Chapter 7
Iwake to sunlight casting a hot stripe across the room and the heavy, unambiguous weight of a body beside mine. Jordan’s arm sprawls over my waist, their face buried half in my pillow, and for three whole seconds I just stare, unable to comprehend the tableau in front of me.
Light slips through the gap in my curtains, painting Jordan’s cheek and temple, catching the sharpness of their jaw now softened by sleep.
Their sandy hair is breaking free of its bun, messy strands clinging to flushed skin.
A tattooed forearm lies exposed above the duvet—the inked mountain range just inches from my nose, boldly on display.
Their breathing is deep, even, their mouth slackly open, every line of their face relaxed and young and so utterly unguarded. I never see them like this.
My palms go damp, cold. I twist the duvet between my fists, knuckles whitening, and drag in a shallow, shaky breath.
But it isn’t regret that fills my lungs; it’s not the hollow ache I know so well, but something else: wildfire-bright, consuming, terrifying in its enormity.
This is the aftermath, the unignorable reality of last night, and Jordan Vale is drooling on my pillow and I cannot bring myself to care.
I leave the bed like I’m diffusing a live explosive, one leg, then the other, the duvet eased back inch by inch, careful not to make a sound.
Jordan doesn’t move. They mumble some nonsense, their arm seeking me in the empty space, and my chest splinters and blooms and I have to press a palm there to keep the confetti from spilling out.
I stand at the edge of the bed, tugging on a t-shirt and underwear, toes still bare, and just watch them, struck by the absurdity of it all.
Maddie Weiz, self-certified disaster, hovering over her own bed, watching the person they had sex with the night before drool onto her pillow.
Sex. I had sex last night. Not only was it the first time with someone since Drew died, but, it was so much more than that. I doubt even Jordan realizes the enormity of what we did last night.
I’ve known I was bi since high school, but I never had the nerve to actually act on it, and before I ever had the chance, I met Drew.
Last night was my first time with someone…
fuck what is the correct phrasing? I’ll have to ask Jordan what they prefer.
Female-bodied? That doesn’t sound right.
Jordan is non-binary and masc-presenting, so even assigning the word female to them doesn’t sit right.
Assigned female at birth? I guess? Regardless of the correct term, last night was my first.
The kitchen is still a mess from dinner, but I can’t muster the spoons to care.
I start the coffee because my hands have to be doing something or else they’ll tremble.
I measure grounds, pour water, press the button.
The machine huffs and rattles to life. I lean against the counter, staring at the wall like it might offer a solution, but all it gives me is the truth: it’s just a wall.
Drew picked the paint. Sage Green, semi-gloss, and I remember because I sold it to myself.
I scrub a mug clean. Then a second. Then pause and stare because I know, with bone-deep certainty, that I’m making coffee for two.
This knowledge lives in the air now, thick and inescapable, filling the kitchen between the sink and the coffeemaker.
The confetti riot in my chest intensifies, and I fight it off by rearranging the dish rack with unnecessary force.
Jordan shuffles in a few minutes later, barefoot, hair a disaster, eyes stubbornly squinty, still in yesterday’s jeans and their gray undershirt.
They don’t even bother to wipe the sleep from their lashes as they reach for a mug beside me, their shoulder brushing mine, and the scent of them comes all at once: coffee, woodsmoke, linseed, cedar, and something purely Jordan, earthy and warm, seared directly into my nervous system.
“Morning,” they rasp, voice shredded by sleep as they pour coffee with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this in my kitchen a hundred times.
“Morning.” My voice holds steady, somehow, which feels like a tiny miracle.
“You sleep okay?”
I did. Better than I have in months. Years. But I can’t say it, so I don’t. “The coffee’s strong today. Just a heads up.”
Jordan takes a brave sip, flinches, then grins at me. “Jesus. You could strip paint with this stuff.”
“That’s the point. Some of us have standards.”
Jordan leans in, hip against the counter, elbow bumping mine. “Some of us prefer not to have our taste buds seared off before sunrise.”
“It’s 6:23,” I reply, nudging back.
Jordan’s mouth quirks. “Even worse.”
Just like that, we fall into our usual rhythm, the endless back-and-forth that doesn’t matter but means everything.
Jordan recounts a dream about a raccoon and a leaf blower; I warn them that the dish towel they’re using is the one I use for paintbrushes.
They keep wiping anyway. I’m deflecting, and they know it, letting me pretend, and the tenderness of that makes my throat tight enough to ache.
Jordan’s thumb finds a smudge on my wrist—blue paint, probably—and rubs it absently while they talk. The touch is casual and intimate, and it vibrates through my skin, belonging to people who know how to share their lives.
“We should probably deal with last night’s disaster,” I say, gesturing at the carnage on the table.
Jordan shrugs. “Probably.”
“Or we could not.”
Jordan flashes a quick grin. “Also valid.”
My phone buzzes, vibrating against the countertop between us. MELVIN, all caps, screaming for attention.
I answer. “Hey.”
“Pipe’s burst.” Melvin’s voice, abrupt and unceremonious, like a fist pounding gravel. “Under the utility sink. Water everywhere. I’ve been here since five.”
I close my eyes. “How bad?”
“Bad enough I’m using your good towels. The ones with the ducks.”
I wince. “I’ll be there in ten.”
“Bring Vale if they’re still there. Their hands are better than mine for this.”
I try to form words, but Melvin’s already hung up.
Just like that, the kitchen fantasy—the warmth, the ease, the confetti in my chest and Jordan’s thumb on my wrist—is snapped.
Gone. I’m already running for my bedroom to throw on clothes, my brain inventories the hardware I’ll need: pipe cutter, coupling, maybe a new PVC section.
My body moves with the authority of habit, but my heart is back in the kitchen, clinging to the sight of Jordan soft with sleep.
Jordan steps into the room behind me, tugging on the rest of their clothes quickly. “I’ll come.”
The words build in my throat, ready and familiar. It’s fine. I’ve got it. You don’t have to. Three years of solitude have made them reflex. But I don’t say them. The silence is heavy, and Jordan’s gaze is unwavering, and the truth is, I don’t want to do this alone.
I nod. Once. Sharp.
Jordan grabs boots from by the door, stomps them on without fuss, and just like that, we’re out into the truck, headed for Springs I should open the store, and honestly, watching Jordan’s forearms flex isn’t going to get anyone anywhere.
I flip the sign, start the fans, count the register, trying to act like a person who didn’t, less than half a day ago, come apart under Jordan Vale’s mouth so thoroughly I’m still scraping the memory off my skin.
It goes poorly.
I miscount hex bolts twice. The first time, I make it to seventeen before Jordan’s laugh from the back room short-circuits every thought in my head. The second time, I get to twenty-three before the image of Jordan’s hands on my hips flashes, and I drop the box, bolts spraying across the tile.
Then I topple the caulk tube display. The whole thing. Plastic tubes rattle and careen, a disaster so loud both Jordan and Melvin appear in the doorway, identical looks of concern on their faces.
I wave a hand. “Fine. Everything’s fine. Apparently the caulk staged a rebellion. Happens.”
Jordan’s mouth curves with a barely-contained smile, the one that wracks my insides and dares me to call them on it. They say nothing, just vanish again, and I hear the pipe cutter’s whine and Melvin’s grumbling about amateurs and emotional stability echo down the hall.
By nine-thirty, the flood’s abated, the duck towels are howling in the dryer, and the store is inexplicably busy.
Not regular busy. Holiday busy. Summer-rush busy.
Ruthann from the garden club comes for potting soil and lingers with her husband Rudy in tow, parsing the subtle differences between three shades of garden-stake green.
Mr. Okafor wants a very specific hinge and, before I know it, is telling me about his granddaughter’s college essays.
The farmers-market teen—the one with the crop top and bathroom-tile ambition—is back, phone crammed with Pinterest screenshots and surprisingly smart questions.