Jordan #2
Talk about an overreaction.
I lean forward and try to shake the comment off.
It clings to me.
“There’s one slice of pepperoni left and half a vegetarian pizza because nobody besides Aiden eats that. You can have the pepperoni because you’re a guest.”
My lips twitch.
“I’m fine with vegetarian. It’s my go-to order for pizza.”
“So you like winter, rain, and cold vegetables on your pizza.” He shakes his head. “It’s a good thing you’re hot.”
He grins at me and heat simmers in my lower belly, spreading everywhere in a soft wave.
Milán leads me to the living room, and we take a seat on his dark gray sectional.
The room is comfortable, and when Milán turns off the overhead lights and flicks on the lamp on one of the side tables, we’re bathed in a soft glow that almost feels like it’s encasing the two of us in our own bubble with how dark it is both outside and in the rest of the apartment.
We settle in, him in the middle with his feet perched on the coffee table and me in the corner.
A lot of our conversations have circled around difficult topics, but tonight, by some wordless agreement, we keep it light.
He tells me about all the places he’s traveled over the years, and I listen with rapt attention as he describes the feeling of playing in front of fifteen thousand people.
Funny stories from his time on the road.
How he once ripped his shorts in the middle of a game at the Australian Open.
A high five that went rogue when he played doubles once and resulted in a bloody nose.
He’s reserved at first when he talks about tennis, but once he gets going, the stories flow.
It’s a whole different life from mine. An exotic existence.
I laugh until my stomach hurts, getting lost in his voice and his presence. I wasn’t starstruck before, I don’t think.
I am now.
He’s somehow a tiny bit intimidating, but also comforting, because even though he’s had all these experiences and lived the kind of life most people can only dream of, he’s not arrogant or stuck up. Mostly he seems to be made of self-deprecating humor and realism.
I match his stories with tales of the life of an impossibly young single father. I’ve always felt a kind of absence in my life. There’s never been that one person who gets exactly what I’m going through. Who’s there for the good and the bad and everything in between. Somebody to laugh with.
Sitting here now, talking and laughing and remembering—it makes me forget some of that absence that’s always been there inside me.
I tell him about the way five-year-old Theo used to sneak snacks out of the kitchen in his pants, thinking he was being stealthy.
How he used to fall asleep at the dinner table after a long day, still holding a fork in his tiny hand.
And the time he decorated the neighbor’s cat with stickers and glue.
Peanut still hasn’t forgiven us for the humiliation of those shaved spots.
He listens, all his attention on me.
My voice eventually goes hoarse. It’s been a while since I’ve done this much talking. He’s turned so his upper body is facing me, his cheek resting on the back of the couch.
“Do you want more kids?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to contemplate the answer.
Truthfully, I haven’t thought about it that much.
I just somehow adopted the stance that Theo is it for me.
And even if he isn’t… I don’t actually know how good of a partner I would be.
Somewhere along the way I’ve skipped a lot of steps on the way to becoming a successful adult.
So far, I mostly feel out of my depth a lot.
My only saving grace is that I can hide it successfully.
Would I want to do it all over again?
The honest answer is that I’m not sure I would. Not even because it’s hard, so I wouldn’t want to do it the second time around, but because I don’t know if I have it in me to trust another person like that again. To trust somebody to stay. To choose us.
“Probably not.” There’s a pang of sadness in my chest I can’t quite explain, because it’s not like I’ve been actively dreaming about kids this whole time. And Theo and I are doing well as is. I’m happy with my life. “What about you?”
He glances into the hallway and smirks. “I’ve got my hands full right now with all the punching strangers and precinct visits.”
“Sometimes they do stupid stuff without thinking. The development of the prefrontal cortex is complete at age twenty-five, if I remember correctly, so at thirteen they’re not playing with a full deck of cards yet.”
“Really? Twenty-five? Because I’m pretty sure mine hasn’t stopped cooking yet. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”
“Maybe you’re just spontaneous,” I suggest.
“It’s nice when people find socially acceptable terms instead of calling me immature.”
He grins at me, and I smile back.
I like you.
I almost let out a snort of laughter. Talk about immature. It feels like something a first grader would say. But I do. I like him. He’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in years.
I turn myself, so I’m sitting right next to him and turn my head, too, leaning my cheek against the backrest, mirroring his position.
“What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a bit, eyes narrowing slightly.
I smile. “Are you trying to decide between options?”
“There are so many.”
“Okay, just tell me a random one, then. You don’t have to rank them.”
He thinks some more, then says, “I once jumped from one rooftop to another. They both had bars on them and the one I wasn’t in looked more fun.”
I stare for a moment. “A low roof, though, right? One of those that are almost on the ground.”
“Absolutely. It was as close to the ground as the roof of a fifteen-story building can be.”
“That has to be the winner.”
“It’s definitely up there.”
“There’s something you consider worse?”
“Not worse, per se. Some things are just difficult to compare. What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?”
I press my lips together as I try to figure out if I have anything even remotely comparable to bring to the table.
“I went out on my twenty-second birthday, got spectacularly drunk for the first time in my life, tried to dance on the bar, fell down immediately, and ended up spending the rest of the night at the ER, waiting for a doctor to deal with my dislocated elbow.”
He looks at me, lips twitching.
“You can laugh.” I roll my eyes.
He does. The smooth, low sound rolls through me. I’ve always been embarrassed about this story, but I don’t regret it all anymore because it made Milán laugh. Instead, there’s a sudden urge inside me to fall off more bars.
“I have a tattoo on my thigh,” he says. “It says ‘YOLO’ in a fancy font.”
I snort. “That one’s embarrassing.”
“You’d think, but it gets worse. The real embarrassing part is that I got it done in twenty seventeen, so it not only competes for the most embarrassing tattoo, it also has the dubious honor of being a tattoo that was outdated five years before I had it done.”
I laugh. It bubbles out of me. I laugh so hard at the sheepish expression on his face that there are tears in my eyes, and every time I try to stop, I meet his gaze, and I go off again.
When I finally manage to stop, he’s still smiling, eyes shining with laughter. I’m smiling, too. We look at each other, and neither of us says anything. Warmth spreads from the center of my chest through the rest of my body, through my limbs, to my fingers and toes.
He keeps looking at me, and the subtle warmth gets hotter.
My fingertips tingle. My mouth is strangely dry, and I don’t really understand why I feel so…
unsettled. My whole body feels like it’s been dunked into something foreign and unusual, and I’m not sure I like it, even though my brain is telling me I love being here.
“It’s getting late.” My voice is just a bit off.
He hums, and a devilish spark lights up his eyes as he arches his brow. “Do you have a curfew?”
I can’t not laugh again. “What if I do?”
He gives me a sly, wicked grin that promises trouble, even if I’m twenty-eight years old, and there’s not much here that could get me in trouble.
The adrenaline is there, though. My life is simple enough that it doesn’t take much, apparently, and none of this is real anyway.
There are no stakes. But a bolt of energy rushes through my veins, sharp and electric, and lighting everything in its wake on fire.
Excitement and caution collide in my stomach and swirl around in there until it’s impossible to tell them apart.
“You seem very proper,” he says. “Like you never get in trouble.”
“Do I?”
He nods. “Which is unfortunate. Because I usually really like getting people in trouble.”
I’m really not sure what we’re doing here or what this conversation even is. I’m starting to feel really out of my depth. “Oh yeah?”
Our gazes lock and hold, and slowly, bit by tiny bit, the teasing smile melts off Milán’s face until it’s replaced by some kind of intense look I understand even less.
It only lasts a moment before he blinks, and then he’s suddenly grinning again. He looks down, shakes his head, looks up again. Still smiling. There’s caution to the smile now, though. Almost like he’s caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.
“I’ve decided to behave,” he announces cheerfully, the switch in tone so sudden I get whiplash.
A startled chuckle escapes, my mouth opening and closing. “Well I, for one, am relieved,” I say jokingly. “Thank you for resisting the temptation of leading me astray. You’re a good man.”
I say it like it’s a joke, but I mean it. Sometimes it’s just easier to pretend to be flippant than admit you mean what you say.
“I have my moments, however few and far between they may be.”
I smile. He smiles.
It’s late.
But we keep talking.