Chapter 19
JORDAN
Car horns blare behind me, and I look up to see the traffic light has turned green. I slam on the gas, leaving a yellow light and a line of angry people in my wake.
I’m glad the weekend is finally here, because this has been a long week. Ever since Paige and I went through our notebook last Thursday, I’ve managed to send a major client the wrong video files, put my milk in my pantry, and burn not one but two of my dress shirts while ironing.
Somewhere in the wiring of my brain is a cord specifically for Paige, one I feel is being gnawed on by a rat twenty-four seven. For the sake of this analogy, let’s call the rat Ian. No, Cali. Either way, the rodent’s chewing apart my relationship with Paige, and all I can do is watch—and malfunction.
From what Paige has been texting me, things with the Z3 team seem to be going really well. As far as Paige’s relationship with Ian… Well, Paige tells me nothing, but I may or may not have covertly extracted a few pieces of key information from Missy—Ian and Paige are taking it slow, Ian is treating her well, and they haven’t put a label on anything yet.
I turn up the volume of the song playing from my car speakers as I pull into my neighborhood. This is Paige’s song. I’ve listened to it hundreds of times through the years, but tonight, each chord strikes me differently. An ache cuts to my core with every rhythmic tap of the drum, and it takes me right back to the hammock.
In my memories, I’m eighteen again, staring at the girl I love after she tells me how she feels, but no words come out. Instead, I stand there and watch as our relationship twists out of my reach. I can’t help but feel that history is repeating itself.
When I get home, I switch my business clothes for joggers and a T-shirt and am starting to walk to Mom’s house when I spot a familiar car parked in her driveway—Dory, Paige’s blue sedan. I’ve done a decent job of avoiding Paige this week, and so far, the only thing it’s done is make me desperate to see her. Somehow breaking my avoidance streak tonight doesn’t seem like the best idea. Not when my defense system, specifically designed to keep my feelings for Paige under wraps, has been so severely weakened.
I immediately turn around and walk back home, but I halt before crossing my front lawn. I remember telling Mom I would stop by tonight. If I don’t go, Mom and Paige will get suspicious. I always visit Mom at night when I’m home, and if I don’t go, Paige will likely come over to my house to check on me anyway. Then it would be Paige and me, all alone.
At that thought, I circle back and retrace my steps. At least this way, Mom will be a buffer.
I walk through the side door of my mom’s garage and into the kitchen, where a row of my mom’s dresses are laid out on top of the table.
“Mom?” I call.
“In here,” she says, sounding slightly muffled.
I follow her voice into the living room, where I find my mom and Paige on the couch with their eyes fixed on the TV screen and their faces covered in something resembling guacamole.
Mom throws me a wave but keeps watching.
Paige tears her eyes from the screen. “Oots a faysask.”
I call upon my Mad Gab skills to translate this sentence into “It’s a facemask.” One that has apparently dried to restrict mouth movement.
“I can see that,” I say.
She smiles at me with all the charm of someone who recently got Botox. “Want suh?” She lifts a bowl from the coffee table and extends it to me. It looks like they took all the things that make me gag and mixed them into one convenient blob.
I peer inside the bowl long enough to get a good whiff. “Ah.” I draw back. “That’s disgusting.” I guess I won’t have to worry about getting too close to Paige tonight. You keep that look, Paige.
Just then, a timer goes off on Paige’s phone.
“Oh, hank oodness.” My mom pushes pause on the remote and slowly gets off the couch before patting me on the shoulder. “Hey, Jurdan, ha-ee I day.”
“That was either ‘Harry Pie Day’ or ‘Happy Friday,’” I say.
Mom chuckles, and she and Paige head off to the two different bathrooms on this floor. I plop on the couch and stare at the frozen image on the TV of a dirty and disheveled group of people competing in a game set somewhere in the tropics. Of course, they’re watching Sunsets and Sabotage .
I don’t know what Ian is up to tonight, but Paige taking time to be with Mom on a prime date night makes my heart want to jump out of my chest and do a little tap dance on the coffee table. My mom loves having Paige around. It must run in the family.
“Hey there.” Paige emerges from the hallway with a clean face. She puts a hair tie between her teeth and pulls her hair into a bun before securing it with the tie and flopping onto the couch cushion next to mine.
When she smiles at me this time, her face is glowing, and it sucks the breath from my lungs. She looks far too good and is sitting way too close. I eye the bowl on the table. I’m about to go Rafiki on her and rub guac mask across her forehead, her dimpled cheek, her lips—but Mom comes in.
“Oh.” Mom pats her maskless face. “Soft as Jordan’s newborn bottom.”
I grimace. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Just keeping you humble.”
Oh, trust me, Mom. I’m about as low as they come right now.
“What’s all of that?” I ask, pointing to the parade of dresses on the table.
“Oh, it’s just for the Gala. Paige was helping me pick out the best one,” Mom says.
I almost forgot. The Pine Lakes Gala is two weeks away. I usually skip out, but since Ji is helping plan it, she would kill any of us who dared not to show up. I make a mental note to get a new dress shirt to replace the ones I’ve burned.
“I thought you weren’t going this year?” I ask Mom.
“She wasn’t going this year,” Paige begins, looking far too happy.
I raise an eyebrow at Paige. “I sense a but …”
Paige nods her head dramatically and waggles her eyebrows. “But now , she has a date.”
“Oh hush, you.” Mom throws Paige a dirty look.
“What? Mom?” I pop to my feet. Never in the history of my teenage or adult life has Mom so much as hinted at dating. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, sit down,” she says.
“Mom, who is it?” I prod.
“No one,” Mom insists.
At the same time, Paige says, “Tell Jordan where you met him.”
“Paige!” Mom mock-glares at Paige, who starts giggling.
“Paige gets to know, but I don’t? I’m your son .”
Mom blows out a breath. “I just...”
She closes her mouth, and then the strangest thing happens—she blushes. I don’t know this man, but I want to meet him. I want to meet the man who can do that to my mom. My mom met somebody. I can’t believe this.
“His name is Dan. I met him at…” Mom hesitates. “A water-aerobics class.”
I throw my head back and laugh, totally vindicated after all her complaining. “What? Oh, Mom. This is too good. Did I tell you, or did I tell you?”
Mom bypasses me and sits on the couch.
“You better believe I will be at that Gala just to meet him.” I resume my spot on the couch, settling between Mom and Paige. “So, do you guys swim next to each other in class, wink over your water weights?”
She smacks me on the arm. “Just turn the show back on.”
I laugh again and let it drop for now, then we all watch the season finale of Sunsets and Sabotage . Paige and Mom are like sports commentators, the way they constantly talk over the show and make guesses on who they think will win or which player is the most annoying. I watched one of the beginning episodes of this season weeks ago with Paige and Missy, but Paige blazes through this show as fast as she does a can of barbeque Pringles. I can only recognize one or two contestants, so my investment in the players is minimal.
At one point, I pull on my mom’s sleeve and drag one of her hands into mine. I’m usually pretty consistent about giving her hand massages for her neuropathy, but lately, I’ve been working longer hours than usual and rarely make it home before she’s in bed.
I start pulling on each finger to help improve her blood circulation. I’m no masseuse, but YouTube is a pretty good teacher. After a while, I switch things up and try a new technique I saw online a week or so ago. I weave two of my fingers between hers, giving me the right angle to really work through her hand.
“Ow.” Mom pulls her hand from mine. “That hurts.”
“Sorry, I’ll be more gentle.”
“I think you might have bruised me.” She flexes her hand.
I didn’t think it was that hard.
“Maybe you should practice on Paige first, then when you’ve got it down, you can try on me again,” Mom says.
Practice on Paige? I narrow my eyes at my mom. “I promise I’ll go softer.”
“I have a big blanket project I have to do tomorrow, and I’d rather not risk starting with aching hands.” She leans forward. “You don’t mind, right, Paige?”
Paige looks at me with all the vitality of a ghost. “Uh, sure.”
“Okay.” Mom takes my hand and places it over Paige’s as if I’m physically incapable of doing that myself.
“I got it, Mom.”
Paige is stiff as a board as I take her hand between mine. I force myself to think medical thoughts. I’m improving Paige’s blood circulation. That’s all this is. Medical. Anything to distract my brain from realizing that my fingers are kneading themselves into Paige’s fingers.
“No, no. Try the new technique,” Mom says, peering at us from over my shoulder.
I stare back at my mom for several long moments. Aren’t mothers supposed to have good intuition about their kids being in danger?
Meanwhile, Paige’s eyes are fixed on the TV like she’s being brainwashed and can’t look away.
Reluctantly, I weave two of my fingers between Paige’s just as I did with my mom, but this time, my fingers tingle against Paige’s skin.
An ad comes on, and my mom pops off the couch. “I’m going to go make some popcorn.”
Then Paige and I are alone. On the couch. Fingers entwined.
Medical thoughts.
Medical thoughts.
Medical thoughts.
“Ow.” Paige’s hand coils within mine. “That really does hurt.”
“Baby,” I tease.
She presses her fingers into mine, mimicking my previous movement.
It isn’t pleasant. “Ouch.”
“See?”
“Fine. I’ll go lighter.” I spread the back of her hand against my knee and bring only my pointer finger to the center of her palm, where I make a point of making “light” circles around her hand. “Better?”
“Better,” she says.
My heart rate picks up as I run my finger up and down each of hers. I can only hope Paige can’t feel my pulse pounding in my fingertip. After several moments of tracing her hand, I realize how small it is compared to my own. How have I never noticed that? I stretch out my fingers and hover my palm above hers, curious to see the difference, when her fingers brush ever-so-slightly against mine. We’re barely touching, but the feeling is electric, sending a burning sensation up my arm, my every nerve ending aware of her presence. In one simple moment, I don’t stop to overthink; instead, one by one I slip my fingers between hers, and she does the same until our hands are interlocked.
I continue tracing her skin, but this time only with my thumb, moving in slow circles…
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sound of popcorn kernels bursting cuts through the moment like a knife. Paige and I instantly release our entwined hands and spring to opposite sides of our cushions.
What did I just do?
I venture a look at Paige, but she’s looking down at her hand in her lap. A hand I just held in a very non-medical way. I made her uncomfortable. Jordan, what did you do?
But then Paige’s eyes flick up to mine. And the look I see strikes me at my core. It’s a mirror image of everything I feel right now––all my longing.
Could she possibly still feel the same way I do?
In that moment, my defense system crumbles completely. I glance down at Paige’s hands then to her mouth, then I meet her eyes, where I see the same burning excitement I feel. My heart drums against my ribs. My beautiful best friend and I are looking at each other in a way that would get us kicked out of the friend zone for life. I don’t know if I can resist. And I don’t think I want to anymore.
A blinding hope surges through me, followed by two words that bring everything crashing down. Ian. California.
What am I doing?
I run my hands through my hair and glance around the room for a distraction, anything that will keep me from closing the distance between Paige and me.
I spot the bowl of chunky facemask on the table, and before I know it, I resort to teenage tactics. I scoop up a handful, tamping down my gag reflex. “You know, I think you missed a spot.”
“Jordan!” Paige jumps to her feet and raises her hands between us as if trying to calm a wild horse. “Don’t you dare.”
I jut my hand out, ready to smear her face until every distracting inch is covered, when she ducks under my arm, squealing, and swipes her hand in the bowl. When I turn around, she smacks me in the face, getting green chunks in my mouth, my ear, and my hair.
Her mouth opens to an O, her eyes wide, before she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, Devons.” I step toward her, and she backs away. She knows she’s in for it.
“Mrs. Miller. Help!” she calls over her shoulder, still laughing.
Paige bolts for the hallway, but I catch up in two quick strides. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her in place as I run my glob of face mask into her bun and all over her face.
My mom comes in with a bowl of popcorn in hand. “You guys are too cute. It’s like you’re eighteen again. You were always getting into food fights.”
I let go of Paige’s waist and step away from her, Mom’s words bringing me back to reality. Again, what am I doing? My teenage antics had good motives, but when it came down to it, I was just flirting in disguise.
I run a hand down my face, rubbing green goop from my cheek. “Yeah, food fights. That’s what good friends do.” Before I can think too hard about it, I reach out and noogie the top of Paige’s head like she’s a six-year-old.
Paige chuckles, but the brightness in her eyes has vanished, her expression awkward and stilted. “Well, it’s getting late, and I should probably change out of this.” She tugs on her shirt, now spotted with little green globs. “I think I’m going to head home.”
“All right, sweetie.” Mom envelops Paige in a careful hug before Paige grabs her phone and keys off the kitchen table.
“See you.” Paige sends me a small wave before turning too quickly and heading out the front door.
As soon as it closes behind her, Mom whirls around and shakes her head at me. “I raised an idiot.” She sighs, fitting entire decades’ worth of disappointment in a single exhale. “I raised an idiot.”
Then Mom pivots on her heel and walks down the hallway to her room and closes the door.
Keenly aware of my idiocy, I cover my face with my hands and groan. Mom’s right, but maybe if I hadn’t been such an idiot years ago, maybe I wouldn't be one now.