Jordan #2
“Yeah. His year is almost up. That’s what we agreed.
He’ll help until I’m done with my fellowship, and then he’s free to go back to his life.
He wasn’t really that happy to put everything on hold, so I kind of guilted him into this.
” He traps the left side of his lower lip between his teeth for a second before he shakes his head and frowns.
“To be honest, he’s been taking the whole thing in stride lately.
He’s been… happy. I think that might have something to do with you.
Rory’s happy, too. I think. Honestly, it’s hard to say sometimes. ”
I can barely hear him by now. The bubble has popped and the happiness floods out of me until there’s nothing left but cold, harsh reality.
I almost laugh.
Fool me once.
I’ve been here before.
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
Now I do laugh. A short, mirthless snort. I shake my head and clutch the back of my neck.
What is it about me?
What exactly is it about me that goes so fundamentally against staying?
“That’s great,” I say belatedly.
I take a deep breath, clench my jaw, and square my shoulders. I will fucking do my crying in the rain.
Lesson learned, a-ha.
Either I do at least a passable job at faking it or Aiden is still too drunk to notice that the only thing holding me upright is my stubborn pride.
You can handle this. You did it once. You can do it again.
It doesn’t feel like it right now. This wound is fresh. It’s bleeding and new and not the faint scar from more than a decade ago, and what the fuck was I thinking putting myself in this situation again?
“My ass is freezing,” Aiden says. “We should get back inside.”
I manage a nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “Umm. You go. I… I have to make a quick call. Check on the boys.”
He gets up and claps me on the shoulder.
The door falls shut behind him, and I try to breathe, but something is squeezing my throat.
Go back inside.
Be normal.
Hold your head up high.
You can do it.
No amount of pep talking I give myself seems to cut through the numbness. Once again, I tell myself to get up. Go inside. Fake it.
I can’t make myself.
I replay our conversations and try to find something to reassure me. Any hint that I’m not the only one that wants more.
Because I thought we were building something.
Then again, neither of us has said anything out loud. We haven’t talked about a future or called it a relationship. I sometimes thought about bringing it up. Vaguely. But I always dismissed the idea because I was happy. I figured he was all in. I never asked.
This is what assuming gets me. My ass on cold concrete. Numb. Feeling like an idiot. Because while I was in a relationship, he was… doing me a favor, I guess?
Try anything with me. Explore. This will be between you and me. Those were his words. He never made me any promises. I’m the idiot here.
I close my eyes and exhale.
I’m the idiot.
And I need to get my shit together, because whatever happens, this isn’t just about me. I’m not a teenager. I can’t hide away from my problems or burn bridges.
So I square my shoulders and get up. I force down everything I’m feeling, lock it away. I’ll deal with it later.
I will fucking do my fucking crying in the fucking rain.
The cacophony of music and voices and the stuffy air is too much the moment I step through the door.
I’m grateful. It allows me to concentrate on the grating feeling of sensory discomfort instead of the emotional turmoil.
I give myself another moment and really concentrate on how much none of this is for me right now.
The too-loud music. The sweaty bodies. The smell of alcohol.
I didn’t mind before, but I hate it now. All of it.
“Hey,” Milán says once I make it back to our table. “You were gone a long time.”
The worst thing is that he looks relieved, and the part of me that wants to matter to him so much stirs, because, oh, he cares!
I might do my crying in the rain, but I will panic in full view of everybody.
I stare at him, and I try—God do I try—to behave like everything is fine. Somewhere inside me, I know I should take a moment and think about what I just learned calmly.
I can’t seem to, though. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.
Instead, I spin on my heel and make my way to the door.
“Jordy.” I hear Milán’s voice behind me, but I can’t stop. I need to get out of here. I need some fresh air and some distance.
“Jordan!”
I push the door open, and then I’m outside. Fresh air hits me in the face for the second time in the last little while, and I lean forward for a bit and gulp it in before I straighten myself up and turn around, just in time to see Milán barrel through the door.
He stares at me, eyes darting, squinting, scanning for clues.
He hesitates, brows furrowed, a look on his face like his brain has just hit a speedbump.
“Umm,” he says. “What just happened?”
I try to breathe. I tell myself to be calm, discuss this rationally.
“You’re leaving?” I say, too loudly. People stop and stare. Somebody slams into me.
Milán grabs my arm and tugs me out of the way.
I step back against the wall and glare at him.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Aiden told me about your deal. Here for a year and then you’re free to go.” I hold my breath while I wait. Mentally begging and pleading that he’ll tell me that was a misunderstanding. “You didn’t figure that was something you could’ve told me?”
He has the fucking balls to roll his eyes. “First of all, Aiden is drunk. Secondly, we haven’t talked about this since that first day in Gerard’s house.”
That might be true, but it goes in one ear and out the other because it’s not fucking important at all right now. Not now, when my heart is racing like crazy, and I can’t figure out how to stop feeling so much.
“Oh my fucking God,” I snap. “Yeah, that’s what’s important right now. Drunk brain and loose lips. Was he supposed to hide it? When were you going to tell me?”
He shakes his head slowly. “There was nothing to tell. At least not yet. Look, I don’t—”
“That’s good to know. Great. I get it. I don’t matter enough for you to tell me your plans. Cool. So the idea was to just head out when you felt like it, and I bet someone would have mentioned it to me, too, eventually. Awesome plan. I see no faults in it whatsoever!”
I’m freaking out. It’s a wave that crashes over me, and I have no way to stop it. I can feel the icy claws of fear closing around my throat, the roots of despair digging themselves inside, pushing out any logical thought or understanding there might’ve been.
None of this over-the-top reaction is on Milán. None of it should be. It’s me. I’m the problem. Somewhere deep inside, I know it, but right now that knowing is coated in a sticky layer of panic so thick I can’t see a way out.
Milán grips my forearms and looks me straight in the eye.
“It was last summer when I had this conversation with Aiden. A lifetime ago. I haven’t thought about it in forever.”
I still can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. “You should’ve told me!”
“Okay,” he says placatingly. “Yes, I should have.”
He doesn’t say he’s changed his mind. He doesn’t say that it’s not in the cards anymore. He doesn’t say things are different now. He doesn’t say any of it.
“When are you supposed to leave?”
“I’m not. I haven’t made any plans.”
“Sure. Not yet, right? So we can have some more fun. That’s good. Considerate.”
“Jordan.”
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. So much for fucking crying in the fucking rain. The temptation to do something incredibly stupid is there.
Tell him.
Those three words are right there, on the tip of my tongue. The three words I’ve been secretly carrying around inside me. So secretly I’ve been refusing to admit them even to myself.
Beg, borrow, and steal to keep him.
And then what?
Because saying those words to him and then watching him leave anyway? That would require a level of masochism I do not possess. And what would even be the point?
If I tell him and he leaves, it’s history repeating itself. Once again I’ll be the one left behind. Once again just being with me isn’t enough. The life I have to offer isn’t enough. I’m not enough.
We stare at each other.
What now?
End it? Make it at least a little more bearable by not dragging this out until the moment he walks away? Make it so I won’t have to watch him go and once again be the one who gets left behind?
Accept that I might’ve once again jumped the gun and started imagining the kind of future that simply doesn’t fit Milán’s plans?
That maybe I wanted soccer practices and walking down the street together, simple dates and falling asleep with him pressed up against me, playful kisses and arguing about dinner and camping trips.
And he wanted kite surfing in Argentina and hanging out on yachts and sleeping on a different continent every few weeks.
And maybe our lives were never going to fit, and I was just fooling myself into believing they might.
And I still can’t fucking breathe.
He presses himself against me. Takes my face in his hands. “Jordy, listen to me. Please. I don’t have any plans to leave.”
I’m already shaking my head. “You don’t have any plans right now! I can’t do it again. I can’t—I don’t want to!”
I’ve fully stopped making sense. With Kira, I at least had some pride left. Now there’s none. I can’t even pretend to hold my head high. All of me is a mess. An ugly, desperate mess, and I should stop and scrape together the remnants of my dignity that are scattered on the ground, but…
“I can’t watch you leave,” I choke out.
I’m saying too much. Showing too much.
Milán’s eyes are filled with nothing but worry by now.
“Jordy,” he says, “baby, listen to me. Whatever I was talking about with Aiden back then, it was just that. Back then. It was before. I’m not desperately looking for plane tickets out of here.”
It should be reassuring.
I dismiss any sense of relief his words might give me almost immediately.