Milàn #3
“Umm.” I feel my neck heat, because in my self-pity session I all but forgot why we’re here in the first place. “How’s Theo’s face?” I ask. The bruise is still there, and it’s turned an unpleasant yellowish purple.
“Gonna have to walk around with a shiner for a bit longer,” Jordan says in a neutral tone that doesn’t reveal any feelings.
“Did you get anything out of him about what happened?” I ask.
He’s silent for a bit. “There was apparently some sketchbook of Rory’s that Theo touched without permission.” He glances at me. “Does that ring any bells?”
I start to say no, but then an image flashes in my head of a leatherbound journal Rory was clutching in his hands when he first walked into the New York apartment after Aiden.
And it’s not the only time I’ve seen the book.
In fact, if I really think about it, I’ve seen the book attached to Rory almost all the time.
“It’s a sketchbook?” I say dumbly. Once again, it’s something I should probably know and don’t. It’s getting harder and harder to argue that I’m not a failure when it comes to Rory.
“Theo says so. Rory thought Theo was going to take it and lashed out.”
“Oh,” I say when I can’t seem to figure out anything intelligent to contribute to the conversation.
“Yeah. Not saying I understand or that it wasn’t an overreaction, but clearly the book is important to Rory. Whatever’s in there is personal.”
He says it with the kind of gravity that makes me think saying that is also personal.
The rest of the field has cleared off by now, so I follow Jordan and we both grab bags of equipment that we stow away in a small room close to the coach’s office.
Along with the other volunteer parents, we also do a sweep of the stadium and gather up whatever trash we can find.
There’s not a lot. Just some errant wrappers that’ve clearly accidentally dropped out of bags and two plastic water bottles.
Jordan’s phone chimes as we walk toward the exit, and he pulls it out of his pocket. He types something, the phone chimes again, and he smiles to himself and slides the phone back into his pocket.
We stop at the stadium entrance, and he grins at me.
“What’s the plan with Rory?”
There’s an idea that’s been slowly cooking in the back of my head for a few days now.
It’s an excellent plan. In my opinion. Which probably means it’s not a good one.
The only thing that’s stopped me from putting it into action is that I didn’t have the right motivation for Rory. Now it seems I might.
He likes to draw.
“Bribery,” I say.
Jordan’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything, so I take it as a seal of approval it’s most likely not meant to be.
“Need any help?” he asks.
Yes. It’s the obvious answer, but surprisingly not just because I’m clueless. It’s mostly about Jordan. I like the way I feel when I’m with him.
Not hopeless.
Curious.
It’s been a while since I made this kind of simple human connection. Just two people exploring the unmapped territory of someone else’s mind.
“You’re not taking Theo home?”
He shakes his head. “He’s walking home with his friends.
I feel like I’m this close to the moment when he starts walking five steps behind me on the street and pretending he’s an Albanian tourist because walking with his dad is just that embarrassing.
We’re not there yet, but it’s approaching fast.”
I smile. “In that case, I wouldn’t mind at all. Do you want me to walk a few steps away from you and speak Portuguese so you can practice?”
He elbows me in the side.
I laugh.
“Are there any art supply stores around here?” I ask.
“I’m sure there are.” He tilts his head. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not a clue. I’m going to take a wild swing here and say you’re an expert, though, right? You’ve got a hidden talent where you get lost on the way to the store, but once we’re there you’ll have encyclopedic knowledge?” I say hopefully.
He grins at me. “You’ll be so disappointed. But I have a solution for you for when you get us to that art supply store.”
“Okay.” I pull out my phone, find the nearest store, and point it out to Jordan on the map. “It’s in walking distance.”
“Lead the way.” He gestures in the complete opposite direction of the store. I hide my smile and we start walking.
Neither of us says anything at first, but it doesn’t feel awkward like it should with a stranger.
“Aside from wrangling an uncooperative teenager, what do you do?” Jordan asks.
I hesitate, but then that mystical power that drags words out of me when I’m near Jordan kicks in, and I open my mouth.
“I used to be a tennis player.”
“Really?” He sounds dubious.
I bite back a grin. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do. Just trying to… I’m going to be nosy, but you don’t have to say anything. I didn’t get the impression you got along with your father.”
“An understatement.”
“But you still followed in his footsteps.”
“I didn’t follow. I trudged over his footsteps and left bigger marks.”
He raises his brows at me, and I force a smile that has no hope of looking good-natured and softening my harsh tone of voice.
“Should I change the subject?” he asks.
I massage the back of my neck and look at him. “Depends. Did I satiate your curiosity?”
He snorts a laugh and studies me for a moment. “Are you famous?”
“Possibly recognized in certain circles.”
He keeps eyeing me, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Should I know who you are?”
“Do you watch tennis?” I counter.
“Exclusively never,” he says.
“News about tennis?”
“Not unless I’m forced at gunpoint. Or bribed. I think bribes would work wonders on me.”
I laugh out loud, and he gives me a self-deprecating smile in return.
He tilts his head. “Are you good?”
“I used to be.”
He must be sensing my reluctance to discuss that topic, because he doesn’t press any further.
“Are you from New York originally?” he asks.
I nod.
“Me too,” he says. “I grew up in Prospect Heights. You?”
“My parents had a place in the Upper East Side.”
“Old money?” he asks teasingly.
“The oldest,” I say with the same joking tone.
“You do have that classy vibe about you.” He shakes his head, putting on a grim look. “This does not bode well for our relationship.”
I can’t help it when the grin on my face widens. “I’ve got a classy vibe? Did you get high sometime in the last ten minutes? Look at me.”
I gesture at my body, ratty jeans, stained shirt, and all. I’m pretty sure no sane person would agree with him on that.
“It’s the lack of fucks given. It’s usually a dead giveaway.”
“Of class?”
He nods. I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t.
“Thank you?” I say. “I’m not sure your logic applies, though. I’d wager most people would consider lack of fucks given as something veering toward rude.”
“It’s the degree of the lack of fucks given that matters. Yours is subtle. There’s also the manners, the good vocabulary, the perfect posture—little things like those. I recognize it. My brother-in-law has it, too.”
“My mother will be delighted to hear all her hard work has paid off.”
He laughs and starts to walk again.
“Aside from being an extremely competent person with no discernible sense of direction, what do you do?” I ask when I catch up to him.
He groans. “Don’t ask me that. You just told me you’re an athlete, and I have a legitimately boring job.”
“Which is?”
He makes a face. “I design kitchens.”
I don’t know what I expected, but that’s nowhere near as dramatically bad as Jordan’s tone implied.
“That doesn’t sound boring. It sounds creative.”
“I was hoping you’d drop it after hearing that.
The fact that you didn’t is disappointing and it’s also going to be embarrassing.
I might’ve exaggerated by a lot when I said I design kitchens.
It’s more that people come to me with the measurements of their wall, and I show them what sizes and styles of cabinets we have available, and then use the design program to put those cabinets in the order the client wants them. No custom solutions.”
I nod. “I’m going to take a swing and say that based on your tone, this isn’t your dream career?”
“No. This is just something I sort of fell into by necessity.”
We stop at the door of the art supply store, and Jordan takes a contemplative look at the large window display.
I get the feeling there are things he leaves unsaid, but I also don’t think it’s my place to dig if he doesn’t want to divulge every last detail of his personal life to somebody he only just met.
He pulls the door open and motions for me to go inside.
I look around from the doorway. There’s a woman behind the counter, but she’s in deep conversation with a customer, and there are three more waiting in line, so I turn to Jordan instead.
“We’re here. What’s that solution you promised me?”
“Hold on a sec.” He pulls out his phone. I hear on the dial tone for a bit and then Jordan frowns. “Where’s Wren?”
“It’s so nice when people greet me like that,” somebody says dryly.
Jordan turns so we can both see the screen.
“Milàn, this is Sutton. Sutton, Milàn,” he says.
There’s a guy on the screen. A guy with dirty blond hair, dark brown eyes, and the kind of expression I can only describe as haughty.
“Cool,” he says. “Hey, Jordan? Who’s Milàn, and why is he on my phone?”
In order for us both to see the screen, I’m standing as close to Jordan as possible. I’ve always been an avid proponent of personal space, but right now, I find I don’t mind sharing. Not in the least. In fact, he can have a standing invitation.
“His brother goes to the same school as Theo.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawns on Sutton’s face. Clearly, word has spread.
“I need Wren. Where is he?” Jordan says.
“He’s taking a shower, but I’m here.”
“We need help with buying art supplies,” Jordan says. “So go ahead. Give us your input.”
“You’re taking up a new hobby?” Sutton asks.