Chapter 16
PAIGE
Jordan gets to the river bank just before I do, and he instantly turns around and wraps an arm around my back, pulling me up the slippery bank and onto the shore. When we get to solid ground, he reaches for both my arms and looks me up and down. I can tell he’s scanning me to make sure I’m not hurt—I can see the sheer terror in his eyes.
“I’m okay, Jordan,” I say, hoping to reassure him. “I’m fine.”
His frantic gaze bores into mine, and he breathes heavily as river water trails rivulets down his skin. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I’m a bit breathless too. I take a step back, and Jordan’s hands fall from my arms.
He nods and runs a hand down his face, wicking away the river water, but then his eyes are on me again.
“I’m fine, Jordan. Really.” I stretch out my unscathed hands and arms as if it will give him firm proof.
Jordan nods and blows out a breath before turning toward the river we just escaped.
I follow his gaze and can’t help the smile growing on my face.
“What?” Jordan asks, looking back at me with a frown.
“We just did that.” I laugh as I take in the churning rapids we just swam through, adrenaline coursing through me all over again.
Jordan shakes his head and huffs out a chuckle. “You crazy girl.”
I smile in response then take a moment to rest my hands on my knees, catching my breath as I scan our surroundings. Evergreens seem to stretch on for miles on both sides of the river, but several yards away from us, I spot well-worn tracks in the dirt that weave in and out of the trees.
“Mitch said if something like this happens, we should stay put and wait for someone to come get us,” Jordan says. “Hopefully, that road is as well used as it looks.” He sits on the riverbank and takes off his helmet and life jacket, tossing them on the ground, then leans back on his hands, letting the sun warm his face. He seems at ease, but I don’t miss the way he keeps sneaking furtive glances at me like any moment I’m going to scream out in pain.
After a second, I remove my life jacket and helmet and look down at the mass of sopping-wet hair fanned across my arms and shoulders like clingy tentacles. So much for the braids—my hair ties must have fallen out in the wash cycle that was that class-four rapid.
I gather my hair and wring out a pint’s worth of river water. “You don’t happen to have a hair tie, do you?”
Jordan opens the pockets of his swim shorts. “Dang it, I’m fresh out.”
I smile, about to make a snarky comment, when out of nowhere, Jordan jolts upright. He shoves his hand into his left pocket, then his right. Then he pats his hands down his gray athletic shirt, his face quickly turning from worried to panicked.
He repeats the pocket search twice more with nothing to show for it. “My phone. It’s gone.” His breathing escalates, and I quickly scan the water’s edge, though my gut tells me his phone has likely gone to a watery grave beneath the rapids.
“Do you have your…” Jordan’s breaths grow shallow. “Your phone.”
My phone? “I left it back in my car.” But even if I did have it, I’m sure it wouldn’t work out here. My phone carrier always has the worst reception.
One look at Jordan’s swiftly paling face tells me this is not about losing his phone at all but being unable to connect with his mom.
Jordan’s fingers start trembling, and history tells me he’s more than just worried. I kneel immediately in front of him, my knees scraping against the rocky dirt. Jordan doesn’t look at me, his chest expanding and contracting abnormally.
He’s having a panic attack.
“Jordan,” I say as calmly as I can, trying to ignore the corresponding panic working through me as I watch fear dance wildly in his eyes. “Jordan, look at me.”
His breathing grows more frantic.
Gently, I place both my hands on his shoulders to let him know I’m there, and he glances up just enough to meet my eyes.
“Follow my breathing, okay?” I breathe deep, motioning with my head for him to follow.
He takes a rigid, shaky breath, followed too quickly by another.
“Deep, slow breaths.” I inhale again, making a point of filling my lungs before letting the air go.
Jordan wraps his hands around my wrists like they are twin lifelines, and together, we breathe in and out for several long minutes until Jordan’s breathing regulates.
Once the crisis is ended, I don’t move or speak. I just soak in the fact that Jordan is okay—physically, that is.
This is not the first time Jordan’s had a panic attack. In February, Jordan and I were in a similar situation after finishing up at McGregor’s. We’d just started to load our groceries into his car when he realized he’d left his phone at work.
I gave him my phone immediately, and he’d called his mom, only to discover she had called his phone several times while we were in the store. She’d cut her finger open on a can and was hoping he could pick up some bandages while he was out.
Once Jordan ended the call with his mom, he went straight into a panic attack. Only at the time, he told me it was due to stress at work, and he was so casual about it that I naively brushed the incident off as a one-time thing. Watching it happen again, I’m starting to see the correlation between his panic attacks and his ability to be in contact with his mom.
For months, I’ve watched him dote on Mrs. Miller excessively, surely the result of a son seeing his mom teeter on the edge of life, unwilling to let that happen again. But seeing Jordan now, the roots of the problem seem to stretch so deep down that I wonder if he’ll ever let me in long enough to get to the bottom of it. I’ve danced around this topic with Jordan before, but I’ve never asked him about it point-blank.
If I never confront him about what he’s holding back, how can I ever expect him to tell me what’s really going on?
I look at Jordan and watch a drop of lake water drip from his dark-blond hair down the side of his face. His eyes are closed, but his breathing is back to normal. I shift and start to take my hands off his shoulders to give him space, but his hands grip my wrists tighter as if he doesn't want me to leave.
So I don’t. I let my hands rest back on his shoulders. “Jordan?”
A small sound hums from his mouth, letting me know he’s listening.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask as gently as possible.
His eyes drift open, but they don’t meet mine. His shoulders tense beneath my hands, and from the sorrow etched across his face, I can almost feel the torment pulsing inside him. “I messed up, Paige.”
For a moment, Jordan seems at war with himself, stuck between speaking more of his thoughts and holding them close to his chest. Eventually, his tortured gaze drifts to mine. I want to hug away the pain I see in his eyes, but I don’t. I just give him time.
After a while, he speaks again. “I learned about my mom’s cancer two days before high school graduation.”
My brow furrows. “What? I thought you didn’t know until after graduation. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jordan shakes his head. “I wanted to tell you. I was going to tell you, but then…”
The hammock. He doesn’t have to say it.
On graduation night, when we went to the hammock, he’d held my hand, gripping me so tightly. I thought that was him flirting with me. Loving me. But it was him holding onto something strong and steady—our friendship. I know now that he had been planning to tell me about his mom’s cancer, but then I told him I loved him, throwing a wrench into everything.
“I should have done things differently, Paige. On graduation night. I shouldn’t have left you. And my mom. I shouldn’t…” Jordan lets go of my wrists, scrubbing his hands through his hair.
The absence of his touch sends a chill rippling through my body. “What about your mom?”
Jordan takes a deep breath, and I wonder if he’s going to tell me more. On instinct, I reach out and place a hand on his forearm, silently letting him know that he can trust me.
“My mom was showing symptoms of her cancer long before she found out. She had an appointment scheduled to get some imaging done about midway through our senior year. But when she told me about her appointment, I… I was so wrapped up in senior year and my friends, and then you and I were going to go to California, and…” Jordan stops, looking directly at me.
“What?” I swipe at my face. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel like a piece of river debris must be stuck there.
“California.” He says the word as if it’s both a question and an answer. His face contains a strange mix of emotions, but I can’t put a finger on what they mean.
“What about California?”
“Today, earlier… Colton mentioned something about you and California.”
I stiffen and close my eyes. Though Missy and Ji knew about Z3 days ago, I shouldn't have blabbed to Colton about my potential job offer last night, not until I talked to Jordan. I wanted to tell him first, but we were still at odds.
“We can talk about that later,” I say, hoping to recenter the conversation back on Jordan.
“Talk about what, Paige?”
“Nothing.” I brush the air with my hand.
“Paige?” His eyes narrow on me, and I can almost feel the weight of his stare. He’s not going to let this go.
I sigh. “I applied to Z3, and they responded. They want me to work with their team as a test run, and if all goes well, then I’ll get the job in California.” I rush out the words like they’re a hot potato I can’t get rid of fast enough. I just want to get back to Jordan and what he was telling me earlier.
Jordan’s face is a myriad of emotions, but he quickly settles into a smile that feels at odds with his panic attack and partial confession. He hops onto his feet, putting distance between us. “That’s… That’s just great. What a great opportunity for you.” His smile widens, and he plants his hands on his hips. “So great, Paige. Really, really great.”
When I imagined telling Jordan about California, I expected him to be supportive like he always is when I talk about Z3, but what I didn’t expect was for Jordan to be all rah-rah-sis-boom-bah about it. Something about the way his eyes are shooting rainbows and marshmallows doesn't sit right, not when I can still see the sadness in his eyes from just moments earlier when he was talking about his mom.
I rise to my feet, coming face-to-face with him. “Jordan. What were you saying about your mom’s appointment?”
“It’s nothing. It’s in the past. But what’s not in the past is that you are going to get your dream job, Paige. You’re going to live in California. That’s huge.” Jordan continues deflecting, circling the conversation back to me. I can almost see him building a wall around himself, shutting me out once more.
I know the window for talking about his mom has closed.
The sound of tires traversing down a dirt road draws our attention, and a small white pickup truck pulls up with two massive rafts strapped in the truck bed. An older man with graying hair and a friendly smile waves at us then rolls down his window. “Hey, you two need a ride?”
No, I want to growl. I would rather Jordan and I finish our previous conversation. But what can I do? If Jordan doesn’t want to tell me more about his mom, I can’t force him. I can only hope that one day soon he’ll trust me with the truth.
“Yeah. That would be great,” Jordan says, clearly relieved at the sight of the truck. He and I both know that the sooner we get to a raft shack, the sooner Jordan can check on his mom using the landline there.
“I’m Jordan,” Jordan says as we approach the car with our rafting gear.
“I’m Paige.”
The man in the car nods in greeting. “Nice to meet you both. I’m Stan.”
When Jordan and I reach the truck, Jordan crams our helmets and life jackets in the back with the giant rafts, and then he opens the passenger door, giving me a perfect view of the single seat.
“It’s a squeeze, but the next shack is only five minutes away. Do you guys mind?” Stan asks.
Jordan looks at me, a question in his eyes.
Squeezing into a seat with Jordan? Yes, I do mind . But I think of Jordan’s panicked breathing on the river bank. The faster we get to a shack, the sooner Jordan can call his mom. “That’s fine with me.”
Jordan hops in the front seat and pats his lap. I can tell he thinks this will be the most comfortable seating position for me, and it probably is. But I’m not about to crawl into his lap like a baby sloth, oh no. Instead, I scooch my derriere next to him, forcing Jordan’s thigh to squish against the center console.
By the time I get all my limbs in the vehicle, Jordan and I are both tilted inward, our legs smooshed together like a panini. Jordan has to wrap his arm around me just so we can both fit, leaving my back resting against his solid chest. I’ve never been so fully engulfed by Jordan, and my racing heart is evidence of that. I should have been the sloth.
Jordan mumbles something, and when I turn my head to hear, I nearly end up brushing my nose with his. He jerks his head back and lets out a small laugh, looking guilty. Was he… sniffing me?
As covertly as possible, I do a pit check. I don’t think I smell that bad—mostly I smell like river water.
“It may be cramped, but if it’s any consolation, you guys can be DJ.” Stan hands Jordan his phone. Its zero reception bars mean the phone is pretty much good for only one thing. Music.
Jordan looks down at me with a boyish grin, and his eyebrows rise—I know what he’s asking. He wants me to find this guy's perfect song. I lean forward, getting a better glimpse of Stan. He appears to be in his sixties with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and he wears a uniquely patterned shirt that gives off free-spirit vibes.
I turn to Jordan and mouth, “Cat Stevens.”
He shrugs and cocks an eyebrow, asking me which Cat Stevens song.
I raise an eyebrow of my own, signaling that the ball’s in his court now.
Moments later, Cat Steven’s “Moonshadow” plays over the speakers—the exact song I would have picked.
Instantly, a smile breaks across Stan's lips. “Cat, my man! You’ve got good taste.”
The carefree melody plays on, and Stan slips into the lyrics as one would an old pair of boots.
Jordan puts out a fist, and I bump it with my own. Another musical victory in the books.
A minute goes by with only Stan's wistful singing to keep us company, then Jordan shifts forward. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into my ear, raising every hair on the back of my neck. Before I can ask him why, he adds, “You were right. It was not my place to step in and tell you who to date.”
Oh, he’s talking about Ian. I’ve been so caught up with the rafting incident and the panic attack that I almost forgot that we’ve been at a stalemate these past couple of days.
“From now on, consider me Team Paige,” he says. “Whatever or whoever makes you happy, I’m happy for you.”
His happy-go-lucky attitude is back again, but this time he’s aimed it at my dating life.
I narrow my eyes, half skeptical, half amused. “Really?” I whisper, trying to keep our conversation to our side of the vehicle. “So, even if I go out with Ian, you won’t push back?”
He nods his head, appearing completely compliant. “Yep. Even if it’s Ian.”
“You won’t make fun of my nickname or try to sabotage any future dates?”
“Nope. Like I said, Team Paige. Anywhere or anyone that makes you happy, I’ll be supportive.”
An apology, I expected. But a cheerful acceptance of California and now Ian? Something feels very off.
I’m not sure why I say it—maybe I’m feeling snarky, or maybe I want to test the boundaries of his yes-man attitude—but I do. “And if Ian is the one ?”
Just then, the car hits a pothole, and my whole body bounces to the left. I reach out a hand, steadying myself on Jordan’s knee, while at the same time, Jordan’s arm wraps firmly around my waist.
The car levels out on a flat road once more, but I don’t move. Jordan pulls me closer, and for a moment, I let my body weight rest against his chest. I can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart in tandem with my own. He turns his head until it nearly rests on mine. Then, too soon, he leans away. One by one, his fingers release their grip on my waist until his hand is removed altogether, bringing me back to reality. I swiftly pull my hand from his knee.
Jordan clears his throat. “If Ian’s the one, then… things between us will look a little different in the future.”
My stomach bottoms out like I’m riding one of those amusement park rides that pull you high into the air then drop you hundreds of feet when you least expect it. But his words aren’t news to me. In fact, they’ve been at the forefront of my mind ever since Missy and Ji suggested I start dating for real.
Jordan is right—one way or another, our future is going to change. Even though all we have between us is friendship, I doubt any significant other would see our relationship that way. And I wouldn't want anyone to even question my loyalty. So even though Jordan’s words grate against every nerve ending, we’re on the same page. I don’t need a crystal ball to tell me that if I choose to date Ian, my future will have a lot less Jordan.
“Yes, it will be different,” I say.
“And I will respect you and Ian and give you the space you both need,” Jordan says sincerely.
“Good, because I’ll be going on more dates with Ian next week.” I don’t know why I tell Jordan this, but if my subconscious is trying to make him jealous, it has failed miserably.
“Good,” he says.
“Great,” I say.
“Awesome.”
We spend the remainder of the short ride listening to “Moonshadow,” passing what feels like miles of trees. When the song comes to an end, the silence in the car becomes stifling until Stan starts whistling.
Not too long later, Stan points to a craggy cliff jutting out of a nearby mountain. “Have you two ever been there before?”
Jordan and I both shake our heads.
“There’s this beautiful trail that leads right to the top of that cliff,” Stan says. “Some of the best views are up there. And if you two catch it at sunset, it’s one of the most romantic hikes around. Might want to give it a try.” He pulls into the parking lot of the raft shack.
Normally, I would cringe at such a statement, especially while pressed against Jordan's chest. But when I feel Jordan laughing behind me, my body eases.
“What do you think, Paige?” he asks with a smile in his voice. “Do you want to go on a romantic hike?”
I elbow him in the gut, well aware he’s teasing me. Jordan knows that I believe if there are two words that never belong in the same sentence, they are “hiking” and “romance.”