Chapter 13
PAIGE
Paige: Furious doesn’t begin to describe how I feel.
Jordan: I’m sorry. I should have stopped.
Paige: No, you shouldn’t have started. You made him think we were once engaged! Engaged, Jordan!
I drop my phone into my purse before popping the car door open and walking into work. Another text comes in, but I can’t bring myself to look at it.
It’s been over two days since I last saw Jordan, and this morning, I finally answered his twenty-four text messages. Jordan’s not perfect, nor do I expect him to be, but Saturday was a low I never thought he would hit. Just when I find a guy who might actually help me get over my unrequited love, Jordan himself cuts in, ready and willing to sabotage.
After Ian and Jordan’s egos dueled it out on our double date, I had to explain to Ian that the only time Jordan and I planned a wedding was when Mrs. Delgado, Ji’s boss and our town's shameless local matchmaker, needed a “couple” to stand in at the last minute during a wedding photo shoot for her event planning business.
I didn’t explain to Ian how that photo shoot was my own personal form of torture as I stood across from Jordan and pretended to exchange rings with him. Nope. But I did explain that for most of the photo shoot, we were sitting around with nothing to do while everything was being prepped and staged around us. So, bored and restless, we passed the time by pointing out things we would or wouldn’t do differently if it were our weddings. Weddings. Plural. As in separate. Jordan conveniently seemed to have forgotten that.
Another ping sounds from my purse, but I know it’s Jordan, so I don’t look at it. The logical part of my brain tells me that avoidance is immature and I should face my problems head-on. But the illogical, more persuasive part of my brain demands we continue radio silence until he’s groveling on his knees.
While I’m in the process of imagining this, Zia comes into view. Yesterday, she was on phone calls or talking to people at her desk whenever I passed, allowing me to sneak past her unseen, but today, she’s completely unoccupied. I have the sudden urge to drop on my hands and knees and crawl past the receptionist’s desk unnoticed, but Zia spots me, so I approach her like a normal human.
“Hi, Paige,” Zia says, her glossy-orange lips parting with a smile. Her bright demeanor almost makes me forget the dejection I saw on her face at the end of our double date.
Jordan didn’t just play mind games with Ian that night—he hurt Zia as well. A large part of me feels secondhand embarrassment from my best friend’s behavior. I can see why being in the same vicinity as Ian might put Jordan on edge given their history, but to disregard Zia’s feelings completely? That wasn’t like him.
“Hi, Zia.” I smile back as I pick up the pace, heading to my cubicle.
“Wait,” she says.
Dang it.
I backtrack until I’m in front of her desk, which is full of multicolored sticky notes. She pulls a green note from the bunch. “Vanessa says she wants to see you in her office first thing this morning.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” I suddenly feel like I’ve been pulled over by a cop. I run through every possible work infraction I can think of but can’t recall a single thing that would result in me being called to my boss’s office. Vanessa is not a hands-on supervisor. She’s more like the I’ll see you in team meetings or when I clean out my untouched food from the refrigerator that happens to be next to your cubicle kind of boss.
I reach for the sticky note, careful not to rip it this time, but Zia keeps hold of it, forcing me to look up at her. Her initial smile vanishes as she leans toward me. “Just so you know, I wholeheartedly support you and Ian, even if Jordan and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”
My heart seems to pop out of my chest like a game of Perfection. Zia and Jordan aren’t together? I tell my tail-wagging inner Labrador to sit, stay, and obey. I can almost hear it whimper as I remind it that, single or not, Jordan does not want me as more than a friend.
But after his behavior on Saturday, maybe I’m okay with that.
I nod at Zia. “Thanks. And I’m sorry about Saturday.”
She shrugs, her classy smile back in place. “It’s okay. You might be over Jordan, but I don’t think he’s over you. I’d rather not be second in his mind.”
My eyebrows pinch together. Surely Jordan told her that the closet and wedding-planning incidents weren’t what he made them out to be, didn’t he? I am about to clarify this when Zia’s hand brushes the air. “And honestly, it doesn’t matter. Zack from IT asked me out yesterday.”
I smile back. “Ooo, he’s a cutie.”
“Mmm, and don’t I know it.”
We laugh, and my chest feels lighter, knowing Zia has already moved on. So maybe Meghan Markle is kind of cool.
Five minutes later, I sit in Vanessa’s office directly across from her. I can see a row of Iron Man medals hanging in a shadow box behind her head, and I wonder if this is a power play to make peons like me feel inferior, because it’s working.
“As you know, Jay got the copywriter position.” In true Vanessa fashion, she jumps right into the deep end. “But your work is very good, Paige, and you’re a talented writer, so we’d like to extend your internship with us another six months.”
“Oh,” I say, giving the lamest response possible, and I can tell by Vanessa’s narrowed eyes that she thinks so too. But lame or not, that’s the purest word to describe my feelings.
Just a few weeks ago, I’d hoped to stay with this company as a magical answer to all my problems. I wouldn't be unemployed. I would get more work experience. I would be able to stay with Missy and Ji longer—and yes, Jordan too. Even Ian is another reason to be ecstatic about this extension.
I force a smile onto my face, hoping it will springboard some kind of excitement within me, but it doesn't. Somehow, this unexpected opportunity feels like a step back when I’ve just started to move forward.
More vague, uninspired words come from my mouth. Then Vanessa informs me that I have until the end of my internship next month to make a decision. I thank her and spend the rest of the day experiencing an existential crisis in my cubicle.
By the time five o’clock hits, I shut down my computer and my brain, both of which are overheated and could do with a few hours of nothing. When I make it to the parking lot, I scooch into Dory just as my phone pings again—likely a text from Jordan. I should probably end his misery and text him back. I pull out my phone, but the notification on my screen isn’t from a text but from my personal email. The single-line notification alerts me that the email is from Rafi Batra.
Rafi? Why does that name sound so…
Oh my sunshiny days!
This is Rafi, the creative director from Z3 Group.
I click on my email app with the excitement of a six-year-old opening presents on Christmas morning. Suddenly, my perfectly adequate wi-fi speed is not fast enough. Open. Open. Open. When it finally loads, I click on the unopened message, Z3’s big beautiful logo staring back at me.
Paige,
I was happy to see your name among the applicants for the copywriting position at Z3. After our conversation last winter, I truly believe you would be a great addition to our team. I’ve looked at your updated portfolio and was really impressed with the work you’ve done during your internship. I loved the headline on your poster for the detergent project. Nicely done!
I’d love to see how you work with our team. What I would like to do is have you freelance for ten hours a week with us for a period of a month or so. We can structure it around your current work schedule. Just let me know which hours work best for you and when a good start date would be. And if all goes well, we can make it permanent.
Cheers, Rafi Batra Z3 Group Creative Director
I scream aloud in my car like a tween at their first pop concert. Then I scream for real when three knocks sound on my driver’s-side window. I turn to see Jazzy from HR.
“Are you okay?” she asks through the glass.
I try to put down the window, but my brain’s in party mode and I end up pushing the button that opens the back window instead. I give up and just smile through the glass and call, “Yep, I’m so good,” while giving her a double thumbs-up.
She looks at me skeptically. “Okay, have a good one.”
When Jazzy disappears down the row of cars, I pump my fists and squeal once more. Z3 Group wants me! I’m itching to call Jordan and tell him everything, but then I remember—I’m still mad at him.
I pull into the McGregor’s parking lot at the usual Tuesday-night hour. All day, I contemplated not coming tonight and breaking a six-month streak. And when I walk through the parking lot toward the store entrance, I am reminded why.
Jordan sits waiting on his car’s bumper with his arms folded across his chest. One look at his downturned mouth and scrunched forehead tells me he’s a man wracked with guilt.
I know exactly when he sees me coming because he lets out a long breath before jogging over, closing the distance between us. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
I try to hold onto my frustration from Saturday, but all hopes of holding a grudge dissipate when his golden-brown gaze settles on me. This. This is precisely why I have avoided him for the past three days. Trying to stay mad at Jordan when he’s looking at me with big, repentant eyes is like swearing off sugar just before someone hands you a chocolate lava cake. Resistance is futile—you might as well give in.
“I’m so sorry, Paige.” Jordan’s voice sounds gravelly, like he’s lost a few nights of quality sleep.
I nod. “I know.”
“I will do anything to make it up to you.”
I take a moment to consider this offer. “Okay, I’ll schedule you a manicure at the Sit N’ Polish.”
The last time he went to the salon with his mom and me, the ladies roped him into doing a “man”icure. And when they asked him if he wanted a clear coat, he said yes, thinking that meant he wanted nothing on his nails. He walked away with a glossy coat of fingernail polish, and neither Colton nor Miles ever let him live it down.
Jordan clears his throat. “I’d do almost anything to make it up to you.”
I laugh, and he joins in. I want to close my eyes and soak in the moment. If there were any negative feelings remaining in my heart, the sound of Jordan laughing washes the slate clean.
And just like that, things seem back to normal.
Five minutes later, Jordan and I have settled into our synchronized shopping routine. We quickly stock up on produce and start moving through the breakfast aisle.
Jordan scans the selection of syrups. “Since when is there a buttery version of syrup? I feel deprived.”
“Syrup and butter have been together since the day they first met on a stack of pancakes.”
He takes the butter-infused syrup bottle off the shelf. “Yes, but this has them bottled together. It’s brilliant.”
“Well, Ji’s not going to think so.”
“Ji doesn’t like syrup?”
“Ji doesn’t like buttery artificial-tasting syrup.”
“Shh. Paige, you’re hurting its feelings.” He covers the bottle’s invisible ears before placing it in the cart.
“Well, that bottle of syrup isn’t going on our rafting trip with us.” I pluck it from the cart and swap it for the regular kind. “What it doesn’t know won’t kill it... but all that butter might.” I snort-laugh at my joke as I check “syrup” off the shopping list Missy and I created for our weekend rafting trip.
“If Ji gets her butterless syrup, then Colton and I get this.” He puts a box of Lucky Charms into the cart.
“You won’t even be there for breakfast,” I protest.
For a moment, I see the tiniest crack in Jordan’s cheerful fa?ade. Even though the rest of our friend group is leaving on Friday and camping overnight before rafting on Saturday, Jordan will only be there for the rafting portion. He claims it’s because he has a lot of work, but I know it’s because he doesn’t feel comfortable leaving his mom for that long.
In some ways, the choice is self-explanatory. He wants to be nearby in case she ever needs help. But in other ways, the problem seems so much deeper than that. Yes, Mrs. Miller sometimes struggles with pain and keeping her balance, but she is independent and capable, living a busy life filled with the things she loves despite that. So why has her son stopped doing the things he loves because of her health?
Jordan moves down the aisle. He probably sensed my wheels turning and decided an evasive maneuver was necessary to avoid unwanted questions. After a moment, he throws some powdered donuts in the cart, and I eye him. I swear, he’s got the taste buds of a twelve-year-old.
“What?” he asks. “I’m just looking out for Colton.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s bro code,” he adds.
For some reason, the thought of Colton and Jordan makes me think of Ian. Of how things might have been different if I’d never met Jordan in those bushes all those years ago. Ian and I might have made up and kept dating after high school. Maybe even gotten married. Had a kid. Maybe Ian and Colton would still be friends, and it would be Ian here with me, snagging a box of donuts for Colton. I walk on autopilot through the store, lost in thought, pushing the shopping cart as Jordan tosses things in.
“You okay?” Jordan asks.
I jolt out of my funk and nod in his direction.
“You disappeared on me, Pages, ” Jordan says.
A teasing glint lights his eyes, and I can tell by his smile that he thinks he’s being funny, but it rankles something inside me.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a nickname, Jordan.” My tone is heavier than I intend, and Jordan lifts his brows.
“I wasn’t saying there was anything wrong with the nickname.”
“You are clearly making fun of it.”
He shrugs. “It’s just… I don’t know. Pages? It's so… unoriginal.”
I narrow my eyes at him as a wave of frustration rises within me. There was a time in my life when hearing Ian call me that “unoriginal” nickname felt like drinking water after a day under the hot sun. Jordan’s jesting triggers a defense system inside me I didn’t even know existed. “What’s unoriginal about Pages?”
He puts his hands in front of him as he starts to backpedal. “Look, it’s not a big deal…” But he must see the challenge in my stare because he finishes his thought. “Fine. He called you Pages because you like to read books.” Jordan reaches into our shopping cart and holds up a bottle of Pringles. “You really like barbecue Pringles, but I don’t call you Chip. You’re good at writing, but I don’t call you Pen. So, yeah.” He shrugs again. “Unoriginal.”
I resist rolling my eyes and roll the shopping cart forward instead. “Maybe I like unoriginal guys.”
Jordan keeps pace with me. “You can like all the unoriginal guys you want, Paige. But… Ian?”
I stop and turn to face him. “It’s been almost seven years. Can a guy not change in that amount of time?”
“Sure he can. But you spent a few minutes outside with him, and that was long enough to forget what he did to you and move on? What did he say to you, anyway?”
“Does it matter? He’s changed. Can you just believe me on that?”
“I want to believe it, but he’s… He’s Ian.”
“So what? Who I date is my business. Not yours.”
I start to push the cart forward, but Jordan puts a hand on the handle, stopping its progression.
“Paige, I’m not trying to determine who you date,” he says. “I just don’t think Ian is the right guy for you.”
This time, Jordan’s soft gaze isn’t enough to extinguish the frustration boiling inside me. I don’t know where my relationship with Ian will go, but it bothers me that Jordan is trying to steer me away from someone who could help me get over Jordan.
“Why wouldn’t he be right for me? You heard how he’s changed. He’s thoughtful, adventurous, well-traveled.”
Jordan flinches. “He’s just… snaky.”
“Snaky?”
“Yes, like he’s got an ulterior motive. Just the look in his eyes, Paige—it was like he wanted you for a prize or something.”
“Believe it or not, Jordan, some guys are interested in me.”
He scrubs both hands through his hair. “Believe me, I am very aware.” For the briefest moment, Jordan’s eyes pin me with a stare. They are not soft like moments earlier, but intense. Raw. What does he mean, he’s very aware ? Something in his unfiltered words and heated gaze sends butterflies coursing through me.
Jordan swiftly turns to walk farther down the aisle, leaving me to wonder what all that just meant.
The impulsive part of my brain bursts through, painting Jordan’s actions on Saturday in a whole new light. Could Jordan be jealous? And not just because he doesn’t like Ian but because he is the sort of guy who would be interested in me?
I shake my head, pushing away the idea as quickly as it arrived and reminding my brain that Jordan helped set me up on that date in the first place. That thought alone scorches those beautiful wings right off those butterflies.
We finish shopping in silence, not speaking until we make it to Dove’s checkout counter.
“Hello, you two!” Dove’s chipper greeting feels like a flamingo walking into a funeral.
Jordan and I both nod silently.
Dove must not pick up on the arctic chill between us because she presses on. “What is my favorite couple up to tonight?”
“We’re not a couple,” Jordan and I say in unison. Then we look at one another before averting our eyes and throwing groceries onto the conveyor belt like we’re going for a gold medal in checking-out.
Dove laughs. “You two even fight like a couple.”
“We’re not fighting,” Jordan says.
He looks at me, and I know he’s wondering why I’m not refuting Dove’s accusation, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t let Jordan think he can criticize my dating choices and get away with it. If my heart can’t be his, then it should be free to be with whomever it wants without his interference.
So I strike up a conversation with Dove, ignoring Jordan’s shocked expression.
When we reach my car and open the trunk, Jordan tugs on my elbow. “We’re not fighting, right?”
I glance down at my shoes, unable to endure the pain crossing his features. “I think I just need some space.”
“Space?” His eyes go wide, probably because the last time we had space , we didn’t speak for four and a half years. “If this is because of Ian, I’m sorry.”
“That’s the problem. You keep saying ‘sorry,’ but that would imply you genuinely mean it. What if Ian and I do get together? Will you push back then?”
“Yes, but only because it’s him.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. I don’t know what hurts worse, the fact that Jordan isn’t being supportive or that his jealousy seems born purely from his resentment of Ian. Clearly I misread the intense look he gave me in the store. How many times will I let my heart hope that Jordan feels something more for me before I understand that he doesn’t?
All the fight drains from me, and it’s all I can do not to look in his direction as I load my groceries in the trunk and walk to my car door. “Goodnight, Jordan.”
“Paige, wait,” Jordan says, the repentant tone back.
But I don’t wait. I drive home and flop onto my bed, rehashing every infuriating moment of that conversation. I feel like I’m in a rocking boat, my thoughts seesawing from wanting to forgive Jordan to wanting to shake sense into him. Just when I feel I may need some Dramamine for all this back-and-forth, I remember that I never told Jordan about Z3. We were too busy quarreling over Ian.
After tonight, Z3 looks more appealing than ever.
I let my mind wander into thoughts of California, dreaming of what my life would look like there. The beach, the food, my old college friends. Maybe I would even attempt surfing this time, even if Jordan isn’t there to teach me. These thoughts occupy me for a whopping one minute before my traitorous brain inevitably leads me back to Jordan.
A memory resurfaces, transporting me back to the week I returned to Colorado after college. After years of no contact with Jordan, I ran into him during the Pine Lakes Christmas Festival. We spent hours together that night, talking and laughing, and things just felt right. I was so full of hope then, honestly thinking his feelings for me had changed.
But I couldn't have been more wrong.