Jordan
I stumble into the kitchen after yet another sleepless night, and blindly make my way toward the coffee machine, yawning and rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.
I grab a cup from the shelf and then stare into the distance while I try to remember why I needed the cup in the first place. My brain has been marinating in confusion for days, running in circles, trying to find answers to questions I don’t have the guts to ask.
Because what the fuck? What the hell was that? What even happened? And what does it mean?
Why was there a moment when I was pressed up against that tree with Milán in front of me—a brief, significant, weighted flash of a moment—when I wished the kiss was real?
I had no business having those thoughts.
Do I like Milán? Yes. A lot. He’s interesting and fun, and somehow, even if we’ve lived two very different lives, we effortlessly click.
Yes, I like him. More than most people in my life.
That new friendship that’s developed between the two of us?
It’s something sacred. I treasure it. I can’t wait to see him.
Talk to him. His friendship is priceless. Invaluable.
So why the fuck has my brain decided to ruin it for me?
Because friends don’t have the thoughts I have.
A friend wouldn’t lie in bed at night and do their very best to fight off images of sliding their fingers through his hair.
Leaning forward. So close. Erasing the distance between our lips.
Kissing him for real. I want to know what it would feel like.
The curiosity is keeping me up at night, making me toss and turn and scream into the pillow from helpless frustration because I’m not sure if I want the images to stop or if I want them to continue torturing me, feeding me ideas of what could be.
My imagination runs wild in those dark hours.
My palms skating over hot skin.
Breaths hitching.
Hungry kisses.
Soft moans.
My fingers fisting the sheets.
I’m hot and bothered all night through, ignoring my total and frustrating lack of competence, because what the hell do I really know about sex anyway?
I’ve had it, yeah. But the sex I had was the kind of sex I have in my head.
It was the rushed, fumbling exploration of two teenagers at first, and then the messy, complicated moments between two people who didn’t know what they wanted but were beginning to figure out it wasn’t the same thing.
Moments of trying to reconnect through our bodies but never quite succeeding.
Then, after, random dates, sex after the third one.
Good, but always with the slight, nagging feeling that something was missing.
That there should be something more. Some kind of hidden switch everybody else has managed to locate but me.
Late-night thoughts that disappear during the day, but every now and then come out to play when you’re sleepless and staring at the ceiling.
Now my fingertips are buzzing. Now, I’m sure there’s something there. Like I’m about to figure something out. A nagging sense. A hunch of sorts.
There’s something there.
That’s fucking stupid. I’m making things up in my head. Maybe my life has become so mundane and I’m so stuck in my routine that I’m inventing excitement.
Only I’m not unhappy with my life. I like my life. I’m not searching for an escape hatch. I’m not desperate for something different. More.
So… that excitement, the rapid heartbeat, the air getting thick in my lungs, the feverish rush of my blood… Does that mean it was real?
But then if it was real, what—or rather who—made it real? Was it Milán? Or am I just so starved for intimacy that anybody could’ve gotten that reaction out of me?
It’s possible. I haven’t been on a date in close to a year. Haven’t had sex in longer.
I close my eyes, lean on the counter in front of me and let my head drop forward. That’s it, right? Took you long enough to figure it out. Fucking go get laid, Jordan.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Milán’s face swims in my mind. The cocky grin. The way he moves his body. There’s an almost lazy quality to it, but it’s obvious that beneath that, he’s alert. His eyes. His shoulders. His forearms. His lips.
He haunts me.
I blink and jerk, snapping out of it.
Heart beating too loudly again.
What the fuck am I doing?
It’s high time I put all this to rest. Only I don’t know how. It’s something unsolved, and I can’t seem to let it go, not for days and days on end by now.
I stare at the ceiling and try to still my thoughts, but it’s not happening. It doesn’t help that I’m off work today. I was hoping I could cover for somebody, but nobody took me up on it, so it’s just me and my thoughts.
I need help, only, who am I going to ask? There’s nobody I’d feel comfortable discussing this with. My family? That would make things really uncomfortable.
The only one who wouldn’t bat an eye at whatever I threw at him is Milán. That’ll be a conversation. Hey, Milán? I might have something like a crush on you. Or I’m just desperate to get laid. One or the other. Thoughts?
I blink. Is that what’s happening? I’ve developed a crush on Milán?
No.
That’s…
I swallow hard.
That’s not it. It can’t be. I’m not… I’ve never…
My thoughts come to a screeching halt when the front door bangs shut and then Theo barrels into the kitchen with Dog on his heels, both bright-eyed and full of energy from their walk.
“Morning,” Theo says, cheerful and well-rested. He drops his backpack in the corner and head straight for the box of cereal I put out on the counter last night.
He hums while he pours himself a big bowl.
“Cutting it close,” I tell him.
“We saw a squirrel,” he says, like that explains everything.
His mouth is already full of cereal, even though he’s still holding the milk carton.
He swallows, and I bite back a smile when he wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
There are these moments when I’m reminded that Theo is still a kid, and I love them.
The pace at which he’s growing up scares me.
The approaching reality of not being needed anymore?
I can’t imagine how I’ll ever come to terms with it.
I hand him a napkin, and he smiles bashfully as he takes it and wipes his mouth, even though everything worth wiping has already ended up on the sleeve of his blazer.
“I have chess after school,” he says.
I grab his spoon and take a bite of his cereal. I’m still chewing when I nod and point the spoon at the wall. “I know; it’s on the calendar. I’ll bring your gear and meet you at practice so you can head straight there from school?”
He takes the spoon back, picks up his bowl, and starts to shovel the cereal straight into his mouth.
I sigh, but he ignores me. The rest of the cereal is gone in an impressive two point five seconds.
“I’m late,” he says. The spoon clatters on the table.
“You better put those feet to work, then.”
“You could drive me?” he asks hopefully.
“I could, but then how will you learn responsibility?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but there’s a small smile in the corner of his lips. He gets up, grabs his backpack, and makes it halfway out the door before he turns back, jogs to me, gives me a quick hug, and runs out again.
“Bye,” I call after him.
“Bye!” he shouts back, followed by the slam of the door.
Then it’s just me and my thoughts again.
By the time I leave for soccer practice, I’m already late.
I accidentally conked out on the bed, woke up with a start, saw the time, and barely had time to throw on a hoodie before I was out the door.
I have to turn back on the street corner when I remember I’m supposed to bring Theo’s gear.
After that unexpected pit stop, I make a mad dash toward the stadium, where I’m greeted by Milán, who’s standing next to a harried-looking Theo.
“Dad!” he says when he sees me. “You’re late.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, kiddo.”
“That earlier lecture was so out of place,” he announces before he grabs the backpack and runs toward the locker rooms. I lean against the wall, put my hands on my knees, and try to catch my breath. When I finally look up, I find Milán looking at me with raised brows.
“I fell asleep,” I say.
He tilts his head to the side.
“It’s been a long day,” I mutter.
He reaches out, and I jerk violently when his hand comes a hairsbreadth away from my cheek. He sends me a weird look, picks something out of my hair, then holds it up to show me a feather.
I rub my face and flick the feather away. He grins and has the audacity to look… fine. Just entirely normal. The way people look when they don’t have a sudden urge to find out what someone else’s lips taste like.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re a mess. Is this you trying to make me feel better because usually I’m the disaster?”
“You’re not that bad. Ignore me. I’ve been like this the whole day.”
He eyes me some more. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod and gesture toward the stadium. “Let’s just go inside.”
By the time we make it to our regular seats, practice is in full swing.
I stare at the field, determined to concentrate on the game.
That lasts until Milán sits down next to me.
I honestly don’t know why he has to sit like this.
There’s no normal sitting with him. No, he sprawls.
He reclines. Spreads his body out like he’s a king sitting on his throne, observing us mere mortals.
His shoulder is pressed to my shoulder. His thigh falls against mine. My whole body tenses, and I keep myself still by sheer force of will that stems from the fact I don’t want him to know just how much of a mess I am right now.
There’s a point where I stop breathing.
What the fuck am I doing?
When something warm comes into contact with the back of my neck, I almost fall off my seat.
Milán lifts both his hands up in front of himself, eyes widening. “God, you’re jumpy today.”