67. Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Mac
The new Mark Wahlberg movie is queued up before I can rationalize not watching one with him and I don’t have it in me to walk out now that it’s started.
I also have no clue how the fuck I managed to get here to begin with, but there’s something in me that’s latching onto the feeling swirling in my gut the longer I sit here. It’s confusing, yet warming. Terrifying, but not. Like I’m somehow making the right decision about something I didn’t even know needed deciding.
Is it intuition or am I just crazy?
And suddenly, I feel like I’m staring into a cracked bathroom mirror with a single phrase rolling through my head.
Take the chance. It’s yours.
“I don’t have any snacks. Sorry.”
“S’okay,” I manage and force myself to watch the action on the screen. It’s a good movie, one I didn’t have the heart to tell him I already watched, but it isn’t keeping my attention like the films with the hot actor normally do.
I blame the cat. Yep. It’s definitely Cookie’s fault for being so damn soft .
My thrumming fingers gently wander over her back and hind legs, the places I know are semi-safe zones on a cat, and I try really hard to keep my gaze on her black and white spots instead of looking at her dad.
He’s a fucking cat dad now!
A new ache blossoms inside my chest at all the things that I’ve missed, all the newness of everything in Jordan’s life, things I would have never known if I didn’t walk through that door, and yet … here he is. Right fucking next to me. Making it seem like things are the same as they have always been. As if there were never a thousand miles separating us. That this is just another movie night between rock star and bodyguard turned best friends.
I thought he hated it.
Only did the things and agreed with me to keep me appeased. To keep my ass out of trouble.
Called me his best friend because I said so.
Slept with me to ease an itch.
But now he doesn’t work for Sentry, and he’s made me mac and cheese and I’m petting his cat from inside his apartment in the damn gym that he bought and runs on his own.
“Why are you doing this?” I blurt out to the side of Jordan’s face, a little too loudly, and startle the cat.
She takes off, leaving only minimal skid marks in her wake and a whole lot of fucking white hair all over my black shirt. I don’t even care because I’m looking at that strong jawline and waiting.
Waiting to see those navy blues light up. Or his brow quirk.
Or that goddamned not-smile.
Jordan is slow to turn to me, to meet my gaze, with only a mild hint of a grin and some hesitation.
He’s calm otherwise, to my racing breath and near panic. Stoic.
Gorgeous.
So goddamn gorgeous.
Meanwhile, I’m certain that he can see my heartbeat with how hard it thunders inside my chest. Maybe even hear my stomach wring up. Feel the vibration of my limbs through the couch.
“Why don’t we start with why you came.”
“I … needed to—” I swallow hard because I’m not sure I should admit to anything, but fuck , I want to. I want to tell him that I’ve looked for him in every person I’ve passed since I met him. To tell him that no one has ever gotten me like he does. That no matter how hard I fucking try, I’ve never been able to get him out of my head, even after all this time. Because I know things. I feel things deep in my soul that tell me I will never belong to anyone but him and I needed to know if there was ever a chance. A hope. A spark that ever existed.
That I need closure.
To end this chapter of my life once and for all.
And that I’m sorry. For the way I acted over the years, but especially for what happened when I saw him last.
He watches me, not harshly just curiously, as I get my mouth to move except no sound comes out.
I’m gearing to tell him that last bit. The one about closure, and yet I’m frozen.
Because it feels so fucking wrong .
Closing this thing I can still feel sparking between us … it feels impossible.
And being here with him … even as old friends falling easily back into our old habits like movie watching and sharing space … that is what feels fucking right .
“This couch is not comfy,” I blurt instead and the bark of laughter from Jordan nearly startles me, but then settles into another one of those wide-open craters in my chest.
“I knew you’d say that.” He’s still laughing when he gets up and heads back to the kitchen with our dishes.
I follow because I feel like I should help and end up in the way when he sets a kettle on the stove to heat. Mugs are pulled from a bare cabinet, and I frown when the simple burnt orange-patterned ceramic is placed on the counter. He adds tea bags, sugar to mine, and props a hip on the counter to wait out the kettle. And me, I guess.
Why are there only four plain ass mugs in there?
“I’ve been going to counselling a lot more,” I admit on an almost ramble and cross my arms over my chest. “And she helped me realize that the last time I saw you …” I bite my lip when the wave of pain takes over my chest. “Not only did you hurt me, but I hurt you, too.”
He nods, an encouraging thing, so I continue.
“It’s stupid to hold onto the things that I did. Things others said or did, against you. It wasn’t fair.” I take a deep breath and stare at his chest instead of his face. “But neither were you.”
There’s a slight jerk to him. Like he tried to hold back the reaction to the sting and failed.
“I felt for a long time that our friendship was conditional. Part of your job to keep me entertained. That it was only ever surface level for you and nothing more. Which terrified me, to be honest. But I …” I have to swallow back the emotion that clogs my throat.
“Mac,” Jordan croaks and it’s so thick that it pulls at my heart strings.
“I meant what I said that day in the treehouse.”
“Which part?” he nearly whispers.
My inhale is shaky. My exhale even more so.
“That I love…d you,” I whisper back to his chest, my eyes burning, my ribs aching. “And it’s okay that it’ll only ever be that.”
His shirt rises. Falls with his deep exhale and it’s almost as shaky as mine.
“You done now?” His voice is all grated husk.
The kettle lets out a rumble from its boil between us, but it’s not hissing just yet.
I nod.
He stays silent for a long beat, and in the past I would push him or get upset that he’s so damn quiet. But something about this whole night is just … different. So, I stay staring at his pecs and clear my throat. He’ll say something or he won’t and then I’ll finally know for sure.
Closure and all that bullshit.
“You’re not the only one—labels are fucking bullshit and people are complicated. More complex than a simple identifier and I refuse to follow the textbook because none of them make any fucking sense.” My brow creases at his frustration and my glance raises from his chest to his chin, though I don’t think his emotion is aimed at me. “How you love me— loved me —” he clears his throat “—doesn’t make sense because I hid so much and I’m, fuck, I thought I was simple, but I’m not. I’m complicated, just like the rest of them. Us. You .”
I shake my head. “You’re not making any sense. Of course you’re complicated. You’re human.”
He growls and snatches the kettle, though it still hasn’t whistled.
“I know,” he says shakily. “I never thought—” He clears his throat and pours. “I never thought I’d get the chance to actually say this shit out loud to you.”
That hurts.
Accepting the offered mug, I follow him back to the couch with trembling legs and tight knuckles.
We settled into the opposite sides, and I note this side isn’t nearly as lumpy. Which is just fucking weird because the whole thing looks broken in and now I’m questioning my sanity.
I make the mistake of looking at Jordan, preparing to make a comment on the matter, only to freeze at the sight of his clenched jaw and far off stare into his mug.
No, wait … he’s staring past it like it’s not even there.
I follow his gaze and—
His hat?
“I’m done running.”
The mug hits the coffee table harsh enough that some of his undrunk tea sloshes over the side, but he pays it no mind. Just wipes it away on his shorts and turns to me full on. When that’s not good enough, he pulls his leg up, bending it along the cushion between us and stares straight into my fucking soul.
“I’m not straight.”
Everything in me freezes.
“I kissed Lemon when I met him and though I didn’t hate it, I didn’t like it either.”
I must look as struck as I feel because Jordan’s gaze softens on me, and he reaches for my knee. Pulls back. Settles his warm palm against the denim anyway.
“Mac, ask me why.”
I swallow. I don’t know that I can.
Do I want to know what he felt when he kissed someone that wasn’t me? I mean … I did tell him to fuck someone else, but then we fucked and—this whole thing is fucked.
My throat works and I finally croak out a rough “Why?”
The side of his lips tip up in the saddest smile I’ve ever seen, and it hurts .
“Because I kept wishing it was you.”
All of the breath leaves me on a choked sound I try to reign in, but can’t.
“I kept just feeling for you. Waiting for you. Wanting you. Wishing … it was you.”
There’s no holding back the sob that creeps up this time, deep and soul-crushing.
“Our friendship was never fake, Mac. It was the foundation for everything I feel for you now.”
My eyes are screaming, and my heart is aching, and can this be true?
When the shake to my hands is too much, Jordan takes the mug from me and replaces it with his own. It’s warm and scratchy against mine, yet it feels like so much more than just a comforting gesture between friends with the tingles it brings. It feels like home in a grip.
What if?
I squeeze his fingers, and it feels good to hold them. Maybe a little too roughly, but he’s squeezing mine right back.
“So … I—” He clears his throat and stares at the way we fit together. “I’m not straight. That’s as close to a label as I got.”
I nod. Wipe my face with the back of my other hand.
A beat of silence falls over us and though it’s a little loaded, it’s not awkward.
But then Jordan adjusts our grip and my breath hitches when he interlocks our fingers together instead of letting go.
He turns so that he’s sitting facing forward, but he’s stiff as he scoots closer, resting our joined hands on his thigh. Clearly, I’ve died and gone to heaven.
That is what this has to be. I’m dreaming or heading to the afterlife, and this is the result.
I don’t ever want to wake up.
DNR me, bish.
“The closest thing I could relate to was demisexual.”
I choke on air.
The realization is like a sucker punch straight to my gut with how many things suddenly file under different categories in my mind and turn into making sense .
Friendship. The platonic stuff.
All the times he let me be … me … and smiled at me anyway.
All the touching, but not sexually. All the time he spent at my side, even when he didn’t have to. All the moments we shared … The connections …
His grip on my hand tightens when I open my mouth, and I quickly snap it shut.
“You weren’t the only one that went to a shrink.”
I nod, staring at the side of his head with wide eyes.
“Now just … hold my hand and watch this movie with me, yeah?”
Blowing out a breath, I nod again. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
“Okay.”
It doesn’t take long, once the movie is restarted, for Jordan to relax back. His shoulder brushes mine, as does his thigh where our hands still rest, and though it’s a sweaty grip, I never want to let go.
He’s holding my fucking hand!
There’s a giddiness that’s worming through my system and filling my energy tank with such high levels that I’m nearly shaking with it.
The foundation for everything I feel for you now.
Now.
What if?
Whatifwhatifwhatif?
“Here.”
Wooden sticks are planted in my field of vision and my breath hitches all over again.
“Drumsticks?” I ask and it cracks. “You just have these laying around your apartment?”
The corner of his lips tip up.
“Yeah. I do.”