doesn’t hide behind jokes or work or bravado.
Jordan shifts, turns to me, and the half-grin returns, gentle now. “Your turn. Question for a question.”
I could ask about Drew. I could ask for the safe story, the one we all know. Instead, I blurt, “What’s the worst job you’ve ever done?”
The laugh that breaks from Jordan is sudden and infectious, ricocheting off the low beams of the bridge.
“Oh, hands down—the Hemsley basement. Remember that storm in 2018? Sump pump died, basement went aqua, and I spent half the day wading in with a shop vac. Learned a new level of regret that day.”
“Worse than the raccoon nest?”
“By a mile. At least the raccoons had style. Basement water doesn’t even try.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, full and genuine, not the polite customer-service laugh, but the real thing, bright as a bell. Jordan’s eyes track me, soft and intent, and for a second it’s too much, this moment suspended between us, almost exquisite in its possibility.
We talk, and the stories unfurl, slow and easy.
Jordan confesses to sliding off the Stocking’s roof on a cardboard sled, right into Mrs. Pelletier’s hydrangeas.
I tell them about the time I botched a paint mix at the hardware store and invented a new color that Rodney called “visionary” because Rodney is a saint.
Sunlight drifts through the bridge’s slats, painting stripes over us as the day slips toward evening.
Somewhere in the story about Melvin’s hardware feud (now apparently in its third presidential administration and fueled by pipe fittings and scathing letters to the paper), I notice it: my hands are relaxed, my breath is easy, and the heaviness I brought with me today has lightened, almost completely, just for this little while.
Jordan watches me, eyes steady, and this time I don’t look away. The drawbridge I built around myself isn’t gone, but it’s different now, the walls moving, shifting, making room for something new and unexpected.
“You’re doing it again,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re reading the fine print on my soul.”
Their lips quirk. “Is it working?”
I roll my eyes. “Not even close.”
“Worth a shot.”
The next pause is easy. We just sit, Jordan warm beside me, the creek’s rhythm soothing as a lullaby. For once, I don’t need to fill the silence.
Sun climbs higher. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s restless energy, but suddenly Jordan stands, peels off their boots, rolls up their jeans. Without preamble, they step into the creek.
The sound that rips out of them is ridiculous—a genuine, undignified yelp that startles a bird from the brush. Jordan stands mid-stream, bracing against the current, shivering from head to toe.
“Holy shit,” they gasp, “that’s so much colder than I remember.”
I stay on my solid stone, eyeing the water. This is the moment where a reasonable person says “no thanks.” Instead, I’m already on my feet, peeling off my shoes.
“What are you doing?” Jordan calls over the rush.
“Making a terrible decision,” I shoot back, and plunge in.
The cold is a physical shock. I make a wild, high-pitched noise that can’t possibly be mine, and Jordan doubles over, laughing so hard the bridge itself seems to echo.
I splash Jordan, hard, water arcing between us. They retaliate, and suddenly we’re both soaked, laughing, stumbling. I lose my balance twice—the first time, Jordan catches me by the elbow, steady, confident. The second, I go down, knee smacking a rock, but I’m already numb and don’t even care.
My cotton dress is a disaster, plastered to my body, leaving little to the imagination. Jordan, who normally meets my gaze, is now studying everything else: distant bank, the bridge, the sky, anywhere but at the wet, clingy fabric outlining every curve I own.
Their hair is coming loose, damp strands stuck to their skin, a drop trembling at the tip of their nose. They look carefree, unguarded, and the sight makes my chest tighten.
Eventually, we surrender to the cold and drag ourselves out on the far bank, collapsing onto sun-warmed grass, side by side, catching our breath. The world narrows to the hush of creek and the thud of our hearts.
Jordan’s shirt is nearly see-through, molding to their chest and arms. I wring out my dress, water beading onto the grass, and the absurdity of the moment almost makes me laugh again. But what settles instead is quieter, heavier, charged.
I turn to face Jordan; they’re already watching me, gaze open and vulnerable.
“Are you trying to make me fall in love with this town,” I ask, “or with you?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than anything I’ve said all day. I wait, certain my heart is visible through the wet cotton.
Jordan doesn’t look away. “Both,” they answer quietly. “If I’m lucky.”
Something inside me gives. I reach for them, palm flat to their chest, feeling the wild hammer of their heart. My fingers clutch at their shirt, and Jordan lets me pull them in, their mouth finding mine.
The kiss starts gentle—a question, not a claim.
Then I answer, hand sliding up behind their ear, and the kiss deepens, wild and hungry, heat blooming everywhere we touch.
Jordan’s hand finds the small of my back, thumb digging into the soaked fabric, and the heat of it draws a low, helpless sound from me—a sound that makes Jordan freeze, just for a beat.
They pull back, just enough to rest their forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.
“We can stop,” Jordan offers, voice rough. “Just say the word.”
I look at them, at the dark sweep of their eyes, the water trailing over their skin. My hand is still on their chest, feeling every frantic heartbeat.
“I don’t want to stop,” I say. “I want this. I want…” It’s awkward to say, but I make myself say it. “I want proof that my body still belongs to me.”
Their thumb strokes the small of my back, soothing and slow. “It does,” Jordan says. “It always has.”
We kiss again, slower, savoring it, Jordan cradling my head like I’m precious. And I’m not breakable, but right now I want to be held.
We stop before it goes too far. Stay tangled in the grass, breathless and grinning, both of us a mess. I’ve never been more content to be a mess in my life.
Eventually, I whisper, “People will talk. They’ll think I’m replacing him. Moving on too fast. Like I’m erasing him.”
Jordan’s fingers find mine, lacing tight.
“No one who loved Drew,” Jordan says, careful and certain, “would want you lonely forever.”
The words land, not like a wound, but a relief—a key turning, a door I didn’t know how to open.
“Come to dinner,” I offer. The invitation flies out before I have time to weigh it.
Jordan’s thumb circles the back of my hand. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” The word feels good in my mouth.
“I’ll bring wine,” Jordan promises, “the good stuff, not the screw-cap kind. I’ll even go bug Noelle for a real recommendation, and suffer her judgment if I have to.”
I laugh, out loud and free. “Just bring yourself. The wine is optional.”
“Deal.”
We bask. The sun slides lower, the shadows stretch, and the creek keeps running, unworried. My hand is tucked in Jordan’s, and for this perfect, impossible afternoon, that’s all I need.