Chapter 10
PAIGE
· SIX YEARS AND NINE MONTHS EARLIER ·
Last night, no one could have convinced me that I would be sandwiched between a bush and a brick wall, trying to jimmy a faucet at six-fifteen in the morning. Then again, no one could have convinced me that my boyfriend of two years would have cheated on me last night, either.
Now I’m choking on a slice of humble pie as my cold, sore fingers grip and twist a faucet outside my high school for what feels like the hundredth time.
Nothing falls into the empty bucket at my feet. Not one drop. “No, no, no, no, no.”
With every failed attempt to get water flowing, I feel panic rise and the back of my eyes begin to sting. The dark of night is slipping away, a dull blue taking its place. In less than thirty minutes, students will start pouring through the school entrance, and the chalk monstrosity scrawled across the front walkway will feed Snapchat its breakfast.
I stretch and shake out my fingers to ready myself for another attempt. This time, I’m picturing Ian’s face as I do it. I grit my teeth and grunt as I attempt to turn the faucet like I’m the captain of the Titanic trying to avoid an iceberg. “Please, you tiny piece of plastic. Just give me the water.”
“Um, hello?”
I look up to see a head just above the bush line, startling me into a scream.
The person attached to the head raises his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I look at the stranger and pray he is…
A. Not an axe murderer—though, on second thought, an axe might be a helpful tool to crack this faucet open, and/or
B. Someone who won’t judge a girl who’s huddled behind a bush and talking to a faucet in the wee hours of the morning.
“What are you doing back there?” the boy asks.
I sigh and put my hands on my knees. “I’m trying to get a faucet to work. Got any tips?” I ask it casually, hoping that will siphon some of the awkwardness from this situation.
“Dang it. I forgot my Faucet 101 book at home. But my gut is saying… twist it?”
I can barely see the boy from where I’m squatting, but I know he’s smiling.
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpan. “I’ve been trying for the past ten minutes, and it won’t budge.”
I hear a slight rustling as a body shimmies between two bushes. The boy pops up on the other side, giving me a clearer shot of his face, and I try to keep my jaw from dropping. Whoa. He must be a new student because no girl would forget looks like that. His body is defined without being bulky, he’s got full lips that are curved up in a playful smirk, and he has a head full of wavy blond hair that’s artfully messy. He crouches down in front of the faucet just as a gust of cold wind hits me, bringing a warm, sage scent with it.
He even smells nice.
The boy places a single hand on the faucet, and it takes him all of one turn for the water to start flowing.
My eyes go wide, and I shake my head, amazed. I swear, man hands have an extra eight-pack of muscle in them just for things like opening jars and turning faucets.
“So,” the boy says as we watch the water stream into my bucket, “what’s up with the bucket and scrub brush?”
I try to think of a good response that doesn’t cause my cheeks to go splotchy and my eyes to burn, but my mind goes blank, and the only thing remaining is the truth. So that’s what I give him.
“Homecoming is in two weeks. And my boyfriend…” I bite my lip, pushing back the tears welling in my eyes. “My ex -boyfriend hadn’t asked me yet. So I thought, why don’t I switch things up this year and ask him?” I sigh. “I came here last night and wrote an invitation in chalk, but that was a huge mistake because of course there was a reason he hadn’t asked me yet.”
I sniffle and pull out my phone to show him the picture my friend texted me at one-fifteen that morning of my ex and Olivia Johnston kissing at some party.
“Oof,” the boy says. “So that’s Ian.”
I groan. “You saw it?”
“The big giant chalk letters that say, Ian, Homecoming with me? Next to the chalk outline of, uh, you.” He frowns and looks at me with genuine sympathy. “Hard one to miss.”
I bury my face in my hands. “What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking that your boyfriend wasn’t a cheater who goes around kissing other girls. No one can blame you.”
The heat scorching my face eases a little with his words, but I wonder… if I’m not to blame, why do I feel like I am? Why does it feel like if I had been enough for Ian, this wouldn’t have happened. He would still be with me, and today would have gone as planned.
The boy shuts off the water when it reaches the top and I move to lift the bucket—but with all the water inside, it barely budges.
“Here. I can help you.” He reaches for the handle, but I stop him.
“No,” I say a little too forcefully. “I mean—there must be a reason you came so early to school. I won’t stop you.”
He shrugs. “I just moved here and had to fill out some forms in the office, but I can do that later.”
“Are you sure?” I already feel like a burden.
“Yeah.” He stands up and lifts the bucket like it's full of feathers before we both climb out of the bushes.
“Where did you move from?” I ask, deciding to make small talk as we walk along the sidewalk toward the rainbow chalk letters.
“California.”
“Nice. Some pretty good beaches there.”
“Definitely. Have you been?”
“No, but I want to go. Or just anywhere with a beach, really.”
“Ah, you're a beach bunny.”
“Actually, I’ve never been to a beach before that I can remember. But I'd take a sunny beach over cold winters any day.” Just the thought of low temperatures makes me shiver. It’s only the end of September, but I’m already reaching my cold-weather threshold. I pull the sleeves of my blue jacket down so they cover my hands. “One day, I want to travel around the world and find the best beach on every continent.”
“I’ve heard those Antarctic beaches are to die for.”
“Ha ha—you’re funny,” I say sarcastically.
“No, I’m Jordan.” He tosses me a teasing smile. “And you must be… Lilly? Lana? Laura?”
I quirk my head to the side. “I must really be giving off the L vibes.”
Jordan points to the gold bracelet on my wrist with the letter L dangling from the links.
“Oh!” I laugh. “No, this is to help me tell my lefts from rights. My friends gave it to me as a joke. Well, sort of.” I finger the tiny letter, which has never been the best left and right guide since I tend to switch which wrist I wear it on. But it’s pretty and reminds me of my friends, so I always wear it.
“That makes a lot of sense,” he says with his ever-present smirk.
“What does?”
“When I first saw you at the faucet, you were turning it to the right. Lefty loosey, righty tighty.”
“Ah.” I must be trying to set a record for how many times I can humiliate myself in one morning. “Well, that just makes it even more impressive that you undid all my efforts to tighten it. You really must have an eight-pack in there.”
“Excuse me?”
My eyes go wide. Why did I say that out loud? I raise my hand and point to the non-existent muscles in my palm as if this demonstration will clarify things.
He looks at me with pure amusement.
“Never mind.” I blush and try to laugh it off.
“So, the J and L finger trick never worked?”
“Not really.” I shake my head. “It just makes me second-guess which one is J and which one is L.”
He laughs. “So if your name doesn’t start with an L…”
“Oh, right. I’m Paige Devons.”
He sends me a crooked grin. “Nice to meet you, Paige.”
When we arrive at the catastrophe that is Ian’s name written in giant chalk letters, Jordan sets the bucket down. Not wanting to waste time, I get on my hands and knees and scrub like Cinderella trying to get her chores done before the ball.
The sun quickly gets brighter in the sky. Jordan must sense the panic in my scrubbing because he drops his backpack next to mine and joins me on the ground, where we take turns scrubbing furiously at the I in Ian’s name.
I watch Jordan scrub the sidewalk back and forth, his forearms tense and taut. He’s really getting into it. His brow is scrunched in concentration, and tiny beads of perspiration have gathered around his hairline. He is the unicorn of guys. What kind of person drops everything to help a random girl behind a bush?
After a while, Jordan rocks back on his heels and looks at the still-very-visible I. “What is this made out of? It’s like the permanent marker of chalks.”
I mirror him and lean back, still a little breathless from my last turn at scrubbing. “At this point, the earth could flood, and everything would wash away except these letters.” I groan and shove my palms into my eyes, trying to forge a new plan of attack, but no matter how I cut it, Ian—along with the whole school—will think I want to go to Homecoming with him. I’ll be the clingy girlfriend who was clueless that her boyfriend cheated on her.
“I don’t want to overstep,” Jordan says, breaking through my downward spiral. “But if you’re up for it, I can go with you to Homecoming.”
I look up at him, not quite following his train of thought.
Jordan stands and tilts his head, looking at the chalk letters from a new vantage point. “I think we can leave the chalk and make a few adjustments. Turn ‘Ian’ into ‘Jordan.’”
I stand next to him, and I can see what he’s proposing. It could work. And while I don’t make a habit of going to Homecoming with random strangers, I’ve also never been this desperate before. In just a few minutes, cars will start filling the parking lot, and it will be too late.
“Are you sure?” I hold my breath. I hope he’s sure. Please be sure.
“Yeah. I love dances.” He smiles, and I’m relieved to see the genuine spark in his golden-brown eyes.
“Okay.”
I don’t think twice about this makeshift plan. The clock is ticking. I sprint to my car, because self-preservation demands it, and grab my chalk.
Minutes later, Jordan and I finish the new chalk invitation just as the first few cars enter the student parking lot. For the most part, the lettering looks intentional, aside from the O and R in Jordan—they look a little wide—but it will do.
We both rise to our feet and dust the multicolored chalk from our jeans and hands.
“Okay, what’s your number?” Jordan asks. I tell him, and he puts it into his phone. “I’ll be just around the building. Text when you’re ready for me.”
I watch him jog away, and I shake my head in amazement. Where did this boy come from?
When students start to pass by, take pictures, and wait around for the mysterious “Jordan” to appear, I begin to question why I went so big with the invitation in the first place. But the answer is simple—Ian and I had been together for two whole years. My entire high school existence has been with him by my side.
Yesterday, I felt like no declaration was too big. But now, I just feel small.
Minutes later, I spot Ian in the parking lot, walking toward the front of the school with his favorite book in his hand. My stomach bottoms out. I text Jordan, and he immediately responds.
Jordan: Sell it.
Sell it?
I can’t finish puzzling that out because Jordan barrels into me, sweeping my feet right off the cement as he spins me around. “Devons! Of course, I’ll go to Homecoming with you!” He declares it like we’ve known each other longer than thirty minutes.
People start clapping and catcalling.
Oh, sell it . I probably look like a rag doll in his arms as he twirls my lifeless body around. I quickly remedy that by flinging my arms around his neck and giving him an embrace that’s as upbeat as his surprise bear hug.
I try my best to look excited, but I can barely manage a simple smile, because from my vantage point over Jordan’s shoulder, I glimpse Ian walking next to Olivia. She slides her hand into his, and I can almost hear my heart shatter into a million little pieces. Seeing a picture of them together is one thing. Seeing them together in person is another.
My eyes fill, and I tighten my grip around Jordan, who is literally the only thing holding me together right now. A sob breaks free, sending a tremor through my body. Jordan must feel it because he instantly sets my feet back on the ground. But instead of letting me go to face a hoard of gossipy teens, he lets me nuzzle my face into his chest and break down in ugly tears, holding me well into first period.
· TWO WEEKS LATER—HOMECOMING ·
Going to a dance with Jordan should come with a waiver. It would read something like this.
Attention: Jordan’s dance date:
You may be witness to flailing limbs, hip swings, and full-body shakes. Best to keep a six-foot distance from Jordan at all times for safety purposes. Good luck.
(Sign at your own peril.)
I watch Jordan shake his head around, damp hair waving wildly. He may be crazy on the dance floor, but his confidence only adds to his attractiveness. He looks far too good tonight in his khaki slacks and white dress shirt with a pink tie that matches my rose-colored dress. His loosened tie flops around his neck with every movement. It’s as if he absorbs whatever song is being played.
I laugh and back up as he dances toward me.
“Come on, Paige. It’s your song!” he shouts over the music.
I put my cup of punch on the refreshment table, careful not to spill any on my high-low dress, and glare at him playfully. “Please tell me ‘Y.M.C.A’ is not my song.”
Jordan throws his head back and laughs. “No. Trust me, when I find your song, it’s going to scream ‘Paige Devons.’”
He snatches my hand, and before I know it, his gravity pulls me in, and I’m dancing with reckless abandon. The jerky movement we’re doing has no name, but I look around to see that we’re not the only ones doing it. My friends and their dates are all mimicking Jordan’s movements, and I think it’s safe to say we’re all buzzed from Jordan’s energy.
I find it hard to believe we’ve only known Jordan for two weeks. Between his insta-bromance with Colton and Miles and the way he quickly earned Ji’s and Missy’s stamps of approval, it’s as if Jordan was a founding member of our friend group and not the new kid we just met.
The song switches into one of those not-fast-but-not-slow songs—the ones no one knows how to dance to. Well, no one except Jordan. He grabs my hand with one of his and puts the other on my back, and I fall into step with him as we circle the dance floor and make people laugh with our antics.
It’s so easy with him. Ever since the chalk fiasco, we seem to gravitate toward one another. We find each other in the halls and at lunch and after school just to talk about meaningless things or to people watch or share a new song. It may have only been two weeks since I met Jordan, but I can already tell he will be a permanent fixture in my life.
The DJ starts another song, and I notice the dance floor is thinning out. “Everyone’s leaving,” I tell Jordan.
“Do you want to go?”
I shake my head enthusiastically. I’ve never stayed this long at a dance before—Ian always wanted to leave early—but tonight has been the best kind of distraction. I’ve even managed to forget about Ian several times, which is saying something considering the number of tissue boxes I’ve gone through since the breakup. I look into Jordan’s warm brown eyes and feel the pure joy radiating from him. No, I don’t want to go home. If the rest of the night with Jordan is anything like the first part, I want to soak in every last moment.
“Then let’s shut the place down, Devons.” Jordan smiles then twirls me out to the center of the dance floor and spins me back in before we do some weird rendition of the shopping-cart dance.
During a pause between songs, Colton pops over with his date to tell us they’re leaving. Jordan and Colton do a handshake with all the snaps, and I wave goodbye before Colton and his date exit the dance floor. But I don’t miss how Colton finds Missy in the crowd before he leaves, glaring at her with unfiltered disgust. When I check Missy’s reaction, her stare is just as potent.
Jordan leans over to me. “What’s that about?”
“I have no idea.” I think about the past couple of weeks, how Colton and Missy have been increasingly cold toward each other, and try to figure out what went wrong, but my thoughts are disrupted by the gentle notes of Journey’s “Faithfully” streaming from the speakers. The painfully familiar lyrics remind me of the one boy I’m trying to forget. The boy who broke my heart.
Jordan takes me in his arms and we start to slow dance, but the song is like an iron fist crushing my insides. This was our song, Ian’s and mine. Before he kissed Olivia and destroyed our relationship, I played this song in my car for months, dreaming about our future wedding and the cute babies we would have.
Ironically enough, it turns out Ian wasn’t so faithful.
As if the song had conjuring powers, I spot Ian himself a few couples over, and it’s as if he’s betrayed me all over again. What is he even doing here? He’s never stayed this long at a dance before. A tear slips from my eye, and Jordan follows my gaze to where Ian and his date shuffle back and forth in a slow circle, Olivia’s face resting on his chest.
But Ian isn’t looking at her, nor is he cuddling her back. He’s staring directly at Jordan and me. A muscle in Ian’s jaw jumps, and his eyes are tense and dark. I get the impression he’s not glaring at me so much as he is at Jordan.
I look away before another tear flows down my cheek.
An obvious threat lingers in Ian’s stare, but Jordan just pulls me closer, calming me with his presence. “If you could choose one pump-up song that would guarantee that everyone in this room would get up and dance, what would it be?”
I shift my thoughts from Ian and look up into Jordan’s sincere eyes as he eagerly awaits my answer. I seriously consider Jordan’s question. It’s part of a game we’ve started playing this past week, trying to find the perfect song for the moment or the people around us.
This one is easy. “‘Can’t Stop the Feeling!’”
He laughs. “All right, Devons. Justin Timberlake it is.”
For just a moment, Jordan lets me go to jump onto the riser and say something to the DJ before leaping back down and sweeping me into another slow circle.
When the song changes, sure enough, it’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling!” Everyone around us peps up, and several students abandon the outskirts of the room and gravitate to the center of the dance floor, throwing their hands in the air and letting the music sweep them away. My mood instantly lifts, and I laugh and smile up at Jordan. He did this for me—just like he saved me from my Homecoming invitation humiliation or how he hid my tears from the rest of the student body. I can’t help feeling that even though I’ve lost Ian, I’ve stumbled into something greater with this new friend.
Jordan and I go crazy, and soon our friend group and the remaining dancers on the floor have gathered with us in one energetic ball in the middle of the dance floor, sending the night off with one last hurrah.
That’s when I see Ian over Jordan’s shoulder. His eyes are wild as he pushes toward the group’s center. Toward us. He avoids eye contact with me as he stops directly behind Jordan, tapping him on the shoulder.
And when Jordan turns around, Ian punches him squarely in the jaw.