Chapter 40 Jordan
JORDAN
An hour later, we’re back home with pizza, chicken wings, salad, four types of ice cream, and Doritos. My mom’s old record player is hooked up to Tate’s stereo system, pumping out low tones of seventies rock.
Something occurs to me, and I frown and pull out my phone.
Sorry to interrupt your date—I type before deleting it. Does Bea have any allergies? I text.
He probably won’t respond. He’s probably gazing into his date’s eyes, laughing about something just absolutely fucking hilarious. I’m picturing Miss Honey from Matilda, with a sweet, demure smile and lovely blond hair you can’t get from a bottle.
No allergies, he responds immediately. Good thinking, though.
My fingers linger over my phone with the urge to respond, but instead, I lock my phone and slip it back into my pocket.
“What’s this band called again?” Bea asks through a mouthful of pizza.
“Fleetwood Mac. The singer’s name is Stevie Nicks. This is arguably one of the best albums of all time.”
Rumours. One of my mom’s favorites. While we sit here at the kitchen counter in Tate’s beautiful home, eating pizza and listening to music, I’m fending off memories of doing the same with my mom twenty years ago like I’m at war.
God, I miss her sometimes. I try not to think about her because I miss her so much.
“You know what? Maybe I’ll turn it off—” I start, but Bea jumps up.
“No!” Her eyes go wide. “I’m listening. Please? I won’t talk.”
“No, you can talk.” I shake my head. I’m fucking this all up. “Sorry. You’re being awesome, Bea. I’m being weird.”
“It’s okay.” She takes another bite of pizza. “You can be weird.”
After Rumours, we put on My Generation by The Who. Then The Wall by Pink Floyd. Then Dreamboat Annie by Heart.
“This lady has a good voice,” Bea remarks at one point.
We’re lying on the couches in the living room, empty ice cream bowls on the coffee table and a half-eaten bowl of chips between them.
Bea’s got her feet up on the arm of the couch, tapping her feet to the beat of the music and singing along even though she doesn’t know the words.
“She does,” I agree. “She’s amazing.”
She lifts her head to look at me. “Sorry if I ruined your Friday night.”
That pop can that my heart crumpled into earlier, kicking around somewhere near my feet? It’s flattened.
I sit up. “Is that what you think? No, Bea.” I gesture around at us. “This is what I’d be doing anyway. But, you know. In the guesthouse.” I give her the biggest smile I can muster. “I promise.”
“Why are you smiling like that?”
I laugh. “I’m trying to show you I’m having fun.”
She grins, looking so much like her dad. “You’re weird.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“How do you make friends?”
“Um.” I blanch, scrambling. How do I make friends? I don’t. The people in my life have elbowed their way into it regardless of whether I wanted them there or not.
That’s kind of sad, isn’t it? Not really something I should be telling a nine-year-old.
“Why does your face look like that?” Bea asks, worry creasing her expression. “You don’t think I can make friends?”
“No, it’s not that.” I clear my expression. “I was just thinking and putting my words together.”
“Oh. I need to do that sometimes.”
“Yeah.” This kid is so cute. Kids are supposed to be sticky, bratty, and annoying, but Bea is funny and sweet. “My mom was really good at making friends. And my friend Georgia. They’re both really outgoing.”
Bea nods with understanding. “My mom’s like that, too.”
Again, my curiosity about the mysterious Holly burns in my chest. Another way I’m not Tate’s type.
“Someone like that would say to be yourself.”
“When I try to be myself, kids make fun of me.”
Rage. Red-hot rage. I have the overwhelming need to break into Bea’s school and smash all the glass.
“Some older kids at school called me a nerd because I was reading at lunch.”
I’m just going to burn the school down. I’ll go after Tate gets home, when the building will be empty.
“Are you okay?” Bea asks.
“Yes.” I blink. “Fine.”
“You aren’t breathing.”
“Yes, I am. See?” I take a deep breath through my nose. “Okay, Bea? Those kids have loser energy.”
“What’s loser energy?”
“It’s when you make fun of people for liking something. It’s sad and comes off as insecure.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay to read at lunch. It’s okay to enjoy books. Those kids probably have other issues and they’re taking out their frustration on the cool kid.”
Bea gives me a shy smile. “I’m not the cool kid.”
“You like Fleetwood Mac. You are definitely cool.”
She’s trying not to smile too hard and it’s killing me.
“You’ll find friends,” I assure her. “That’s how life works, you find people who have similar interests and then you talk about the things you like and then become friends.
And you develop memories and private jokes and they learn what your facial expressions mean and it’s the best. Have you met Dr. Georgia with the team? Big red hair and big smile?”
She nods. “She’s nice.”
“She’s my best friend. We met in school and became roommates and best friends, but we didn’t meet until I was eighteen. It takes time to find your people, but they are out there. Keep doing things you love, like reading at lunch.”
Bea does that raising her eyebrow, tilting her head thing that reminds me of Tate.
“And don’t waste your time with people who don’t think you’re awesome. Fuck ’em.”
“Fuck ’em,” Bea repeats, and my eyes go wide.
“No, no, no. Don’t repeat that. I didn’t say that.” She’s giggling. “Oh god. Okay. Don’t need them. Repeat that instead.”
Her smile is impish, like this nine-year-old sees right through me. “Don’t need them.”
“You’ll find your people. I already think you’re awesome.”
“You do?”
“You like Fleetwood Mac.” I repeat it like, duh. “So awesome.”
“So awesome.” Her smile is ear to ear.
“Jordan?” she asks later.
She’s lying on the other couch, already in her jammies with her teeth brushed, the cat curled up against her legs.
“Mmm?”
We’re down here listening to music because she didn’t want to go to bed and I didn’t know what to do.
“Do you think playing guitar is cool?”
I pause. “Is that something you’re interested in?”
“Yeah. I want to learn how to play one of these songs.”
“Then, yeah, I think it’s cool.”
The next time I look over, her eyes are closed and she’s breathing softly. I turn the music off, dim the lights, and return to the other couch.
My thoughts go to Tate on his hot date. They’re probably making out in the front seat of his car like horny teenagers.
Oh god. What if he brings her home?
On the other couch, Bea moves in her sleep. I lift my head, studying her. Is she cold? She looks cold.
On my way to her room, I try very hard not to look into what’s probably Tate’s room, from the big king-sized bed I can see out of the corner of my eye.
Returning down the hall with Bea’s duvet, I’m weak.
I’m thinking about him on his date and my dumb little crush, so I pause in the doorway and look my fill.
It’s a nice bedroom. Tidy. Masculine, with a big bed where he sleeps at night, maybe naked. Those must be the windows he pointed at weeks ago that overlook my guesthouse.
I step forward. I shouldn’t be in here, but there’s a dangerous little thrill running through me at being somewhere so personal to him. His closet is neatly organized, a dozen suits hanging and two dozen jerseys of various colors across from them. I frown at them.
Right. Sometimes I forget Tate was a hockey player. Still is, from the way he demonstrates plays and maneuvers during practice with ease, strength, and skill.
I should leave. I shouldn’t be in here.
I’m halfway through the door when something hanging out of his bedside table drawer yanks on my attention.
Something pink and lacy.
My panties. My pulse skips and restarts. I slide the drawer open, and I don’t know what’s consuming my thoughts more, that my underwear is in Tate’s bedside table or that there’s a bottle of lotion beside them.
Lotion that he probably jerks off with.
Did he jerk off while touching my underwear?
Did he think about me?
Was he going to keep these?
The sound of an approaching car comes from outside, and I fly down the stairs, depositing the duvet on Bea and flopping down onto the other couch, heart racing.