Milán #2
He straightens up and turns around before I have time to wipe the appreciative smile off my face.
“What?” He pushes a stray lock of hair off his forehead.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I’ve just always found it relaxing watching people work.”
I don’t know if I’ve ever watched anybody cook before, but as far as excuses go, this one will do.
He waggles his brows. “Settle in. The show’s about to start.”
I bite back all the dirty retorts and double entendres that rush through my brain at that. It’s good he’s not a mind reader, is all I’m going to say about that.
“Broccolini slaw as a side. I’ll prep the enchiladas if you do the salad?” Jordan says.
“Sure. Just tell me what to do in the kind of small words you’d use for a person who usually relies on takeout.”
He smiles, pushes all the necessary ingredients over in front of me on the island, and says, “Dice.”
I salute him, then get to work.
For a while we’re both silent, each doing our own thing, which in Jordan’s case means moving around the kitchen and doing a lot of things at once, and in my case means dicing vegetables and occasionally ruminating on the fact that it’s a miracle I haven’t chopped any of my fingers off with the way my eyes keep wandering to Jordan over and over again.
When I have all the vegetables cut, Jordan hands me the dressing he made. I pour it over the salad and give it a stir, then put the bowl in the fridge before I settle in on one of the barstools at the island.
Jordan has put a skillet on the stove with his own array of chopped vegetables, and in the other pan, he’s heating the tortillas in olive oil.
I lean my chin on my hand and watch.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask as he deftly tosses the vegetables around the pan.
“I don’t think anybody ever specifically taught me. When my parents were in the kitchen, I was in the kitchen too, and, well, what’s the point of just letting me sit idly?”
“Child labor. I approve.”
He laughs softly.
“Do you have a signature dish?” I ask.
He throws me an amused look. “I’m not a chef.”
“Yeah, but I’m betting there’s something you’re really good at making.”
He takes a moment to think about it. “Empanadas, probably?”
“I will be your humble servant if you make some for me sometime,” I say solemnly.
He laughs again. “A fan?”
“I went kitesurfing in Cuesta del Viento a few years ago. There was a roadside stand selling empanadas. Hands down the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
He looks up from where he’s rolling the filling into the tortillas. “You’ve been to Argentina?”
“Once. I bet you’ve been a lot of times?”
He shakes his head. “Twice when I was still just a kid. I don’t remember too much of it. We went once to visit my grandmother, and then the second time was when we went to her funeral. I’ve always wanted to visit as a grown-up, though.”
“Why don’t you?”
He throws a piece of carrot into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I’m stuck in my ways, I suppose? And I’ve never really traveled, so there’s also the feeling that I wouldn’t really know how to go about it, and then I’ll inevitably end up just staying put.”
“But you’d like to go?”
He nods.
I straighten my back.
“I’ll go with you, then. I’ve been all over, so I know exactly how to go about it. I’ll be your travel guru.”
I don’t think he fully believes me, but even so, he perks up.
“Yeah?” he says, but then skepticism overtakes the excitement. “Sure.” I’m pretty sure he suppresses an eye roll. “Let’s.”
“I’m serious.” I lean forward. “We’ll do it. You and me. Whenever you’re ready.”
He still doesn’t believe me, but I let it go for now. Actions speak louder than words.
“You’ve traveled a lot?” he asks, then shakes his head and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “A professional tennis player. You’ve probably been everywhere.”
“Sure. It’s been…”
I’m halfway prepared to launch into my usual prepared remarks about being blessed and throw in some highlights about the most memorable moments, but suddenly, I can’t seem to think of any.
I’ve been to places. I’ve seen things.
There’s no shine on it.
When I used to play it was all about tennis. I had a goal in mind, and I approached it with cold calculation. There was never much time to appreciate the surroundings, and my mind was occupied anyway.
Since I retired, I’ve been jumping around from country to country and city to city with all the time in the world on my hands and the freedom to do whatever I want.
I’ve been whitewater rafting in Chile and surfing in Tahiti.
I’ve been scuba diving in Australia, skydiving in New Zealand, and skiing in France.
My mountain bike is still somewhere in Italy, in the spare room of a friend of a friend of a friend.
I’ve spent the last few years chasing an adrenaline rush that never seems to fulfill me.
I blink at the thought and clench my jaw.
That’s not true though, is it?
No.
No, it’s not.
My life is fucking great. Or at least it was a few months ago. Whatever this here is? It’s a detour that’ll end sooner rather than later, and then I can finally get my freedom back.
Because this?
This isn’t me.
“It’s great,” I say. “I love traveling. Staying in one place for too long makes me anxious.”
Jordan tilts his head to the side and studies me, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that he sees more than I necessarily want to show. But he just sends me a small smile, takes the pan, and slides it into the oven. Then he turns around and leans on the top of the kitchen island.
“Done. Now all we have to do is wait. It’s still warm enough outside. Want to go sit on the patio?”
“Yes.” I’m thankful about the change of topic and relieved that I don’t have to ponder the state of my life and the choices I’ve been making.
He grabs two bottles of beer from the fridge and hands me one, then he pushes the sliding door fully open, and we step outside. The sun is setting already, and the air is cool but not cold.
We settle in on the dark brown wicker chairs, and Jordan kicks his feet up on the one opposite him.
“You have a backyard in the middle of New York City,” I say.
“Backyard is generous.” Jordan takes a sip of his beer and looks around. “It’s a bit of a mess. No one’s done anything with it in years.”
“I like the wild look.”
“That’s a nice way to say ‘in serious need of maintenance.’ From time to time the neighbors complain that we’re making the neighborhood look bad.”
“You give the neighborhood character.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling them. Although I’m not doing it to be nice like you. I’m just too lazy to do anything about the mess and need an excuse.”
I laugh and settle in better in my chair. “So landscaping isn’t your thing, then.”
“No. I’ve never quite managed to be one of those suburban dads who get really into taking care of their lawn and having a lot of very specific gardening tools in the shed to show off.”
“What is your thing?”
He takes a slow sip of his beer, leans his head back for a moment, and breathes in deeply before he looks at me.
“I like simple stuff. Good food. Good company. Family.”
“Is family simple?” I ask.
“Not always. But it can be.” He sends me a small smile. “Sounds boring, I imagine.”
My brow furrows when I look at him. “No. Why do you say that?”
His eyes move up and down me in slow perusal. My skin tingles with awareness of that look, even if the intent behind it is purely platonic.
“I don’t know if anybody’s ever told you this,” he finally says, “but you’re kind of cool.”
“Meaning? Does that make me incapable of appreciating the simple things?” I ask teasingly.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m making assumptions based on nothing.” He shakes his head. “My point is that I’m not much of an adrenaline junkie. I like the stability of my life, and you don’t usually hear people praise the joy of having a set routine, is all.”
It’s not something you’re into.
He doesn’t say it, but it’s heavily implied.
I don’t know exactly how it makes me feel, because he has every right to think that. I’ve pretty much said so myself.
Something about it bothers me, though, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
Jordan’s phone vibrates on the table in front of him. He picks it up and a frowns at whatever he reads on the screen.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he’s still frowning at the screen.
He looks up at me and puts the phone down.
“Oh. Yeah. Just Kira figuring out her birthday present for Theo. It’s a seasonal thing to argue about gifts. There’s Theo’s birthday, followed by Christmas, so it takes a bit of effort to get to a point where we agree on what is a suitable gift for a thirteen-year-old and what’s not.”
“What’s in the not column? Just for future reference.”
“Strippers,” he deadpans.
“The mother of your kid is planning to get him strippers for his birthday?”
“To complement the selection of tequila she’s also getting him.”
I shake my head. “Come on. That’s just bad parenting. Even I know it goes: beer at twelve, a motorcycle without a helmet at thirteen, weed at fourteen, and strippers at fifteen.”
Jordan leans his head back and chuckles softly. His eyes remain on the darkening sky above us for a moment before he turns to look at me.
“She works in tech, and she’s very well off. And she doesn’t get to see Theo as often as she’d like. She feels guilty about that, but also about not being here while Theo was growing up.” He sighs. “Which means she’s trying to compensate for it. With money.”
“Ah.” This is somewhat familiar territory. I’ve been on the receiving end of some expensive guilt gifts in my day. “It’s not going to work, you know?”
He looks at me for the longest time.
“Am I that transparent?” he asks.
“I’m just putting my deduction skills to good use.”
He sends me a small smile and rubs the bridge of his nose, just between the eyebrows.