Chapter 6
Shelley
Between attending classes and squeezing in medical appointments this semester, I almost forgot what it feels like to have fun.
I don’t know why I was so nervous about today.
Being with Jordan is easy. It’s one of the things I like best about him.
He has this welcoming energy that invites people to be authentic and have a good time when he’s around.
Of course he doesn’t bring up my little issue, because why would he? Instead, we ride to North Bay with the warm fries sitting on the center console between us, sharing lunch and talking about whatever random things cross our minds.
As we barrel down the highway, Jordan keeps his eyes on the road as he reaches over for the bag, but he misses by an inch and ends up grabbing my hand instead.
“Oh, sorry.” He pulls away quickly.
“No problem. I believe you were looking for this?” I hand him a fry.
As he eats it, I may or may not be watching his jaw work out of the corner of my eye, even after I turn to face forward again.
We make easy conversation and the time flies by.
Before I know it, we’re pulling into his apartment complex.
Jordan carries my bag and leads the way upstairs. But as soon as we step over the threshold into his apartment, the vibe changes because neither of us knows how we are supposed to act now that we’re alone together for the night.
“Uh, Mike’s old bed is still set up in his room for you. Jake won’t be moving the rest of his furniture here for a few days,” he tells me, handing me my suitcase with a stiff outstretched arm, like I’ve suddenly developed cooties and an extra head, and he doesn’t want to get too close.
“Oh. Okay. Great. Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence floats between us. If this were an old Western movie, a tumbleweed would roll by. Hello, awkward, my old friend, I was wondering when you’d show up today.
“I guess I’ll just…” I point down the hall and show myself to my brother’s almost-completely-empty room.
A few boxes, which I assume belong to Jake, are piled in the corner.
All of Mike’s clothes and other belongings have already been moved.
The biggest thing left in this room is the bed, still made up with my brother’s sheets and comforter, which thankfully, at least smell like he washed them recently.
I set my stuff down on the floor and sit on the edge of the mattress, already unsure what to do with myself.
I feel like I’m invading Jordan’s space, and it’s only now occurring to me that I don’t belong here.
Why didn’t I just book myself an extra night at the hotel?
I mean, sure, my credit cards are already full of doctor co-pay charges, school supplies, and food costs, but I could’ve made it work.
The invitation to stay here tonight wasn’t really Mike’s to offer.
I’m kicking myself for not realizing it sooner and allowing Mike to put Jordan in this position.
And me. My brother does that, though. He’s always trying to take care of people, and sometimes he oversteps.
I’m glad he finally has his life together, but it’s hard not to let my old feelings of resentment creep back in when these things happen.
It sure would’ve been nice to have that kind of brotherly love in my life back when I needed it, rather than now as an adult, when it feels overbearing.
The bedroom door is open, but Jordan still knocks on the frame when he approaches, holding up his phone in the other hand. Mike’s face looks back at me from the screen.
“Someone thought he needed to make sure I got you here safely,” Jordan explains.
Of course he did. Never mind the fact that I could’ve found my own way to an out-of-town wedding. I didn’t actually need Mike to get involved. It’s also a little annoying to feel like I’m just another item on his checklist, something else that needs to be managed this weekend.
I roll my eyes and plaster on an exaggerated smile. “Hi, Mikey. As you can see, your best man accomplished his task.” I gesture with one hand up and down my body to prove we arrived in one piece, but there’s a little bit more bite than necessary behind my response.
I blow out a breath.
I’m being too hard on my brother. It’s his wedding week.
Mike’s life was in complete shambles for so long back when he was using, and now he has a thing about making sure situations are under control and the people close to him are okay.
Is that really so bad? I know I should try harder to understand, and I am trying.
But, honestly, who does he think was managing everything with our little sisters back when Mom and Dad were dealing with his drama?
Hint: it was me. Over-achieving eldest daughter at your service, everyone.
Still, I love him, and I know he means well.
Mike’s oblivious to the conflicting feelings bubbling up in me as he says, “Hey, Shells. Glad you got there in one piece. Sorry I’m not around today. Thanks, Jordan. See you guys tomorrow.”
“Yep. Go do your baseball thing. We’ll be fine.” I wave goodbye to my brother while Jordan hangs up.
Then I stare up at Jordan, and he lets his eyes linger on my face a little longer than feels strictly necessary.
I can’t tell if his eyes are more brown or green, but there are flecks of gold in the hazel that make his irises look like caramel apples.
Warm, sweet, and inviting. His gaze travels down my body quickly, stopping briefly at my cleavage before it lands on the floor, which causes a confused little baby butterfly to try to take flight in my belly once again. Does he like what he sees?
“Want to play a game or something?” he asks, pocketing his phone and bringing his mesmerizing eyes back up to mine again.
“Sure. Do you have Scrabble?”
“Ha. No, but even if I did, I’m not going up against a law student in that one. What was it you said earlier about evening the playing field? We need to stick to games we both have an equal opportunity to win.”
I laugh. “Okay, well, barring a wing-eating contest between the two of us, what did you have in mind?”
“Cards Against Humanity?”
“You can’t play that with only two people.” I tisk.
He smirks at me. “Sure we can. Whoever makes the other person laugh hardest wins the round.”
I like that idea. “Oh, you’re so on.”
We sit at the kitchen island and play for over an hour. When the black card on the counter says Hey baby, come back to my place and I’ll show you [blank] Jordan puts down a card that reads a cooler full of organs.
“Just some friendly advice, maybe save those organs for a second or third date,” I tell him. “We ladies like to keep the mystery alive.”
“Noted.” A half-smile plays with his lips, and his shoulders shake with silent laughter. By the time we’ve run out of cards, we are both cackling so much my sides hurt. The awkward vibe from earlier is gone.
“I concede,” I tell him. “You win.”
“Yes! Victory is mine.” He shoots his fist into the air, those magic eyes shining brightly at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks, lowering his arm while he glances at the clock on the microwave.
“Of course.”
The humor seems to leave his face for the briefest millisecond, but it returns just as quickly. “Let me see what I’ve got. I’ll make us something.”
“But I promised to buy you dinner,” I argue.
“That won’t be necessary. The Blue Crab is the only place to go, and they’re closing an hour early every night this week to prep the food for the wedding. Besides, I have stuff here.”
Right. Small town. Limited options.
“You cook? I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, why? You don’t?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“What do you mean? You eat, don’t you?”
“Sure. I also have a mean trigger finger that can dial for delivery in seconds. Or I eat things that come fully prepared. Fruit, yogurt, lunch meat, cheese. I can put out some charcuterie like nobody’s business.”
He chuckles. “That counts. I love charcuterie.”
“Of course you do. Everyone loves it.” But that’s not exactly what I mean.
I tend to pick foods based on how many dishes they’ll require.
“Why dirty a bowl, a whisk, a pan, a plate, and a fork making myself some scrambled eggs when I can pop a bagel in the toaster and eat it over a paper towel? Then I only have to wash the knife I used to spread the cream cheese.”
“That just sounds efficient.” He shrugs.
“I think so. But if you’re looking for a woman who will feed you homemade chicken and dumplings or whatever, I’m not her.”
Thankfully, living in the city means I never have to cook. There’s always something available, and it usually tastes a lot better than my sad attempts at creating something edible in the kitchen. Although, all the take-out is not helping my credit card bills.
He looks at me for a long moment with an expression I can’t place before he says, “I actually know how to make my own chicken and dumplings, so I’m good there. But thanks for looking out.”
“Really?” I’m intrigued.
“Yeah, I used to stay with my high school coach and his family sometimes. They wanted me to learn how to be independent. Mrs. Carver taught me how to cook a few things. She was really big on casseroles and Crock-Pot meals.”
“That sounds kind of nice.”
“It was.” His voice holds the tenderness of the memory. “It was homey.”
“I know the feeling. I miss having family dinners with homemade food, laughing with people around the table.”
“Me, too.”
We might not have a slow cooker at the ready, but it’s comfortable and domestic here in his apartment as Jordan sets to work making us a quick stir-fry and I set out plates and silverware.
“Hey, so I thought maybe in the morning I could take you to that coffee and karaoke place and treat you to breakfast before I head over to the hotel. Especially since you fed me all day today,” I offer.
Jordan grabs two glasses from the cabinet next to the sink.
His shirt rises, and I catch a glimpse of the V-shaped indentation in his obliques, pointing down like a neon flashing arrow straight toward what I know I shouldn’t be thinking about.
He fills the glasses with water and hands me one before leaning back against the counter to sip his own.
“We can go out tomorrow. But you’re not paying.”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t believe you're one of those guys. No, I’m not letting you pay for me again. Sorry to tell you, but women are allowed to have jobs now and everything. We can at least take turns.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore when he holds out his glass to clink it against mine.
“I usually just microwave a Toaster Strudel or something in the morning,” he admits, taking another sip.
“I’m sorry, you do what?!” I’m appalled. “Who microwaves a Toaster Strudel? It tells you right in the name, they go in the toaster.”
He shrugs and tosses some pre-chopped frozen vegetables into a pan, along with a spoonful of jarred garlic. “I don’t have a toaster.”
“Well, this is it. It’s finally happening. We’ve reached a fundamental disagreement. I simply can no longer be your friend. I can’t support a life without toast. Think of all those poor untoasted bagels, sandwiches, and Pop-Tarts,” I tease.
“Sorry to tell you, but I also eat my Pop-Tarts straight out of the package.”
“What?! Blasphemy. I’m pretty sure the toaster is the thing they’re supposed to pop out of, hence the name.
” I watch as he adds soy sauce to the veggies and boils water for rice noodles in a separate pot before tossing everything together.
It smells like a restaurant in here, and he’s only been cooking for ten minutes.
“What can I say? I’m a rebel who willfully ignores the directions on packaged pastries. It’s my fatal flaw,” Jordan says, plating our food.
I scan him up and down and exaggerate my disappointment as I take a seat for dinner. “I’d rather skip breakfast altogether than let you take me down with you.”
He shakes his head at me good-naturedly.
The meal he threw together is amazing. A girl could get used to this. I wonder if I could get him to consider giving up baseball to be my own private chef.
When we’re finished, we move the few steps into the living room and sit together on the loveseat watching old sitcom reruns on TV. A small crocheted baseball with a cute embroidered face stares back at us from on top of the console and makes me smile.
It feels good to let my guard down around him, but when I shift my weight and my arm brushes his, Jordan reminds me exactly how he thinks of me when he scoots away to put more space between us. I’m still just Mike’s little sister to him. I probably always will be.
After a few episodes, we say goodnight and retreat into our separate, lonely rooms.