“The Road Trip”

M/M Gay Romance

Jerry Cole

© 2017

Jerry Cole

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is intended for Adults (ages 18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It may contain graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. May contain scenes of unprotected sex. Please do not read this book if you are offended by content as mentioned above or if you are under the age of 18.

Please educate yourself on safe sex practices before making potentially life-changing decisions about sex in real life. If you’re not sure where to start, see here: http://www.jerrycoleauthor.com/safe-sex-resources/.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

Edition v1.00 (2017.08.03)

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Table of Content

Table of Content

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Authors Note

Books by Jerry Cole

Chapter One

The roar of the crowd fills my ears and the sky turns dark with raining graduation caps. I half-heartedly toss mine in the air as well, wary of losing it in the cacophony of noise and red fabric around me. As it falls back to Earth, I snag it from the air. I turn toward Jordan and roll my eyes when I see his fists are in the air and he’s grinning manically. He spins toward me and wraps me up in a bear hug. My heart skitters and blood rushes to my cheeks, and I cover my face as best I can when he lets me go.

“We did it, man!” he crows in my ear. He whoops, facing away from me to bellow into the crowd. A smile sits on my face, but my stomach clenches. Yes, we’re done, school is behind us, degrees are officially in our hands, and the world is our oyster. I have no clue where I’m going or what I’ll do, but I’m okay with that.

What I’m not okay with is being unsure where Jordan is going when reality crashes down on us tomorrow morning.

He’s been putting it off for weeks, making every excuse in the book about why he hasn’t found a job yet. He’s been sick, he’s had a rough week, he has finals to worry about, etc. He told me three weeks ago he was looking, but I have yet to see any evidence of that. I don’t know if he’s being lazy, or stupid, or terrified he won’t find anything and suppressing every feeling of worry and uncertainty, but I’ve been on edge for weeks because of it. For his sake and for mine.

I’ve been waiting for him to decide what he’s doing after graduation. A job. Backpacking through Europe. Moving to Montana and becoming a hermit in the mountains. Anything would be a relief. But he’s been utterly stubborn in figuring this out. It doesn’t surprise me, really. He’s always been the type to ignore stressors rather than let them get to him or face them head-on. He’s very good at compartmentalizing, a gift I wish I had. Whether it’s tests, projects, dates, whatever it is, Jordan can push aside worry and pretend like it doesn’t exist. I’m positive that’s what he’s doing now, and most of the time it doesn’t bother me too much. It’s his own grave he’s digging, and, honestly, most of the time he comes out the other side unscathed. He gets stuff done, even if it gives me heart palpitations to watch him put stuff off, time and time again, to the last minute. But this time, it affects me directly and I’m starting to freak out about it. Because of his indecision, I haven’t made any decisions either. Graduation has been looming for a long time now. For most people, it means freedom, accomplishment, or moving forward.

For me, it only means possibly losing my oldest friend.

I glance over at Jordan, smiling despite myself as I take him in. His hair, wild with tight curls, stands out, untamed, among the short, straight cuts that surround him. Dark muscles stand out on his arms as he picks up the girl standing beside him and swings her around. Jealousy colors my thoughts as her breathless giggles touch my ears, and I amend my earlier thought and admit he’s more than a friend.

Well, at least to me he is.

I take a deep breath and run my hand through my hair, trying to shove down the dark feelings in my chest and to focus on being excited. Forget about the fact that tomorrow we’ll have to think about what we’re doing and where we’re going. Our apartment lease is up in two months, and our landlord wants to know if we’ll be renewing it or not, soon. We have no jobs lined up, no plan, not even an inkling of what we’re going to do. But I shove the worries away, glancing down at my robes and letting pride course through my body. Forget that I’m in love with him and he’ll never love me back. We’ve just graduated, everyone is thrilled, and tonight, all I’m going to worry about is celebrating. Jordan claps a hand on my shoulder and jerks his thumb toward the exit.

“Ready?”

I nod and, though I know the answer, ask, “Party at Leo’s place, yeah?”

He grins, revealing blindingly white teeth. “Hell yeah.” He claps me on the shoulder, making the corners of my lips twitch upward.

I nod, and we head out of the stadium together, with Jordan high-fiving and half-hugging people along the way. Most don’t look my way; those who do simply give me a wave or a smile or a “Congrats”, and I return the gesture. But none move in to celebrate the way they are with Jordan, and though it stings a little, I can’t say I’m surprised or upset, or I wouldn’t react with stiffness and uncertainty if anyone were to try to be more boisterous. I know most of the people who Jordan does, but he’s the only one I’m close with. He’s the guy who everyone likes, who everyone is friends with and who has no problem getting superficially close with people right away. Or, superficial isn’t the right word. He’s willing to be friends with people without knowing much about them, though it doesn’t take long for him to know several intimate details about a person’s life. He loves getting to know people and isn’t shy about asking questions or offering up information himself. It puts people at ease and makes them extremely willing to initiate conversation later, making his pool of friends a vast ocean.

My pool of friends more closely resembles a puddle. Though I don’t think anyone hates me outright, they don’t react to me in the same way. I blame it on being introverted. People don’t respond to introverts the same way they do extroverts, and often my silence is interpreted as snobbery or indifference. It’s rarely the case—I can count once, maybe twice when I’ve truly not wanted to talk to someone. Often, I just don’t think about trying to start a conversation. I’m not super thrilled when people talk to me in line at the grocery store, so why would I think any of them want to talk to me, a stranger? Few try to get to know me and I try at friendships even more rarely. The only reason I’m close with Jordan is because he took me under his wing in middle school, and we’ve been inseparable since. I never understood why he took an interest in me, or why he continued to like being friends with me. He never gives me a straight answer when I ask, saying he thought I was “cool” or some stupid thing like that. I know for a fact I wasn’t cool then and I’m not cool now, but I don’t argue with him. I’m just thankful he hasn’t decided I’m boring and dropped me yet. He’s been my emotional rock for far too long for me to function well without him now.

Or—that’s not quite true, I suppose. I could do it. I could get through life without him, and I’d probably end up with some form of happiness. I’d find another friend, maybe even a partner who loves me in the same way I love him. But it’d be like asking me to cut off my own arm. Sure, I could do it if I had to, and I’d learn to live without it, but it’s not something I’d do unless absolutely necessary.

A small crowd starts to form as we head out. Everyone rids themselves of the gaudy gowns and caps, tossing them in designated bins at the exits. We all bottleneck at the gates, thinning out as we make it outside of the stadium. Jordan and I scan the crowd coming from the stands. He sees his family first.

They flock toward him, his mom embracing him and squealing.

“Mom,” he whines, though he has a big grin on his face and hugs her back.

She releases him, folding her hands in front of her mouth and squealing a little again. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I’m just so proud of you!”

She darts in for another hug. His dad stands behind her, rolling his eyes. When she finally lets Jordan go, his dad slips in and gives him a hug as well, though not nearly as prolonged or as teary. As Jordan and his family exchange hugs and words, I look around for my own parents, who shouldn’t be far behind. I’m right, and I spot them quickly. I move toward them, and they see me as well.

When we meet, my mother goes in for a hug, much as Jordan’s did, but it isn’t nearly as exuberant or as long. It’s quick, and she gives me a peck on the cheek as she moves away. My father just puts out his hand. I shake it, and then we all stand there, awkwardly quiet in the buzz of the crowd.

“Congratulations, Dyson,” my mother finally says, giving me a smile, though it’s a little stilted and forced. She’s never been one for outward displays of emotion or affection, and I know it’s got to be killing her now, especially in this crowd of people.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

This is all the conversation we have until Jordan’s family meanders over to us.

“Dyson!” his mom exclaims, wrapping me in a hug and jumping up and down a little. “We’re so proud of you and Jordan!”

I smile, my cheeks warming a bit. “Thanks.”

She bounces over to my mother and tries to give her a hug, but she stiffens up. Jordan’s mom quickly releases her. “Oh, sorry, Kat. I know you don’t like hugs, but I can’t help myself. Our boys are all graduated!”

“Yes, they are,” my mother responds, giving Jordan’s mom a wan smile in response.

“Where do you guys want to go for dinner?” his mom asks, oblivious to my mother and turning toward us.

We make dinner plans together, Jordan and I choosing a restaurant we’re sure both families will like. It passes uneventfully, all of us hungry and dehydrated after a long ceremony in the sun. When it’s over, Jordan and I say goodbye to our families and extricate ourselves as quickly as we can from the endless hugs from his mom.

We immediately head toward Leo’s place. It isn’t far from the restaurant, so we walk instead of taking the subway. When we arrive, Leo somehow already has music bumping and fresh food set out around the place. It’s already packed, people crammed in as tightly as they can be without being on top of one another. The lights are dimmed, punctuated by glow sticks haphazardly taped up in random places along the walls. Several people are already digging into the food and the booze Leo has set out. We head in, a line of people filing in behind us. I immediately head toward the booze and start pouring myself a drink, just mixing in whatever is closest to me. Jordan notices, though, and crinkles his nose in disgust.

Jordan’s hand claps down on my shoulder. “Jeez, Dyson,” he says as he peers into my cup. “Trying to be the first to pass out, are we?”

I roll my eyes and keep mixing. “Shut up.”

He chuckles. “Well, I wouldn’t want to leave you puking all by your lonesome. Pour me one, too.”

I oblige, and we quickly down the concoction. It’s strong, and I grimace as my taste buds flinch from it. Jordan whoops as he finishes his, slamming his cup down on the table. He grimaces, though, and wipes his mouth.

“That,” he states, “was absolutely terrible. I’m going to go find Leo. Come with?”

I shake my head, and Jordan nods without pushing. He pats me on the shoulder as he moves past me. He heads over to a group of guys a few feet away without a backwards glance, and I pour myself another drink. I won’t see him for the rest of the night, so I try to find a corner to settle into.

It’s not that he intentionally leaves me behind. Jordan is a social butterfly, constantly making new friends and wanting to seek out old ones. He’s never had an issue making small talk or having a good time with people he barely knows. I envy him for it. I can’t do it, no matter how hard I try. I feel awkward, uncomfortable, and a little terrified trying to talk to other people, especially strangers or ones I barely know. We have very different ideas of what going to a party means, and almost every time it separates us quickly. I don’t mind, though. He’s stayed home from more than one party because I refused to go. If I’d said I didn’t want to come, he probably would have stayed home again, or he’d feel guilty the entire time if he did go. I think he feels responsible for my social life, and he’s very aware I don’t have many—if any—friends aside from him. He doesn’t like making me feel left out, though it’s not often I truly feel so. So, instead of making him feel badly, I decided to suck it up and go. It’s graduation, and he deserves to let loose a little bit.

The first drink hits quick and hard. I find a chair on the outskirts of the room and sip continuously at my current drink, keeping the pleasant buzz I have at a nice hum. I keep to myself, not calling people out to say hello, and everyone ignores me in turn. I’m not sure if it’s because they don’t want to talk to me or they don’t even notice me in my corner, but I’m content to stay out of the action and just people-watch.

Almost everyone here is a recently-graduated senior. A few underclassmen weasel their way in, but I see a couple of freshman get promptly kicked out as soon as they walk in the door. Most people drink at a decent pace, but a noticeable few are quickly getting smashed. A couple hours in, a guy is already passed out on the couch, mouth open as he snores loudly enough to be heard over the music. Someone turns his head to the side in case he pukes, and then everyone ignores him. A few couples lean against the wall, in the midst of either talking or groping one another. I can’t help but to stare at the ones so blatantly getting it on in front of everyone, though I seem to be the only one who notices. The couple closest to me are the ones making out the hardest. It’s pretty PG until the guy suddenly pushes the girl firmly against the wall and kisses her neck. His hand creeps up her thigh, under her short skirt, and I quickly look away.

I wish Jordan’s hand was on my thigh. Blood rushes to my cheeks as I shoo the thought away. Ever since we met at age thirteen, I’d had thoughts like one constantly running through my head. And for those nine years, I’ve been desperately trying to stifle them. Jordan is decidedly straight. All throughout high school, he was notorious for dating almost every girl in our class, and didn’t change much when we transitioned into college. I’ve watched as he wooed girl after girl, discovered dating apps in college, bars when we turned twenty-one. He’d only ever been in a couple of actual relationships, none of which lasted more than a couple of months, and while he’d never been unfaithful to any of them, he could never be held down for very long.

All those relationships had been with women. And I knew, personally, there is no wiggle-room. He doesn’t even look the other way, let alone swing that way. There’d been a time when I hoped, maybe, he’d come to see me in a different light. When maybe I could be the one guy who he could feel that way for, straightness be damned. But that hope had been shattered years ago, and now my thoughts about him stay firmly locked in my head.

All the same, flashes of Jordan’s face continuously pop into my head as I steal glances at the couple, who are now so close and groping so fervently they’re all but fucking each other against the wall.

“Dyce!” I whip my head toward the sound of my name, my eyes narrowing. I’m not completely sure I’d heard it, or if I was just hearing things. The room is loud enough that I’m uncertain.

To my surprise, Jordan comes barreling through the huddle of people crowded in front of my chair, eyes wide and frantic. Sweat glistens on his brow. I raise my eyebrows. It’s not often I see him before the end of the night at gatherings like this. Most of the time he’s off moving from group to group, person to person, or playing drinking games. Or hooking up with someone. I shove the thought away, focusing on the fact he is in front of me now, instead of with some girl.

He basically falls at my feet, kneeling in front of the chair and gripping the arm with one hand. A giggle escapes his throat, and I roll my eyes. Jordan, with the “cool guy” persona he keeps up with unwavering strength, does not giggle. Ever. So, I always gauge how much he’s had to drink by those traitorous giggles. They tell me, tonight, he’s probably had one too many at this point. I lean back in my chair and stare at him, eyebrow cocked, as I wait for him to get some control over his laughter.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, one hand clutching his stomach, and he looks me dead in the eye. I squirm under his stare and my heart picks up the pace. What does he want?

“Dude,” he says, using the hand on his stomach to gesture at me. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

Jordan presses his lips together to stifle more giggles. I sigh, already bored and unimpressed with this drunken conversation. We’ve had many like it before, and always I think, even for just a second, he’s going to make some declaration of love for me. Always I’m wrong. And always it hurts. I wait impatiently for him to get out whatever it is he’s holding in, though soon I can’t take it any longer.

“Spit it out, Jordan,” I hiss, closing my eyes and rubbing them with my hand. I can’t stand drunk Jordan. He’s impulsive and chatty when he’s stone-cold sober; when he’s drunk, he reverts to a pre-teen state of mind, and it literally feels like I’m on babysitting duty.

“Okay, okay,” he blurts. “Dyson, we should go to the Grand Canyon.”

My mouth opens to respond—no that’s stupid Jordan, we can’t do that Jordan, what the fuck are you talking about Jordan—but no words come out. He’s never, not once, talked about traveling. Not to the Grand Canyon, not to Europe, not even just upstate. He’s never expressed a desire to be anywhere but in New York, drunk or sober, and I’m flabbergasted at this request.

Finally, with Jordan giving me a stupid grin while he waits, I’m able to squeak some words out. “But…why?”

“Dude, it’s huge.” He spreads his arms out wide, hitting a girl next to him in the leg. She turns and glares at him, but he doesn’t notice. “Like, so fucking huge.”

“Yeah, it’s huge. I still don’t understand why you want to go.”

Jordan’s arms drop to his side with an audible smack. “Because, it’ll be fun. We can throw rocks in it or something.”

I groan. Why do I have to be in love with an idiot? That’s not true, though. He isn’t an idiot, not by a long stretch. But he’s certainly pushing the line tonight. Sighing, I decide to entertain his ramblings and maybe get him off this. He doesn’t want to go to the Grand Canyon. Someone probably mentioned something about it tonight, and his alcohol-coated brain latched onto it. “I don’t think we’re allowed to throw things into it.”

“Oh.” He frowns, but quickly shakes it off and smiles at me again. “Still, it’s pretty badass. I think we should go.”

“You realize it’s thousands of miles away, right? How the hell are we supposed to get there?”

“Road trip! We’ll drive.”

“With what car?” I gesture to the window across the room, which has a decent view. Skyscrapers are visible, and though cars can clearly be heard below, not one of them is ours. “We live in New York. We don’t have a car. No one we know has a car.”

“My parents do. They’re giving it to me for graduation.”

“Is it a rust bucket? I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with a piece of shit car.”

“No, it’s almost new. Awesome gas mileage. Runs great.”

I scowl, mad my first and most logical line of defense has been dismantled. I move on to my next big concern. “What are we going to do for money?”

He giggles again, waving a hand at me dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, man. I got you covered.”

I raise my eyebrows. His family isn’t poor, but they aren’t rolling in it, either. Jordan hasn’t had more than a summer job, ever, and he’s constantly bumming food and money off me. My family does have money—or, at least more than Jordan’s—but my parents reject the idea of giving me any. All my money comes from working, which I’ve done constantly and without a break since I was seventeen, and I’m loathe to blow it on a trip I’m not even sure about.

Jordan tries to raise an eyebrow back at me, but he only ends up scrunching his face together and raising both. “Don’t give me that look, Dyce. I’ve got money. Been saving it up. Look.” He pulls out his phone and opens his banking app, and, after a few misspelled attempts at his password, turns the screen to face me. For the second time that night, my jaw drops. His checking account is about what I expect it to be, holding no more than one hundred bucks. But his savings account holds thousands. Not just one thousand, but several thousand. I peel my eyes away from the screen and glare at him.

“You’ve been eating my food for four years,” I mutter.

He gives me a sloppy grin and puts his phone away. “You let me. More money I got to save.”

“Where the hell did you get all of that?”

He shrugs. “Summer stuff. Gifts. ‘Specially graduation money.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Okay, so we have a car and money. But you realize how long it’ll take us to get there, right?”

His face falls as he tries to think. Instead of waiting for him to figure it out in his head, I pull out my phone and look it up. I groan when I see the numbers.

“Dude, it takes over thirty, almost forty hours to get there. And that’s without stopping for food, gas, sleep. Almost twenty-five hundred miles. That’s a long way to drive.”

“We could get there in a week.”

“Well, yeah, we could, but I don’t think we should.”

“Why?”

“We need to find jobs, settle down, start families—”

Jordan reaches up and puts a large, warm hand over my mouth. He must have spilled a drink, because the scent of alcohol fills my nostrils. “Shh, shh.” When I stop trying to talk through his hand, he removes it and sits cross-legged on the ground in front of me. “Neither of us have jobs, or anything even close to one. Yeah, we need them, but is a couple of weeks going to hurt? When are we ever going to be able to take off like this again? You can sketch there, too. It’d be a pretty awesome drawing.”

I lean back in my seat and rub the back of my neck, unable to make eye contact with him and shocked he thought about my art while drunk. It’s been a while since I picked up a pencil, let alone done anything worth showing anyone. He must not be quite as drunk as I think he is, both for thinking about and to be able to form coherent arguments. Either he’s not very drunk, or he’s more serious about this than I think. I become skeptical of my giggle-scale, making a note to myself I need to adjust it to take this night into account.

I know going on this trip isn’t practical. It isn’t smart. It isn’t even a fun trip necessarily, especially with absolutely no planning ahead of time. But part of me longs to just go, to drop everything here—which, as Jordan mentioned, isn’t much—and go on a trip with him. I desperately want to have time with him, and fear it at the same time. I look back over at Jordan, biting my lip, and I see his eyelids are drooping as he waits for me to answer. Okay, so still pretty drunk, well-crafted arguments aside. I sigh, patting him on the shoulder.

“Look, talk to me tomorrow when you’re sober. If you still want to go…we’ll go.”

He grips my forearm and shakes it, a big, goofy grin on his face. The frustration and confusion I feel melts away a little at the sight of it. “Awesome.” He looks around, eyes glazed over, and focuses back on me. “Hey, can we go? I don’t know where everyone went.”

“Sure,” I breathe, standing up and hauling him to his feet as well. He leans against me and I stagger, trying to hold up his weight. He’s got about fifty pounds on me. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he passes out. He’s the one who works out, not me, and I don’t think I can pick him up if he falls over. Will I have to leave him wherever he falls? Call for help? Camp out? I’m not sure, and I’m hoping I don’t have to find out.

Thankfully, we trudge our way, slowly, back to our apartment without incident. As I try to open the door, he leans more heavily against me. “C’mon,” I grunt, finally getting the door open and dragging him toward his room. “Almost there.”

We reach his bed and I basically throw him onto it. I bend over, hands on my knees, as I try to catch my breath. Glancing over, I see he’s already out, sprawled across the little twin bed with limbs hanging over the edges. A soft snore whistles between his lips, and a small smile touches mine. I grab the garbage can in the corner of the room and place it next to his head on the floor, turning his head to the side, just in case the alcohol decides to force its way back up his throat. I get a glass of water from the kitchen, aspirin from the bathroom, and put them on his nightstand. I head to his door to leave, but I turn back and look at him.

Even passed out drunk, he’s gorgeous. While his face doesn’t usually hold any hard lines or expressions, sleep still relaxes his face and makes him look softer than I’ve seen him look in a long while. His chest rises and falls evenly, and the room is filled with the soft hum of his breathing and his small snores. His lips are parted slightly, set in a perfect pout, and I fight back the urge to press my own to them, just once. Instead, I grab a blanket from his closet and spread it over him, quickly leaving the room and closing the door behind me.

Chapter Two

A crash from the living room wakes me the next morning. I look with bleary eyes at my alarm clock. Seven o’clock. It’s seven o’clock, on a Sunday, the day after graduation, and Jordan is banging around in the kitchen after a night of drinking. I don’t know how he’s up and functioning at this hour, let alone how he’s making enough noise to wake the dead. I throw a pillow over my face, trying to keep the noise out, but after a few minutes of angrily—and unsuccessfully—ignoring the noise, I yank the covers off me and stalk out into the other room. My head is pounding, and I rub my forehead as I walk. I open the door and lean on the frame.

“Jordan?” I ask. I rub my eyes and stumble out into the living room, flopping down on the couch as I watch him hustle around. He’s already dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, looking far more pulled-together than he should after the night he had. I look more hungover than he does, and I barely had anything to drink. I realize he has a bag sitting in the floor and he’s stuffing food into it. “What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

I wait for him to explain further, but he doesn’t. “I can see that. What exactly are you packing for?”

He pauses in his whirlwind movement to stare at me. He raises an eyebrow. “Did you forget?”

Leaning my head against the back of the couch, I groan internally. No, I haven’t forgotten. I’d just been hoping he had. “No. But I also told you we’d talk about it today if you still wanted to go. Not that I was going.”

“No, no,” Jordan responds, wagging his finger at me and scowling. “You said that if I still wanted to go when I was sober, we’d go. We.” I wince as I realize he’s right. I’d been hoping he’d been too drunk to remember it. Stupid fucking giggle-scale. “So get your ass moving. We’re leaving as soon as you’re ready.”

“Wait, today?” Panic grips my spine. I’m used to Jordan being impulsive and dragging me along. There’d been dozens of midnight trips to open restaurants, niche band performances, weird art exhibits, and random things his friends wanted to do he promised me were “totally cool”. Though I’m a planner and doing things impulsively makes my skin crawl, I usually just try to roll with it. I only ever put up a fight if it seems dangerous or stupid. Most of them aren’t, though, and so I’ve ended up with a list of things I’ve experienced, a lot of which I’ll be happy to not experience again, because of Jordan.

This is a whole new level for that, though, and I feel myself retreating from the entire thing. Jordan doesn’t plan. I do, meticulously. I don’t go to the grocery store without a plan, let alone across the country.

Normally, Jordan would try to placate me or push until I cave, without giving me any inkling he knows what he’s doing. Instead, he throws a map—printed and small, but still, a map—with a solid blue line running a crooked course from Manhattan to the Grand Canyon. Written directions are stapled to the back of the map. I flip through them, shocked Jordan had enough foresight and sobriety sometime in the last eight hours to look this up and print it off.

“Yes, today.”

“Why the fuck did you print it off?” I mumble, not quite intending for him to hear. It’s not like we don’t both have smart phones. We could easily look this up on our phones.

He does hear, though, and snatches the map from my hands, folding it and tucking it in an outside pocket on his backpack. “We’re heading for the desert. I’m not counting on there always being service while we’re on the road.”

My vision is starting to tunnel as Jordan’s seriousness starts to sink in. “Where will we stay?”

He shrugs. “Cheap motels along the way. It won’t be glamorous or anything, but it might make for some good stories, right?”

Images of rats, cockroaches, and hobos camping out in the tub flash through my mind. “Yeah, great,” I mumble. “Why do you want to go here, again?”

Jordan shrugs again, but this time he turns away from me, continuing his haphazard packing of the food. “I just thought it’d be a cool trip.”

“Niagara Falls is a cool trip, too, and it’s a hell of a lot closer than the Grand Canyon.”

“Whatever. I thought this was cooler.”

I continue to stare at Jordan’s back. He’s tense, the muscles in his neck and his shoulders coiled tightly. I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing him and trying to figure out what has him so set on the Grand fucking Canyon as his trip of choice. There’s something going on, more than just wanting to take one last trip before reality sets in. Jordan isn’t a complicated person. Or, rather, he doesn’t make things complicated. He doesn’t often feel negative emotions, or have secret motives, or a hidden agenda. He just lets things roll off him, never internalizing anything and constantly radiating confidence and contentment. Now, though, he’s keeping something from me, and I know it has to be something serious for him to do so.

I don’t push the issue, though. Something in the way he’s standing and speaking tells me he needs this trip more than he’s letting on. It’s not just a stupid road trip for him. So instead, against my better judgement, I open my mouth and agree. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Jordan finally turns back toward me, grin plastered on his mouth and relief obviously coloring his expression. He gestures toward my room. “Sweet. Start packing.”

***

Jordan’s mother won’t stop hugging him. He’s been trapped in her embrace for a solid three minutes, and she’s showing no signs of letting go. His dad and I stand off to the side, awkwardly trying to exchange small talk while we wait for his mom to release him. Jordan makes eye contact with me over her shoulder, eyes opening wide as he mouths the words “help me.” I chuckle, but shake my head, letting him know he’s on his own with this one.

My gaze wanders over to the car. Jordan hadn’t been lying about it. The sun glints off the silver paint, and I can tell it’s only a few years old. No obvious dents or scratches, no weird sounds when Jordan’s parents pulled up in it, and not hard to look at. Overall, a great car to road trip in. Some of the worry about this trip starts to melt away, excitement taking its place. We might have fun doing this.

Finally, Jordan starts extricating himself from his mother’s arms. She lets him go, and when she turns to face us I see tears glistening in her eyes.

“You better make sure he drives safely, Dyson,” she warns me, giving me a look. “I don’t want a phone call two days from now telling me my son is smeared across a highway.”

I nod. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him safe.”

She smiles and pulls me in for a big, mama-bear hug, giving me a quick rub and pat on the back before she lets me go. I revel in its warmth. While I’m not on terrible terms with my parents, they’re not exactly the warmest people ever, and, from the time I was eight, the only person I’ve received hugs like this from is Jordan’s mom, Deanne. Before I’m ready, she lets go, holding me at arms’ length. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and steps back next to her husband. Jordan and I move to get in the car, but she throws her hands up and squeaks.

“Oh! Wait, we need a picture!” She roots around in her purse, cursing when she comes up empty. “Shoot, I left it at home. Jordy, give me your phone.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s already in the car, Mom.”

I pull mine out of my pocket. “Here,” I say as I hand it to her.

She snaps it up, quickly opening the camera and holding it firmly with one hand while she uses the index finger of her other hand to operate the screen. Jordan and I stand a few inches apart, hands in our pockets. His mom gives us a scowl. “Oh, c’mon guys. Act like you like each other!”

Jordan laughs and throws an arm around my shoulder without a second thought. My own laughter dries up in my throat and I stiffen at the touch. My heart leaps out of my chest, and I can feel blood rushing to my face. I scold myself, trying to get the blood to drain out of my cheeks before Jordan’s mom takes the picture. It’s the last thing I need—photographic evidence Jordan touching me makes me blush.

“Okay, smile!” his mom chirps, tapping the screen. She takes a couple before handing my phone back to me. “Make sure you send me those,” she says, giving me a playful tap on the shoulder.

Eventually, after a gruff goodbye from his dad and a few more stolen hugs from his mother, Jordan and I manage to get into the car and drive away, with Jordan behind the wheel. The backseat is crammed with bags filled with food and clothing. Deanne insisted we take a couple of sleeping bags, saying it’s better to sleep in those rather than under the sheets of any motel room we go to. Though we both put up a bit of a fight, I’m glad she made us take them. Just the thought of sleeping under potentially unwashed motel sheets is enough to send shudders down my back.

Abruptly, Jordan lets out a piercing yell. I flinch against the door, knocking my elbow painfully against it.

“Jesus, what was that for?” I shout, glaring at him as I rub the feeling back into my arm and try to get my heart rate under control.

“Because,” he replies, “we’re actually doing this! The car is packed, we are in it, and we are moving! We’re actually headed to the Grand Canyon.”

A smile creeps over my face at the thought. Jordan lets loose another yell, and this time I join in with him. After a few loud whoops, we both quiet down. Jordan starts fiddling with the radio, and I start flicking through the pictures his mother took. There are four of them, two of them blurry and one of them just utterly unflattering to the both of us. I settle on the good one, examining the photo in depth.

On the surface, it’s nothing special. Two friends standing together, smiling and headed out on the longest trip either of them has ever taken. No one else looking at this would see any issue with it, nor would they have anything to say about the two of us, good or bad. But as I stare at it, my stomach ties itself in uncomfortable knots and my chest tightens painfully.

We are complete opposites, Jordan and I. I’ve known this since I met him, and thus it’s nothing new. It made me uncomfortable to realize it, and I’ve done my best since to ignore it. But staring at this picture now, I can’t pretend these discrepancies don’t exist. We look like coffee and milk standing next to each other, only he’s a rich, delicious coffee and I’m some watered down, sour milk. We’re about the same height, but he looks several inches taller than me. Maybe it’s his curls, maybe it’s me slouching while he stands perfectly straight. Either way, he fits the part of the muscular, attractive jock bit extremely well. Then there’s me, scrawny compared to him, with the scattering of freckles across my face and the carrot hair sprouting from my head. And I fit nowhere in any picture he is in.

I don’t know if Jordan even realizes how little we look like we belong together. Most likely, he hasn’t. Jordan doesn’t look at those kinds of things; though of course he was friends with jocks and other athletes, he’d never kept his circle of friends completely enclosed with them. He’d always had friends from all sorts of other circles, dated girls of all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, backgrounds, and styles, and thus it never bothers him when someone looks different from him.

And of course, to him, we are just friends. Few people look at their best friend of almost a decade and think, “Hey, you don’t look like you fit in with my crowd, we probably shouldn’t be friends”. I haven’t always thought this way, though. Once, during the first year of our friendship, I avoided him in the halls while he was with a group of basketball players, a couple of whom had been pricks to me multiple times before. I ducked my head and kept my gaze focused on my locker, terrified if I made eye contact with any of them I’d get harassed. I was perfectly content to let them walk by and to let Jordan pretend I didn’t exist while he was with that group. We weren’t quite best friends yet, and I couldn’t bring myself to think of him that way and risk the possibility of scaring him away. I was ready to have the kind of friendship that only existed when no one else was around, letting him keep his popular persona up.

But instead of walking by and ignoring me, as most eighth graders just finding their niches in school would have, Jordan stopped directly next to my locker and started talking to me. It was completely nonchalant, just crap about going to lunch and if I was still coming to his house the following night. I was so shocked he was talking to me I couldn’t respond. One of the other guys, Marcus, pounced on it, asking Jordan why he was talking to a dweeb— “and a gay one at that,” I vividly remember him adding—and he shouldn’t be seen talking to me because it wasn’t cool. At that point, I’d turned my head back into my locker, ready for Jordan to laugh it off and walk away. I learned quickly jocks don’t talk to scrawny, gay, nerdy red-heads unless they wanted to lose their status as popular kids.

Jordan didn’t do that, though. He turned to Marcus and, at age thirteen, told him to fuck off. When Marcus became angry and shoved Jordan into the lockers, Jordan shoved him right back and told him I was his friend and he could talk to whoever he wanted. He turned back to me and continued our conversation like nothing had happened, and Marcus and the rest of the group stalked away without another word. We never talked about it again, and neither did anyone else. Everything was perfectly normal the next day, and Jordan continued, all throughout middle and high school, to talk to and be seen with whomever he pleased. I don’t even think Jordan knows how much that day meant to me. But at lunch I went into the bathroom and cried, unable to believe I had a friend who was not only cool, but also one who didn’t seem to care or even see who I wasn’t.

But knowing this hasn’t changed over the last nine years doesn’t keep me from feeling shitty about this picture. He is a Greek god and I look like I came straight from the pages of a history book professing the plights of the Irish Potato Famine, and I am the starving bastard on the front cover. And while two people like us can be friends, we can never be more than that, and he will never see me as more than that.

I exit out of the picture as my eyes start to burn, “forgetting” to send it to his mother and hoping she won’t remember to ask me for it.

Chapter Three

It doesn’t take us long to reach the connection between Manhattan and New Jersey. Up until we hit the bridge, the car had been filled with talk and music. I’d shoved all the feelings the photo had brought up aside, and we had been happily reminiscing about things that had happened over the last couple of years during college, lamenting the fact we’ll never be in those kinds of situations again. But as soon as we start crossing the bridge, Jordan, amid reiterating a memory, clams up. So do I. And suddenly the car had just been filled with excitement and cheer is now drained of all that, replaced with fear and uncertainty.

It’s not as though I haven’t ever left New York. Jordan and I grew up in Brooklyn and now live in Manhattan, but we’ve crossed over into New Jersey a hundred times before. Sometimes it was to visit college friends who lived across the river, others to go make fun of New Jersey life. No trip had ever elicited the stomach drop that is affecting me now. I can’t be sure this is what Jordan’s feeling, but for me, this trip is different. For one, it isn’t a quick trip to New Jersey and back. It isn’t a day trip, and we won’t be going to class on Monday like usual when we get back. It isn’t a normal drive, and perhaps that’s all I’m feeling.

But it’s more than that, and I toss aside my first guess as quickly as it comes to me. It feels like we’re leaving. Not just vacationing, not just going and coming back. Though I know better, it feels like we’re leaving for good, and I can’t shake it as we finish crossing the bridge into New Jersey.

“Does this feel weird to you?” I venture, hoping hearing Jordan disagree will dispel the uneasiness I feel.

“Does what feel weird?”

“Leaving. Like I know we’ve crossed this bridge a million times before, but it feels different this time, doesn’t it?”

It takes a beat for Jordan to answer, and in that time my heart clenches. He shrugs, but he won’t look my way. “Not really,” he finally answers, though the tone of his voice says he thinks otherwise. I nod and lean back in my seat, my mind immediately racing and trying to figure out why Jordan would lie to me. Normally, with things like this, he’d blurt out the first thing that came to his mind. He’s never been one to think things over before saying them, and I can almost always trust what he says is how he feels.

But not this time. And I don’t know why.

I place my elbow on the door handle, propping my head up with my hand, and gaze out the window. The scenery blurs as I let my eyes slide out of focus, mushing together in splashes of gray and green and blue. As my thoughts race, my eyes drift close, and I fall into a light and fitful sleep.

***

I’m awoken by the sound of Jordan’s door opening and closing. Blinking and rubbing my face, I look toward his side and see he’s gotten out. I open my own door and stretch, breathing in the scent of flowers and exhaust. Glancing around, I see we’re by a river, though I’m positive it’s not the Hudson.

Jordan stands a few feet away, looking over the river and toward the land on the other side. I stand beside him, gazing in the same direction, to try and see what he’s seeing. All I see are buildings and some grass. The highway cuts across the river, and cars move quickly back and forth across it. A few birds cross my line of sight, and a butterfly flutters across the water. While the view is nice, it isn’t spectacular or even worth stopping for, especially for someone like Jordan. I’m the one who likes to stop and look, or to sketch. Not Jordan. He prefers to go from point A to point B. No scenic stops along the way. While I’m meticulous in planning, I usually also plan for stops and meandering. Jordan is not a journey kind of person, and so I’m confused as to why this rather unappealing spot caused him to stop.

After a few minutes of silent staring, I can’t take it anymore. “What exactly are we looking at?”

“New Jersey.”

I groan. While I’m not fond of New Jersey, and many New Yorkers hate people along the Jersey shore who sometimes claim they live in New York, Jordan’s hatred of it is ridiculous. His parents, die-hard New Yorkers, have always ragged on New Jersey. He grew up hearing what a shitty state it is, and thus he hates it as well. We must be on the other side of the Delaware River; he never would have stopped on the New Jersey side of it unless it was absolutely necessary. As in, one of us is bleeding out and needs to be taken to the hospital necessary. Even then, I think he’d take a moment to figure out if we had enough time to get into Pennsylvania or back to New York before caving.

Not wanting to poke the bear but also wanting to get this over with, I prod further. “Okay. Why are we staring at New Jersey?”

Jordan narrows his eyes and purses his lips. “Kind of want to let bygones be bygones and end things amicably with it. Kind of want to drive back and take a shit on the other side of the river one last time.”

I roll my eyes, but my ears perk up at his choice of words. “Well, it’s not like this is the last time you’ll see it. Maybe we can just call a truce for now and you can decide later how exactly you want to end your relationship with New Jersey.”

Jordan gives me a sideways glance and shrugs. “Yeah, right. I guess that’s fair.”

He turns on his heel and heads toward the car. I bite my lip and start to follow him, worried about the way he’s starting to treat this trip—like it’s his last—but I get distracted.

Jordan freezes when he reaches the car, his hand gripping the door handle. I’m still several paces behind, but I still see the muscles in his arm tense. Suddenly, with a scream so primal it raises goose bumps on my arms, he whips around and sprints back toward the river. I quickly duck out of the way, not wanting to get in between Jordan and New Jersey. He runs full-bore at the water, not stopping even as he hits it. He wades in until he’s almost knee-deep and grabs some rocks from the river bed at his feet. Still yelling incoherently, he starts chucking rocks across the river. The river is wide and he doesn’t make it anywhere near the other shore, but it doesn’t seem to bother him too much.

“Fuck you, Jersey!” he screeches, throwing the last rock and giving the Jersey shoreline two middle fingers. He puts his hands on his hips and stares for a minute before jogging back toward the car. I turn and get in as he does. His shoes squish as he settles into the seat and turns the car on. I don’t say a word, but instead just stare with one eyebrow cocked, barely containing the laughter in my throat.

Jordan notices my staring and pushes his bottom lip out. I want to bite his lip. “What?”

I can’t hold it in any longer. I snort. “‘Fuck you, Jersey’? I thought you were going to call it a truce until we got back.”

He gives me a sassy half-shrug and turns away. “I had the realization there could be no such thing as a truce between me and that shit hole of a state. I had to remind it of where we stand.”

I chuckle and shake my head, throwing my hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. No truce, then.” After a few more seconds of us just sitting there without making a move to leave, I prod Jordan again. “Is there anything else you and New Jersey need to hash out, or can we get going?”

Jordan shakes his head and starts the car, turning out of the side road we’re on and heading back toward the highway. “No, I’ve said all I need to say to it. It understands the mutual hatred we have for each other.”

I furrow my brow. “Wait, why would New Jersey hate you?” I want to remind him the state isn’t sentient, because I’m a little nervous he’s forgotten, but decide against it.

“Well, wouldn’t you hate someone who constantly disses you and has taken multiple pisses on your front lawn?”

I laugh. “Yes, I suppose I would.”

He shoots me a crooked grin and turns up the radio, effectively ending the conversation. We continue without talking, just the sound of the music and Jordan’s indistinct singing filling the car as I try to stifle the tingles in my gut. Though I’ve never enjoyed Jordan’s loathing of New Jersey, I can’t deny the relationship he’s built with it is adorable and makes me smile. Listening to him talk about it in such a personal and matter-of-fact way makes my stomach flip, and I spend the next hour trying to focus on anything but the sound of his passionate ‘Fuck you, Jersey’ and the lopsided grin he gave me.

***

We travel for almost eight hours that day, not stopping for much aside from gas, food, and bathroom breaks. I offer to drive several times, but my offers are always met with a sideways glance and a scrunched face, so I stop asking. I don’t know if it’s because Jordan doesn’t trust me behind the wheel—though I have a license and have as little experience driving as he does—or if he just can’t relinquish control of it. Either way, I’m a little miffed he won’t let me help, though I’m not really surprised.

He’s been this way since we were young. Most of the time, he’s fairly relaxed and honestly quite lazy, taking the easy path and letting others do a lot of work for group projects and the like. However, when he gets it into his head he wants to be in control of something, there’s no getting him to let go. He becomes this vicious bulldog, refusing to open his jaws and give anyone else even an inkling of control. Once, he and I decided to plan a little surprise dinner for Mother’s Day. It wasn’t anything big—we were fourteen, and neither of us had any clue how to decorate or cook anything besides macaroni and cheese—but we were doing our best. I figured it would be me who figured out all the decorating and made sure everything got done, but I was basically bulldozed out of the kitchen and away from the construction paper, and I swear the words “Just sit there and do nothing” were on the tip of his tongue. I thought I was cutting out the paper hearts just fine, not perfectly but fine, when Jordan snatched the paper and scissors out of my hand. He snarled I wasn’t doing it right, this is for our moms, don’t I want it to look perfect, etc. I was banished to the kitchen to cook, which I did just fine, but when it came to plating the food Jordan, again, became obsessive and wouldn’t let me touch it. I was angry for a while, since it was for my mom too and we were supposed to be working together, but he came to me later and apologized. He said he just didn’t want to disappoint his mom since she deserved so much more than a bowl of macaroni and some shitty paper hearts. He needed everything to look perfect to make up for our lack of better cooking and decorating skills, and I couldn’t blame him for it.

Thus, I can’t figure out if him keeping me from driving derives from this strange controlling behavior or not. My guess is yes; it was his idea to go on this trip, and perhaps he feels it necessary that he drive. Maybe it’s because of my comment about his paper map this morning, and he doesn’t trust me to stick to it. Maybe it’s because of his hidden motive for wanting to take this trip in the first place. But no matter the reason, I’m thankful when we pull into a motel as the sun starts touching the horizon.

Jordan parks and runs inside to get us a room while I start cleaning out the garbage that’s accumulated over the last few hours. A few minutes later, he comes jogging out, dangling a key in one hand. We grab our stuff and head to the room. The motel is only one floor, and we happened to park only a couple of doors away from our room, so we haul most of our stuff into the room to keep an eye on it. The motel isn’t the sketchiest building we’ve ever seen, but it isn’t exactly nice, either, and neither of us want to risk our car getting broken into while we sleep. As we unlock our door, a woman pokes her head out of the door to the right. A cigarette hangs out of the side of her puckered mouth as she grips the door frame. Curlers don her ratty hair, and from what I can tell she’s wearing a tattered robe.

Jordan fiddles with the lock, which seems to be sticking, and the longer he takes the antsier I get. The woman’s haggard face continues to stare at us, her eyes unblinking and sunken in her head. I try not to stare back, but I’m afraid if I take my eyes off her she’ll make a move toward us or something. Finally, Jordan gets the lock open. I all but shove him inside, slamming the door behind us and putting the chain across it. He staggers into the room and gives me a look.

“In a rush there, Dyce?” he asks, straightening his shirt.

I peek through the peephole on the door, sighing in relief when I don’t see the woman. I straighten, turning toward him and rubbing the back of my neck. Now that we’re inside, I feel stupid for being so freaked out by her. She probably just heard us come up and wanted to check us out. Maybe she was just as worried about other people at this motel as I am. I shrug and stuff my hands in my pocket. “Sorry,” I mumble. “This lady was creeping on us.” I wince as I realize how lame it sounds.

Jordan rolls his eyes, but gives me a big grin. “What, that little old lady in the room next to us? She probably just wanted to say hello and was too shy. Most likely didn’t want to lure you in with candy, fatten you up, and stick you in the oven.” He takes a step toward me and pinches my cheek. “Although, with this baby face, you never know.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks and I slap his hand away, though not because of the comment. I know I look young. Where Jordan has fairly chiseled features, mine are round and soft. The freckles, red hair, and overall lack of muscle don’t help, either. We’ve had many a joke over my childish face, and it’s nothing new for him to tease me over it. I didn’t, however, want him to know my face is beet-red because fire raced from his fingers down into my gut when he touched me, so I pretend to be mad.

“Shut up,” I growl, turning toward one of the two rickety twin beds and throwing my bag on it.

The silence weighs on my shoulders as I keep my back to him and rummage through my stuff, not searching for anything but trying to look busy. After a moment of awkward quiet, Jordan clears his throat.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

I squinch my eyes shut, my hands stilled by the stiffness in Jordan’s voice. Regret immediately floods my system, and I take a deep breath as I turn around.

“No, it’s fine,” I murmur, sitting on the bed and resting my elbows on my knees. “It’s just been a long day.”

Jordan nods and sits on the other bed, mirroring my stance. We’re quiet, but it isn’t the tense silence that had hung over us a moment ago. It’s a tired, resigned silence, and I simply sit and enjoy it for the time being. Though I fudged on the reason why I’d snapped at him, it hadn’t been a complete lie. It had been a long day, and I’m exhausted. Jordan is generally a good traveling partner, but after almost eight hours in the car with him and the constant music, I’m ready for some personal space and some quiet. I get irritable when I’m not able to be alone for a couple of hours a day, and I’ve been in Jordan’s presence from the second I woke up this morning.

Eventually, though, Jordan can’t stand the silence. I’ve always found quiet spaces relaxing; Jordan gets fidgety and tense. “I’m starving,” he blurts. “Wanna go get dinner?”

I groan, flopping back onto the bed and covering my eyes. “If I have to get back into that car with you for even one more second today, I swear to God, I will strangle you.”

Jordan chuckles. “Yeah, okay. I don’t blame you.” He hops off of the bed and heads toward the small desk in the corner of the room. He picks up a couple of pamphlets, rifling through them quickly. He holds one up for me to see, though I can’t read anything on it from so far away. “Pizza?”

I wave my hand at him and go back to covering my eyes, trying to keep the inevitable tired-and-hungry headache away. Jordan calls in for the pizza and, thankfully, it arrives quickly. We both tear into it right away, almost inhaling it rather than eating it, and the room is dead silent except for the sound of our chewing. This is generally how meals go for us—get food, eat, done. No talking. It’s one of the things we’ve always been in sync with; food is for eating, not for talking over, and we’re always starving. We’re far too busy eating to talk, and it makes us get in and out of restaurants extraordinarily quickly. Once, though, Jordan actually did inhale his food. We’d been in the high school cafeteria when he’d managed to inhale a piece of his sandwich. He coughed over and over again, and when he finally coughed it up, he spat it out onto Stacy Miller’s shirt. The little crush she’d been harboring for him evaporated on the spot, and every time she saw him in the halls her nose would scrunch up and she’d quickly walk away. I didn’t let it go for the rest of the year, telling him to be careful and asking him if I needed to cut up his food for him at every meal. It was one of the few things which could make him blush, probably one of the only girls in school who didn’t look at him with big goo-goo eyes, and I couldn’t help but to tease him over it. It always made me smile to see him blush.

I grin at the memory and open my mouth to share with him. “Hey, do you rememb—”

At that moment, his phone buzzes, taking his attention off of me. “Sorry, hold on,” he mumbles, eyes glued to his phone.

I close my lips and wait, though now I know I won’t be sharing. My stomach drops and twists inside of me. I don’t know why I thought bringing that story up would be a good idea. It embarrassed him, and he wouldn’t want to talk about it now. You’re stupid and the story is stupid and you’re not worth his attention. The little negative voice in my head nags at me, over and over again in the few seconds he’s looking at his phone.

I try to shut it up, but to no avail. This doesn’t surprise me, and quickly I give up trying. I’m more than familiar with that negative voice. It’s been with me since I was young, before I met Jordan, even. I’ve tried ignoring it. Screaming back at it. Arguing with it. Forcing myself to think nicer things about myself. But no matter what I try, even if I manage to quiet it for a moment, it’s back again at full strength in no time. So, I’ve mostly resigned myself to it. When I mentioned it to Jordan, he suggested therapy. To his credit, it was with the best intentions he suggested this; several members of his family, including his mother and sister, have talked to therapists before for issues smaller than mine, and they swear by it. He’d grown up thinking therapy was perfectly normal and healthy to participate in. I did not. It was the last time I talked about it with him. Just the idea of spilling my guts to a stranger makes me nauseous.

“Dude,” he says, interrupting the stream of nasty comments in my head. “Megan just texted me.”

A knife pierces my stomach. I detest talking about the girls he’s dated. It just reminds me I can never be with him. I answer him anyway, multiple faces flashing through my mind. “Megan? High-heel Megan or intense protester Megan?”

“Intense protester Megan. Remember how we hooked up, like, a year ago?”

The knife twists deeper. “Yeah, I remember.” I remember screaming into my pillow that night while you were fucking her in the other room. I heard everything—every moan, every laugh, every squeak of the bed. Prick. “What does she want?”

“I think she’s drunk. She wants to meet up.”

“So? Why do you think she’s drunk?” It isn’t uncommon for the girls Jordan dates to want to see him again, even long after they’d broken up. Though he sees a lot of women and isn’t the best boyfriend, he truly is a nice guy, and most of them know this even when he doesn’t dote on them hand and foot. He isn’t ever mean to them, isn’t ever a dick, but he also doesn’t pretend to like someone more than he does, and this has caused many bruised egos along the way. They go after him thinking that if they can get another shot with him, they’ll be able to “fix” him, to force him into being the perfect boyfriend. It hasn’t worked once, and it’s not likely to work in the future. But I’m not surprised Megan is trying, and I’m not sure why Jordan is.

Jordan gives me an impish grin. “Well, the last time I saw her she screamed I was a fascist pig and going to hell. So, I’m a little surprised she’s texting me, especially if she’s sober.”

I raise my eyebrows. It’s rare Jordan actually does something to make a girl that angry at him. Normally it’s a pretty amicable break-up, with little or no fight involved. Just a polite but firm “I don’t want to see you anymore”, and that’s usually enough, especially when it’s just a hookup. When he doesn’t continue the story, I prod him. “And why did she do it, exactly?”

He rubs the back of his neck and winces. “I might have told her that one of her projects was a stupid waste of time. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about that.”

I punch his arm, thinking back to the few interactions I’d had with this girl. She was a very intense person, very passionate about what she stood behind. Almost to the point that she refused to look at any other side of the situation, no matter what it was. We only had one actual conversation about books—a fairly innocuous topic, for the most part. She told me it was unethical to print books because it wasted paper and we should only be using e-books. I countered—calmly and politely, I might add—not everyone has access to screens still, a lot of knowledge could easily get wiped out in one go, and for some people, holding a book is a very tactile, emotional thing which can’t be replaced by a screen. Our conversation ended five minutes later with Jordan basically dragging me away, fuming and ready to punch her. Over books. I can understand why he couldn’t take it anymore; he’s just stupid for trying to argue with her.

“You idiot.”

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, it wasn’t unprovoked, okay? She’d been going on and on about this fundraiser for llamas or some shit like that.” I give him a look and he backtracks. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t llamas, but it was something ridiculous. She wasn’t even doing anything for it, like selling something or providing a service. She was just asking people to donate online. Online, Dyson. Not even in person.” He shakes his head. “She’d been rambling about this for a solid hour, and I finally got sick of it and started pushing for more realistic answers. You know, just asking her about the logistics of what she was going to do with the money, how much did she think she was going to make this way. It was only after she couldn’t give me straight answers without getting huffy that I told her it was stupid. I said she could have been volunteering or putting together a real fundraiser if she cared. She didn’t take it very well.”

I laugh, a little bit of the pain in my gut lifting. Though I know it’s petty of me, I always feel better when I hear Jordan is annoyed or irritated by a girl. One less person I have to be upset over. “You’re probably right, then. Has to be drunk.”

He grins, flashing his teeth at me, and turns back to his phone for a moment. “It’s too bad, really. Insane fundraiser and terribly severe tunnel vision aside, she actually was a nice person.” He pauses, looking like he’s thinking. “And hot. Great kisser, actually.”

The knife returns in full force. I say nothing, and the room is quiet for a moment. Jordan, again, is the one who breaks it.

“Hey, when was the last time you went on a date?”

I avoid his gaze and shrug. “I don’t know.”

I see him staring at me in my peripheral vision. “Wasn’t it that guy from the bar? Like, months ago?”

Again, I shrug. I don’t want to talk about this. And honestly, I don’t remember when exactly it was or who exactly it was with. It probably was that guy. Anthony, I think his name was. It’d been one date. One trip to the bar. I drank way too much, and most of what I remember isn’t pretty. I’m sure I just blubbered on about Jordan for almost the entire night. Not great date etiquette.

“I’m pretty sure it was. Dyce, man, we need to get you laid on this trip. I’ll keep my eye out for any good-looking specimens.” He nudges my arm with his fist. I give him a half-hearted smile in return, but I still refuse to make eye-contact with him. He senses my unwillingness to look his way, and he drops the subject, turning toward the pizza box and munching on the last piece.

Though we’ve stopped talking, the knife continues to twist deeper and deeper into my stomach until I feel like I’m going to split in two. Tears prick my eyes and I leap off the bed, heading toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower,” I mumble, closing the door behind me before he can say anything else.

I turn the shower on and wait for it to heat up. While I wait, I grip the edges of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. I stare at my reflection, making note of every imperfection on my skin, every feature that doesn’t quite fit my face, every piece of my appearance that would never appeal to Jordan. Even if he did date guys, it would never, ever be me. He’s dated a wide variety of girls, but not one of them had been a pasty, red-haired, scrawny thing. Even if I was a girl, he’d never be attracted to me.

The tears spill over and I squish my eyes shut, holding myself as still as possible to keep from making any noise. When I feel like I have some control over myself, I hop into the shower, immediately grateful for the feel of the hot water on my tense muscles. I close my eyes and let the water run over me, letting the tears mix with it until I can’t tell if I’m crying anymore.

It’s not that Jordan was being insensitive or anything. He’s known I’m gay almost the entirety of our friendship. Never once has he been cruel or even spooked by it. He caught me staring at a girl in our middle school cafeteria once and bugged me about it, thinking that I liked her. In reality, I was just staring at her heels—only an inch or so, but more than most middle schoolers were wearing at that point—and wondering how she didn’t fall on her face all the time. He teased me for days afterwards whenever she came into the room, making kissing noises and even going so far as to ask other people if they knew who she liked. When he told me that, I couldn’t hold it in any more. I blurted out I liked boys. He paused for a minute, the longest minute of my life, as he processed what I said. After a minute, though, he just said “oh, okay” and continued talking on his merry way like nothing had happened. For the second time that year, I almost broke down into tears over his kindness, and he never knew. Since then, he’s been trying to set me up with any guy who I think is cute, taking chances for me that I never would take myself. He never paused to wonder if they were gay. He would just go up and point-blank ask them. Two longer-term boyfriends can be directly attributed to Jordan’s match-making, and it’s because of him I felt confident enough to date in high school and to come out to my parents.

But it’s always been him. He’s the one I’ve always wanted to kiss, to hold hands with, to be with. There was once that, fleetingly, I thought maybe it could be a real thing, but it was years ago and long gone. I was drunk, and my memory of it is hazy, but I remember trying to kiss Jordan. He pushed me aside, not unkindly but firmly, and got me home. Remembering it the next morning, I was mortified, and when I tried to apologize he shrugged it off and said it wasn’t a big deal. We never talked about it again and it never seemed to affect our friendship, but it always hurt to think about. And watching him woo girl after girl, going on date after date and hooking up out the yin yang… Sometimes I can’t take it. Being on edge with this trip and the adult world looming over us, it didn’t take much to push me over the edge tonight.

What’s worse is that Jordan probably didn’t even notice. Just went on munching his pizza. He’s a smart, sweet guy, but his emotional awareness is as shrunken as a peach pit, and it makes my heart squeeze uncomfortably to think about how unaware he is. If he knew I was suffering, he wouldn’t talk about his dates. He would do his best to make sure he didn’t say anything that would hurt me, and if he ever did he would try his damnedest to make it up to me. If I would just say something, he would change how he acts and spare me the pain of hearing him talk about the women he takes to his bed.

But I can’t. Because if I do, I’d be jeopardizing our entire friendship. I’d be taking the thing we’ve built over nine years and throwing it away. I would lose him entirely, and the terror of not having Jordan at all far outweighs any pain I feel over not having him just as a partner.

So, I listen to his hook up stories. I listen to him complain about his current girlfriend, or talk about how hot the bartender is, or about how great the sex was the other night. I listen and I keep as straight a face as I can, because I cannot risk losing him as a friend. Most nights, I can keep that face up without much of a problem, pushing away the hurt feelings until they’re far in the distance and I can barely feel them.

Tonight, I can’t. So, I let the water run until it’s cold and my muscles relax and I’m sure I can go back out there without breaking down.

It takes a good, long while before it happens.

Chapter Four

I wake the next morning to the sound of Jordan banging around in the bathroom, as I have almost every morning for the past four years. Normally, I’d just cover my ears and turn on some music, effectively blocking out his noise and allowing myself to drift in the in-between of sleep and waking for a while longer. I grope around for my earbuds, but can’t feel them. I open my eyes and glance around, realizing quickly that they’re nowhere near me and I must not have brought them in. Cursing myself for leaving my headphones in the car, I sit up and rub my eyes. As I do, Jordan steps out of the bathroom, steam trailing after him, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Muscles stand out in sharp relief against his skin and small drops of water still cling to him. I quickly avert my eyes and rest my head in my hand, hoping to hide the blush from him.

Jordan walks over to his bed and rummages through his bag. “Morning,” he chirps without a hint of tension in his voice. Though I’m embarrassed, Jordan is not, and it doesn’t surprise me that he isn’t. I’ve seen him without a shirt on a hundred times before; it isn’t uncommon for him to walk out of the bathroom at home just like he is now. And even before we lived together, at pools or before gym class, he’d never acted like he was uncomfortable with me seeing him without a shirt. It’s never been a big deal to him, like it was for so many other guys at school. They all gave me looks if I walked into the locker room, quickly donning shirts or turning away, even sometimes telling me to get out or stop staring, as though I have absolutely no self-control or morals at all. I don’t like making people uncomfortable, and the last thing I’d want to do is to stare at guys that didn’t want me staring at them – not that any of them bothered to listen or ask, and they continued to be wary of me throughout school. But never Jordan. And after the first couple of times seeing him half-naked, I stopped being embarrassed by it, too.

But it’s different today, in this motel, on this trip. Maybe it’s just because of last night, or maybe it’s something else. I’m not sure, but I am sure that I desperately want him to put on a shirt so I can look at him again.

“Morning,” I mumble, keeping my eyes firmly glued on the faded quilt on the bed. I pick at a thread that’s poking out of the fabric, twisting it in my fingers and making it worse.

As soon as he’s mostly dressed, I let a deep breath out slowly and start to get my own stuff together. Soon, we’re both ready to go, munching on granola bars and fruit as we head out to the car.

“Do you want me to drive?” I ask.

Jordan shakes his head and beelines for the driver’s door. “Nah, I got this. You just rest your pretty little eyes and dream happy dreams.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips a little at the words “pretty little eyes.” My eyes are the one part of my body I am not embarrassed by. I’ve always been happy with them, even in middle school when everything else was gangly and uncoordinated and pimply. Icy blue, with a darker blue ring around the outside and cerulean spikes coming off the pupil. They’re different, in a good way this time. I warm at the thought of Jordan liking them, too.

We each take our places on opposite sides of the car, and soon we’re back on the road.

A few hours in, as I’m drifting in and out of sleep, Jordan’s phone buzzes. I cringe, wondering if it’s Megan again.

“Hey, can you look at that for me? I kind of just realized I forgot to let my mom know that we’re not dead this morning. It’s probably her.”

Sighing, I reach for his phone and press the lock button to look at the text. It’s not his mom, and it’s not Megan, either. I furrow my brow, trying to put a face to this name. I can’t see the actual message without opening the messaging app, so I don’t have any context clues to figure out who this is.

“Who’s Shayla?” I ask.

Immediately, Jordan tenses up and grabs for the phone. I recoil instinctively. He swerves off the road a little bit, correcting it instantly, but going far enough to make the car vibrate as it passes over the rumble strip.

“What the hell?” I yell.

“Just—can you give me the phone, please?”

“Jesus Christ, Jordan, all you had to do was ask,” I mutter, chucking the phone at his arm. He snags it, tucking it under his leg. “I wasn’t going to go through your messages or anything.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes focused on the road in front of him.

“So, who is she?” I ask when he doesn’t give me any more explanation.

He shrugs. “My cousin.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You freaked out over me possibly seeing a text from your cousin? What, do you two have some freaky incest thing going on or something?”

He rolls his eyes and a grin touches his mouth, but it’s a small one and I don’t quite believe it. “No, you perv. It’s just private.”

I lean back in my seat and let it go, but his reaction nags at me for the rest of the day. He’s never reacted like that, even when the girls he dates are sending him dirty texts. He doesn’t stress too much about people knowing about his private life; he doesn’t have anything he’s ashamed of. So, for him to act as though I had a live grenade in my hand raises every red flag I have.

Most of the car ride after is quiet, interrupted with a few comments about the scenery or quiet humming. Other than that, we’re silent, each of us in our own spaces.

***

We stop for dinner in a small town in Indiana, planning on continuing when we finish, but after relaxing for less than an hour we realize that neither of us are up to getting back in the car and driving for a couple more hours. We head to the nearest motel and check in, collapsing into our separate beds and zoning out for a while. Eventually, though, the tiredness wears off and I start to get antsy. Jordan, however, is still dozing off, so I don’t bother waking him. Instead, I grab my sketch book and head outside, walking until I feel like stopping.

I end up seated by a small river that winds through the town, placing myself on a flat rock near the river’s edge. The sun is just starting to set, casting deep shadows along the river bed and the surrounding trees. The sun’s rays peak through the leaves and the branches, giving me just enough lighting to crank out a rough sketch. I pull out my headphones from my pocket, plug them in, and get to work.

As I sit, the tightness in my muscles starts to unwind and my mind begins to quiet. All uneasiness brought on by Jordan’s weird text with his cousin is shut down; there’s only the sound of the music in my ears and the feel of my pencil on the page. I kick myself for not taking the time to do this more often, especially on this trip. Since I was young, drawing has been my safe space, where nothing and no one can bother me. I get absorbed into my work, to the point that several times throughout high school my mother would knock on my door in the morning and find me still at my desk, drawing, completely unaware of what time it was. There are few places and things that don’t put me on edge, and drawing is one of them. I can zone out for hours, leaving allmy worries and stresses behind for a while. It’s been a while since I’ve done so, though. Since I didn’t major in anything art-related؅—after the explosion my mother had over me even mentioning art as a career path—I had very little time to do art. None of my classes required it or incorporated it into projects. It was all essays, tests, and presentation slides. All my time was taken up by them, and any free time I did have was spent either vegging and watching television, or spending time with Jordan. I wouldn’t take either thing back—I needed both—but I wish I’d made time to do some sketching. Only twenty minutes in to this session and I’m already feeling more relaxed.

A sudden tap on the shoulder shatters all relaxation. I nearly jump out of my skin, my pencil flying out of my hand and my knees knocking my sketchbook out of my lap. My hands shoot out to catch it, barely snagging it and slamming it against the side of my leg. I whip my head up to see Jordan standing behind me, eyebrows raised and a stupid grin on his face. I pull my earbuds out, but my heart it pounding so hard I can barely hear what he says.

“Jesus, Dyce,” he laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “You gotta turn those tunes down or you’re going to go deaf.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, my heart still racing and still annoyed that he startled me so badly.

He takes a seat on the rock next to me, close enough that our shoulders brush as he sits. This doesn’t help my heart rate. “Hey, I’m just trying to save your hearing. Don’t blame me when you can’t hear your grown children screaming in your ear.”

I roll my eyes, turning my attention to my sketchbook and about to close it. Jordan stops me with his hand, though.

“Wait, can I see?”

Panic jitters down my spine. “Uh—”

“C’mon, Dyson. It’s not like I haven’t seen your stuff before.”

He’s right, of course. He’s seen almost everything that I’ve drawn in my entire life. He’s known that I liked to draw since middle school. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Though other guys teased me for it, I doodled all over my homework and notebooks at all hours of the day. When he noticed, he asked to see more of my stuff. I had a full-on meltdown over it. No one, not even my parents, had seen everything. We had just become friends, and I was terrified that he would turn on me and make fun of me like the other jerks. When he saw how panicked I became, he made a deal with me. If I showed him my drawings, he’d show me his collection. He wouldn’t tell me what the collection was until he showed me that afternoon – photographs. Dozens upon dozens of them, scattered through his room, taped up on his walls, some framed and most not. Most of them were very old, ones he’d found in thrift shops and antique stores. Some of them were newer which he’d found on streets or near garbage cans. Not one of them were of his own family or friends. I was shocked. I thought it was going to be baseball cards or something. When I asked why he collected them, he said he liked people, and he liked seeing what they thought was important enough to take and print a picture of. Most photos were of people. He told me he enjoyed getting to share in a small piece of that person’s life, and that it was nice to see other people in their own worlds, with their own families, with their own loved ones.

I’d been flabbergasted. I hadn’t expected an answer like that from him, and it made me confident enough to show him all my drawings. He looked through each one carefully. I remember holding my breath and getting dizzy because of it. When he was done, he held up his hand for a high-five, declaring that I was awesome and my drawings were awesome and he needed an awesome drawing to go in the front of his binder. Ecstatic, I drew him a badass military kangaroo. It had a bandana wrapped around its head, a cigar hanging out of the corner of its mouth, a string of bullets slung across its chest, and machine guns stuffed in its hands. He kept it in his binder until the end of high school, until he dropped his binder in a puddle senior year and destroyed almost everything, including that drawing. I never felt nervous sharing my art with him after that.

Except for now, partly because it’s been so long since I’ve done anything and since he’s seen anything. Partly because I’m still stuck in flight-or-fight mode. And partly because I’ve just felt more nervous around him for the last couple of days. Many of the insecurities I’d had when we first met have come rushing back, and I’m angry at myself for it. I don’t understand what’s bringing all of this on. I thought I’d put these emotions to bed a long time ago, but it turns out I was wrong.

Taking a deep breath, I stifle my worries and open the sketchbook to the page I was just working on.

Jordan looks it over, nodding and looking up at me when it’s done. “It’s good,” he says.

I snort, unable to help myself. “It’s literally nothing right now. It’s an outline with, like, two spots of shading.”

He raises a brow at me and snatches the sketchbook away. “Give me your pencil.”

I shake my head and point toward the ground a few feet away, where the pencil landed after it flew from my hand. He stands and snags it, flipping to a page in my sketchbook. He starts drawing. Startled and a little protective of it, I reach for it, but he shoves me off and holds one finger up to me, signaling for me to wait. I bite my tongue and do. When he’s finished, he holds up the page he was drawing on for me to see.

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. He’s drawn the river, same as me, but all that’s there is two squiggly lines for water, a few circles for rocks, a couple of deformed fish, and two abhorrently drawn stick men by the water. He only drew for a minute, but what’s making me laugh so hard is knowing that even if he had all day, Jordan couldn’t do much better than this.

He laughs with me, giving me a smile. “Don’t try to downplay yourself, man,” he chuckles. “I’ll bring out the big guns. Just remember that.”

Warmth blossoms in my stomach and my lips twitch into a smile. I don’t know how I managed to snag him as a friend, but I’m glad I did. No matter how shitty I feel about myself, Jordan never lets me feel that way for long. He’s been my biggest fan since we met, and I don’t think I would have gotten through middle and high school as stably as I did without him.

Jordan stands, and I follow suit. We head back to the motel, neither of us saying much. He kicks a couple of rocks and stuffs his hands in his pockets. I can feel the words build up in his throat. I roll my eyes, deciding to start the conversation for him.

“What is it?”

“What?” he asks innocently, though I see a grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

“You’re about to burst if you don’t say what you’re going to say. So out with it.”

His eyes dart toward my hands, which are holding my sketchbook, and I instinctively hold it a little tighter. “It’s just…why didn’t you try to do something with art?”

I frown. “You know why.”

“Yeah, well, my memory is fuzzy and all I remember is your mom being a bitch. Then you kind of dropped it.”

I laugh. He’s not wrong. “That’s about it.”

He stops walking, and I stop with him. He’s not laughing like I am. “I’m serious. Yeah, she was upset when you mentioned it. But you could have done it anyway. It’s not like they were funding your schooling or anything.”

Again, he’s not wrong. Most of my tuition was paid for through scholarships, and the little that wasn’t covered I took out in my own loans. “You didn’t see my mom. I think she would have disowned me.”

“So?” I narrow my eyes at him. He sighs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve just never been close to either of them, so I don’t get why her opinion matters so much to you.”

I shrug, averting my eyes.

He’s quiet for a moment while he thinks. It doesn’t take him long to get there. “No, Dyce,” he groans. “You don’t think you can, do you?”

Again, I lift my shoulders, not wanting to look at him.

“Dyson James,” he says sternly, shaking a finger at me and using both my first and middle names, “I swear, if you decided to major in accounting simply because you don’t have the guts to even try being an artist, I’m going to be extremely disappointed.”

I little flicker of anger stirs up inside of me and I snap at him. “Accounting is steady. I’ll know where my next paycheck will be coming from. I might not know when I’ll eat next as an artist.”

I can feel the retort brewing in him, but he checks himself and takes a deep breath before responding. “Look, I don’t mean to tread on your toes or anything. It’s fine if you don’t want to do anything with art. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t just because of other people telling you not to.”

“Why do you care now? You didn’t ask me this three years ago.”

“You’d stopped drawing. I thought maybe that was because of your mom, but it’s not like you couldn’t draw in your spare time, even if you weren’t making it a career. I figured you just didn’t want to.”

I don’t say anything, and we both continue toward the motel in silence. Emotions that I’d packed away years ago start surfacing again. The truth is, I’d been dead set on a job in graphic design. It fascinated me, and it would allow me to doodle and draw and create while still—potentially—holding down a job that wasn’t dependent on me churning out great pieces all the time. It would have been more stable than other kinds of artistry careers. But as soon as the words “graphic designer” came out of my mouth, my mother shut me down. She went on and on about how ridiculous it is, how unstable that market is, how I’d never find a job, how I’d starve and how she wasn’t going to help me if that happened. She’d never been totally into my art, being the logical, practical person that she is, but she’d never put it down so hard before. She was tearing into me, into my work, and completely put me down. She told me that I’d never make it. My art wasn’t good enough. I’d be penniless and down on my luck and never, never would get a good job.

It was enough to shatter my fragile sense of self-esteem and to force me toward the much safer, more stable path of accounting. I didn’t like it that much, but I was decent with numbers and I figured it’d be something to keep the lights on in my home. My mother backed down, pleased with my choice, and I didn’t hear a word from her about my drawings again. But I also stopped drawing. As Jordan mentioned, I could have drawn in my spare time, but I didn’t. Every time I tried, my mother’s voice would sound in my head, telling me I’m not good enough. And the pencil would drop from my hand. Because what’s the point in doing it if I’m not good enough to make a career out of it?

I don’t say any of this to Jordan. I know he’d just lecture me, with the best intentions, about why that’s bullshit. Part of me knows that. But it’s not enough to change anything, and not enough to make me continue this conversation with him.

I try to shake off these feelings, especially the memories of my mother screaming at me, but I can’t quite do it. What is wrong with me lately? What is it about this trip that’s bringing so many memories and feelings up which I thought I’d already put to bed?

We finally reach the motel, and I’m still wrestling with my emotions and trying my hardest to hide it from Jordan. We both slip into sweats and flop into our separate beds, the lights turned off without a word. I know he’s a little miffed with me. He always is when I shut down conversations. I might be more in touch with my emotions, but Jordan is the one that likes talking about them. I almost never bring up my feelings in conversation, but Jordan will poke and prod and hash them out as much as he can, both with his own feelings and other peoples’. He doesn’t do well bottling things up, and I know it frustrates him that I do it daily.

In the darkness, though, a while after we’ve lain down, Jordan’s soft voice reaches my ears. “Dyson?”

“Yeah?” I breathe.

“You’re good enough. With the drawing, I mean. To make a career out of it. I just wanted you to know that.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and a few minutes later little snores emanate from his side of the room. I, however, am left lying in bed flat on my back, eyes wide open toward the ceiling, as my lips tremble and tears leak slowly from the corners of my eyes.

Chapter Five

The following day comes too soon, and we grumpily stumble to the car around nine in the morning, an hour or two later than we were wanting to be. We swing through a drive-thru, getting much-needed coffee and food, and once again we’re on the road. Neither of us are in a very talkative mood, both still tired and not wanting to be stuffed in the car again.

Trying to take my mind off the monotony of the highway, I let my mind drift as I stare out the window. Long, golden grass colors the fields next to us, the tops swaying in the breeze. I’ve always loved grass like this, so different from the sporadic patches of green intermixed with the gray and black of steel and concrete I grew up with in New York. My favorite thing to do on road trips is to watch out for grass like this and just watch it dance in the wind, wondering how it would feel to run through it, to roll around in it and dance with it. Would it be soft and feathery, like I hope it would? Or would it be scratchy and coarse, leaving little scratches as I try to dance?

I asked my mother this once when I was a child, and, being the straightforward person she is, gave me a straightforward answer. Coarse and scratchy. The grass isn’t dancing, it’s being moved by the wind. You can’t run in it, it doesn’t belong to you. Whoever owns the field wouldn’t want a child running through their property. My dream died a little that day, but her lack of enthusiasm for my daydreams didn’t stop me from watching the grass sway.

My mother—she’d never been one to indulge in childish fantasies, and often she made me feel stupid for mentioning them, even at a young age. I don’t think it was intentional. She’s not a cruel woman. Just an analytical one. Not very in touch with her own emotions, let alone those of her child. My father isn’t much better. I spent most of my childhood being quiet because I knew if I said what was on my mind, it wouldn’t be met with humor or indulgence, but instead harsh reality and cold analysis. Drawing was my way of being creative and letting those inner fantasies and dreams out without always facing the abysses of facts that were my parents. It helped a lot. But it didn’t erase the feeling of being different, of not being smart enough or logical enough for my parents, and I spent almost the entirety of my first thirteen years of life feeling quite lonely.

Again, Jordan helped me change that. The first time I went over to Jordan’s place in eighth grade, I almost had a mental breakdown.

His family is the opposite of mine, just as we are opposites of each other. My house was always cold, uninviting, and my room was the only space I was ever comfortable being in. It’s just me and my parents. No siblings, no pets. Not even a fish. Jordan’s apartment, on the other hand, is vibrant, filled with hues of brown, gold, red, and cream. Every seat looks available and wonderful to sit on, and every space is welcome to be taken. There’s always noise, whether it’s from the stereo or the television or people talking. He has three siblings, two of whom are younger than him, and his home is always chaotic as his mom tries to get everyone where they need to be on time. When I first showed up, his mom ushered in with open arms and wrapped me up in a tight hug. I wasn’t sure what to do and wasn’t expecting it. Tears stung my eyes and I instinctively wriggled out of her embrace. I think she saw the uncertainty in my eyes, because she respected my space, but to this day always makes sure she hugs me at least once whenever she sees me. That night, we all had dinner together and played a board game, and the place was filled with laughter and light. I left that evening unsteady, but whenever I was at his house from that night on, I felt more at home than I did at my own.

Jordan always let me go over to his house. We rarely hung out at mine, and when we did there was very little time spent in the actual house. Often, we’d walk around the neighborhood or stay out in the backyard, or we’d hole ourselves up in my room if the weather was too bad. But this didn’t happen frequently. Instead, his place became the hub for our friendship. His family became like a second one to me. He and his family quickly became associated with light, laughter, and warmth, and I was so grateful he took me under his wing. Looking back on it though, a thought skitters across my mind which has been around for almost a decade. Most of the time it isn’t present, but sometimes, as now, it rears its ugly head: Why? Why did Jordan take an interest in me? Why did he decide that I was the person he was going to be great friends with? Did he feel sorry for me? There are a dozen reasons why people want to be friends with Jordan, all of them obvious in the way that he acts with the people around him. But more than once he’d gotten looks for being seen with me. Until the end of freshman year in high school, there’d been whispers and odd stares, mostly directed at Jordan. After a while they stopped, just gave up and accepted that we were friends, but it still hurt. People couldn’t understand why he was hanging out with me. Honestly, I couldn’t—and can’t—either.

My mind won’t drift away from this line of thinking, and the question gnaws at me for a while. Most of the time, I can ignore it and shove it aside. Tell myself I don’t need to know why, I just need to know he is my friend and that’s all that matters. But today, I can’t, and the urge to know builds and builds inside me until I can no longer take it.

“Why are you friends with me?” I blurt. Immediately I wince, hearing how whiny and insecure it sounds.

He gives me a sideways glance. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, hoping that he’ll just drop it.

But, being Jordan, he doesn’t. “No, not nothing. Did you just ask me why I’m friends with you?”

Instant regret and embarrassment floods through me. I don’t say anything, but my silence is answer enough.

“Dude,” he moans. “Come on. Are you really asking me this? After years and years of you putting up with my stupid ass?”

Your stupid ass? My brow furrows, and when he sees I look confused, he rolls his eyes and continues. “Seriously, Dyce, come on. Do you know how many stupid things you’ve talked me out of doing? How many times you made me hunker down and do homework instead of dick around and let myself fail?”

I give him a half-shrug; he’s right, but that can’t just be it.

He sighs. “Do you remember that night junior year, when we snuck out and were hanging out with that bunch of dick bags at the park near my house?”

I nod; the dick bags he’s referring to were a few “outsider” kids at school, not unpopular or targeted as weaklings, but also not super popular, either. They’d smoke pot, linger around the high school campus, and cause just enough ruckus to get them noticed but not enough to get more than a slap on the wrist. Jordan had gotten to know one of them—Tyreese, I think—and the guy had asked if Jordan wanted to hang out outside of school. Jordan convinced me to come along. I’d always gotten a bad vibe from them, but Jordan didn’t, and I trusted him. And if they ended up being trouble, I wanted to be there to make sure Jordan realized it.

“And you remember what they wanted to do that night, right?”

Again, I nod, rolling my eyes this time. There was a statue in the center of this park of some guy, I think who’d been well-known around the area or had helped build the park or something. I can’t remember. Either way, it was there for a reason, but this group of guys wanted to deface it. Something about “sticking it to the man”, though I never understood how spray-painting some metal and ripping up flowers around its base was ever going to accomplish anything. It was just going to make neighbors upset and cause grief for whoever was in charge of cleaning it up. I also remember Jordan being okay with this at first. Hesitant, but not stopping them, he’d picked up a can of paint before I finally opened my mouth.

“You stopped me and convinced me to go home. I didn’t even think it was that bad until you used the word ‘vandalism’. I didn’t think it through, or about what would happen if we got caught.”

“Which they did,” I mumble.

“Yeah, and they went to jail. I mean, for like, two days. But still. You kept me from getting into real trouble. You made me stop and think for a second.”

I just shrug. He’s right, I did keep him from doing it and getting in trouble for it. He would have been in less trouble than them, probably—they were all eighteen at the time, in the class above us. But even with this piece of evidence, the feeling of inadequacy still eats at me. This was one time, years after we’d started being friends. It didn’t explain why he’d wanted to be friends in the first place.

Jordan sees this line of thinking on my face. He groans, banging an open palm on the steering wheel. “C’mon, Dyce!” he moans. “You know what, fine. Here’s the run-down, since that one, shining example doesn’t seem to be enough for you. You’ve always been more cautious than me, more willing to look at every angle instead of just doing whatever impulsive thing crosses your mind. You checked me more times than I can count. And when you couldn’t get me to stop doing an impulsive thing, you stuck by me and did your best on damage control duty. You’ve never once not been there for me. This time included. Yeah, I have a lot of people I can consider a friend, but none of them, not one, would have been as loyal and honest as you’ve been.” The car is quiet for a moment, my cheeks coloring as his words sink in. “Besides,” he says after a few seconds to bring some humor back into the conversation, “you make kick-ass ramen.”

I laugh at that, breaking the tension, and the rest of that day is filled with amicable quiet broken up by fits of singing and random observations about our surroundings.

***

We stop for the night in a bigger city, bigger than the last two that we’ve been in. As we hunt around for a motel and the sun begins sinking behind the horizon, I glance out the window and a tall, metal structure catches my eye in the distance. I stare at it, trying to figure out what it is. It’s not until it moves that it clicks for me. Jordan must figure it out at the same time.

“A Ferris wheel!” he screeches, making me flinch. “Dude, we have to go check it out.”

My stomach sinks a little just at the thought of being around a bunch of people. We’ve been in the car for hours today, and all I want to do is curl up in bed and sleep.

Jordan sees the pinched look on my face. “No, no, c’mon Dyson. Don’t go all introvert on me. It’s been forever since we’ve been on a Ferris wheel! It’s probably like a fair or a festival or something. It’ll be fun!”

I narrow my eyes and he pushes his bottom lip out, almost whimpering as he drives. Every once in a while, he shoots a glance my way, and I swear he has tears glistening in his eyes.

“Fine!” I finally concede, throwing my hands in the air and letting them fall with an audible smack against my legs. “You win.”

“Yeah!” Jordan whoops, and he turns us in the direction of the Ferris wheel.

It doesn’t take us long to find the festival. Most cars are headed that way, anyway. We do struggle to find a parking space, but once we do we head over to a big open area where the rest of the crowd is headed. As we get closer, we see that it’s not just a Ferris wheel. An entire array of amusement park rides stand in this open field—a small rollercoaster, spinning rides, a giant ring that holds a car going around and around, a drop ride. Scattered between the rides are booths of all sorts, from ring toss to shooting games to deep-fried everything. A sign at the entrance boasts that this is, indeed, this county’s spring festival, and it appears most of the city is here.

Jordan gasps and taps my arm repeatedly. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Dyson. Dyson. They have elephant ears. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a god damn elephant ear?” He takes off toward the booth without a backward glance at me. I sigh, but follow behind him.

He’s got the monstrosity of a pastry in no time, and he quickly tears me a piece.

“Oh, God,” he moans as he stuffs too-big piece in his mouth. “I forgot how good these things are.”

I nibble on mine. He’s right, it’s good, but I don’t know how he’s scarfing down the whole thing like it’s nothing. It’s literally made of flour and sugar, and the little piece I have is more than enough for me.

We continue to meander around the booths, Jordan stopping us every few seconds to peer into a booth. Eventually, Jordan stops at a dart-throwing booth. The entire back wall is littered with balloons, and cheap stuffed animals are shoved all along the other walls and outside the booth. A bored-looking attendant hands Jordan three darts after he pays her five dollars, and he goes to work. His first misses completely, thudding against the board in between two balloons. His second nails one, sending a loud pop into the air. He whoops, quickly throwing his third and final dart. This one hits a balloon as well, but it doesn’t pop. Instead, the dart bounces right off the balloon and clatters to the ground.

“Hey,” he protests, turning toward the attendant. “That one hit the balloon.”

She shrugs, not looking up from her phone. “Doesn’t count. Balloon didn’t pop.” She points to a row of small stuffed animals to her right. “You can pick from these.”

Muttering under his breath, Jordan looks them over and settles on a neon green lizard. Some of its scales seem to change color when the light hits them. The girl hands Jordan the lizard and doesn’t give us another look.

We start to walk away, and Jordan examines his prize. “Kind of a dopey looking thing, isn’t it?” he laughs, looking directly in its face.

He’s not wrong. The eyes sit a little weirdly on its face, making it look like the animal is looking in two different directions. I chuckle, agreeing with him. He looks at it hard once more before sticking his arm out toward me, lizard in hand.

“Here,” he says, opening his hand so I can take it.

I’m startled, though, and stop dead in my tracks. “What?” I stammer, heat rushing to my cheeks.

“Here,” he repeats. “It’s green—goes with your Irish heritage.”

I roll my eyes but snatch the lizard out of his hands. I have no idea if I’m actually Irish or not. Jordan decided that I am years ago, stating that my hair plus my pale skin equals Irish, no doubt about it. He’s been giving me green shit ever since, especially around St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a corny, stupid thing, and the lizard isn’t even store quality. It’ll probably melt if it gets wet, or fall apart in a few months no matter what I do to it. But I keep it in my hand for the rest of the evening, not wanting to let it go.

We keep meandering through the festival, pausing every so often to look at the games or items, though we don’t play anymore and don’t purchase anything aside from a strawberry topped funnel cake for Jordan. Eventually, though, we hit the ride section of the festival, and Jordan immediately heads for the ticket booth. I stand back, letting him decide how many rides he thinks he wants to try. He comes back with a handful of tickets, grinning from ear to ear.

I raise an eyebrow at him, though my heart warms at the sight of him looking so happy. “What’s first?”

“Rollercoaster. Duh.”

I glance over at it, giving it a once over. It looks safe enough, but I know it was put up quickly. Festivals like this don’t hang around, nor do they have permanent fixtures like rollercoasters. My stomach churns at the thought of a screw coming loose as the car comes around a tight corner, causing us to fly off the end. So, I shake my head, deciding that a shoddy rollercoaster is not how I want to go.

Jordan rolls his eyes, but moves on and looks around at his other options. He settles on one, and we head over.

As we get closer, I look it up and down. It’s something called the “Gravity Bender”, and it’s roughly diamond shaped. There’s a short line, so we go stand behind the other people—mostly kids—waiting to get on. It only takes a few minutes before we’re inside the diamond. Immediately, I’m confused.

The only thing in the diamond is a central control hub for the operator to sit in. Along the walls are mats, but they’re straight up and down and lacking any sort of safety restraints. All the kids rush in and head for the mats, so Jordan and I do as well. They’re all trying to scoot up on the mats so their feet don’t touch the floor, gripping the edges and pressing their feet flat against the wall. I look at Jordan, but he seems just as confused as I do.

The operator tells us to lay flat against the mat, keep our hands and legs on the mat, and closes the door. Wait, that’s all the instruction we get? My heart starts to race a little as I impatiently wait for what’s next. Suddenly, the diamond starts to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster. I start to feel glued to my mat, and as the diamond tips, I realize the mats are on sliders. I slide toward the ceiling first, then toward the ground as the diamond tips the other way. It’s a strange sensation, but not one that makes me panic. I understand now why there are no safety belts—there’s no need. No one could get off their mats if they tried. I lift my hand, struggling to get it off the mat, and laugh as it comes slamming down on the mat when I stop trying.

Soon, the ride ends, and everyone’s mats come sliding to the floor. All the kids slide off their mats, and when the door opens everyone exits. A smile is stuck on my face; it was an interesting experience, and I’m glad Jordan made us get tickets. I turn around to tell him so, but his face is slightly green. I can’t help it—I laugh.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, holding his stomach. “I blame the sugar.”

“Stay here,” I chuckle as I lead him to a bench. “I’ll be right back.”

I head for a booth close by and order two hot dogs and some water, basically the closest thing I can find to real food. I take them back over to Jordan, and while he refuses at first, he starts nibbling on the hot dog. He quickly regains his color and starts eating normally.

“Thanks,” he says. I nod, and we eat quietly for a moment. He glances back up at the Ferris wheel and nudges me with his elbow. “Wanna do it?”

I shrug, and we head over in that direction. As we wait in line, two girls fall in behind us. They look about our age, both dark-haired and pretty. I wonder if they’re from around here, if they’re in high school or college. I glance at the taller one’s ball cap and realize it’s adorned with Greek lettering. College, then. And sorority girls, to boot. I stifle a sigh as I realize Jordan will have a heyday with this if they acknowledge us. I hear them whispering, and when I glance behind me they giggle and turn their faces away. Blood creeps into my cheeks.

Not long after, the taller one of them taps Jordan on the shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, giving him a wide smile. “Do you guys have anyone to go up with? We were wondering if maybe you’d want to go up with us.” She flutters her eyelashes at him, obviously wanting to sit in the bucket seat with him. A grin touches Jordan’s lips, and I can tell that he’d very much like to talk to this girl.

But instead of just ignoring me and going for the girl, he retreats. Jordan jerks his thumb at me. “Well, actually—” “

“No,” I interrupt. Jordan gives me a look, and I kick myself for saying it, but continue. “No, we don’t. We’d love to go up with you.”

The two girls smile, turning to talk to one another before we get up to the front of the line. Jordan turns to me and gives me a look.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs. “You don’t have to.”

No, sit with me! I nod, though, and he smiles at me. He claps me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers before turning to face the two girls.

Quickly, we’re at the front and headed up on the wheel. Jordan and the girl who talked get in first, and the other girl and I get into the bucket just beneath them. It’s awkward, sitting in this little bucket with a girl that I don’t even know, and we sit in tense silence for a few moments.

“So,” she says, trying to break the ice. “I’m Becca.”

“Dyson,” I reply absently. I don’t really want to converse with her. I’m staring at the bucket above us as best as I can, listening hard for laughter and conversation.

“Do you go to school around here?”

“No. New York.”

She gasps. “New York? That’s incredible! Do you love it there? I’ve always wanted to go, but I’ve never been anywhere but—”

“I’m gay,” I mutter, still staring at the other bucket.

She quiets, and immediately I wince and want to take it back, or at least take back the harshness in my tone. I didn’t mean to cut her off or make her feel stupid, though I know I must have. I just didn’t want her to get her hopes up or to continue trying her hardest to make conversation when I didn’t want to have one.

“Oh,” she murmurs. It’s quiet again for a few moments. “Is that other guy your boyfriend?” she asks, though I can hear the skepticism in her voice.

“No.”

Another quiet moment. “Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”

I cringe, and she snaps her fingers.

“Ah-ha,” she says, sounding very pleased with herself. “I thought I was getting together vibes from you guys. I was shocked you wanted to go up with us.” She pauses. “Wait, why did you want to go up with us?”

I sigh. This girl likes to talk, probably just as much as Jordan does, and I let go of the hope of having a quiet ride. “He wanted to.”

“But if you like him, why did you—” I can almost see the lightbulb go on in her head. “Oh. He’s straight, yeah?”

I don’t say anything, but it’s enough.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. It makes me look at her, instead of around her or at the other bucket. She has a dusting of light freckles on her face, and her brown eyes are soft and light. She seems sincere, and it takes me aback. Why should this stranger feel badly for my pathetic, unrequited love?

“If it makes you feel better,” she continues, her gaze shifting down to her hands as she picks at her nails, “I have a huge crush on my friend. Lizzy. The one that’s with your friend right now.” My eyes must bug out of my head a little, because she shrugs. “I could never tell her. She doesn’t even know I’m gay. She wanted to ask you guys to go up with us, and I couldn’t tell her why I didn’t want to.”

Tears prick my eyes a bit and I rub my hand over my face. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, and she starts laughing, too. I just can’t believe my luck. That I love someone I can’t have. That we ended up at this random festival on a whim. That a girl and her friend asked us to ride with them, we said yes, and the one I end up with has a crush on her oblivious friend, too. It’s all too coincidental, too much for me right now, and all I can do is laugh at the circumstance. Suddenly, we’re both howling with laughter, clutching our sides and tears flowing freely down our faces. It takes a few minutes for us to calm down, almost the entirety of the ride, but soon the last chuckles are out of our systems. The bucket is quiet in the absence of our laughter.

“Love sucks,” Becca mutters, crossing her arms and thumping against the seat back.

“Yeah,” I murmur, “it does.”

The rest of the ride is quiet, and soon we’re off. Jordan and the other girl are waiting for us a few feet away from the fence surrounding the Ferris wheel. They’re not touching, but I can tell that their conversation went a little better and smoother than ours did.

Becca immediately heads for her friend, looping her arm through the other girl’s. “Hey,” the other girl says. “Jordan and I were just saying that we should all go get drinks tonight!”

The light drains out of Becca’s eyes and I see dread replace it. “Uh,” she stammers. “I think I’d rather just go home. It’s getting late, anyway. And I don’t feel very well.”

“Aw, c’mon, Becca!” The other girl hangs on her arm and smiles at her. Becca looks pained, and my heart aches for her. “It’ll be fun.”

When Becca still hesitates, Jordan seems to pick up on it and steps in. “It’s okay, Liz,” he says. “I’m feeling kind of tired, too, and I know Dyson over here likes his beauty sleep.” He punches me lightly in the arm, chuckling.

The smile falls from Liz’s face a little. “Oh. Are you sure?” she asks.

Jordan nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

She frowns, but doesn’t push the issue. “Well…okay. Here, take this, though.” She fishes an old receipt out of her purse and a pen. She writes down a number on it and hands it to Jordan, giving him a small smile. “In case you ever come by here again.”

He smiles back at her, and I swear I see her almost melt on the spot. “If we ever swing through here again, you’ll be the first to know.”

We say our goodbyes and part ways. As we head to the car and get a little distance between the girls and us, Jordan nudges me with his elbow.

“Thanks,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you wanted to go up with that girl. It’s not like you were trying to get in her pants or anything,” he laughs. “It wasn’t too awkward, was it?”

“No,” I murmur, thinking back to her soft, sad eyes. “It was fine.”

“Well, good. And thanks again. Liz seemed nice. We had a good conversation.”

I wait for him to add the obvious, and when he doesn’t I roll my eyes. “And she was hot?” I wince and hope he doesn’t hear the sharp sarcasm in my voice.

He doesn’t. He grins. “Well, and that.”

I shake my head. We finally reach the car and drive around for a bit before we find a motel that has rooms available. Both of us crash pretty hard when we get into the room. Jordan falls into bed without changing any of his clothes. He’s snoring before I’m able to climb into bed.

I watch him for a minute in the darkness, watching the way his chest rises and falls with the rhythm of his light snores. He’s beautiful, even in the shadows of the room, and it makes me sigh. It’ll always be girls like Liz who draw him in. It’ll never be a scrawny red-headed guy who does. And as much as I’ve accepted that fact, the pain of knowing it and seeing it happen in front of me doesn’t dull any. I may have pushed him toward her, but it was for him. Because I care about him, because I know he doesn’t want me. He wants girls like her. Not guys like me.

I pull the little green lizard from my jean pocket, though, and hold it in my hands. I stare in its wonky eyes, but it wins the staring contest. Its scales look dull in the dark, but the vibrancy of the green is just as bright as it was in the sunlight. As I stare at it, a thought occurs to me.

Jordan didn’t win this little guy for Liz. He didn’t win it for any other girl there. He didn’t win it for himself. He won it for me. He picked out this specific stuffed animal for me, for the sake of our running inside joke. I inhale deeply, latching on to this feeling.

I have something with Jordan that these girls will never be able to touch. Even if it’s just friendship. Even if it never blossoms into anything more than that. It’s a friendship which runs deep and clear, and it’s one his flings will never come close to. I can’t have him as a boyfriend, but I can have him as a best friend, and that’s more than these girls will ever get.

So, ha. Take that, Lizzy. It’s petty, but I can’t help thinking it. The thought makes me smile, and I place the lizard carefully on the nightstand between our beds. I get under the covers and stare at it. It stares back at me.

Quickly, before I can change my mind and before Jordan makes any notion of stirring, I snatch it off the nightstand and place a quick kiss on its snout.

“Good night,” I whisper to it.

Silly as it is, the act makes me feel better, and I sleep sounder and harder that night than I have since we left New York.

Chapter Six

The next day begins with a call from Jordan’s mother.

We both wake to the shrill ringing of his phone. I groan, looking at the time: six in the morning. I’m about to be angry, but I realize that we’re at least one time zone away now, possibly two. I haven’t been paying attention. It’s later where she is. Not much, but enough that she probably thought we’d be on the road already. Jordan groggily gropes for the phone to shut off the abhorrent noise.

“Hello?” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes and squishing his face up. I hear a muffled response from the other end, and immediately he’s ramrod straight. I only get half of the conversation after that, though I can still hear his mom almost yelling on the other end of the call. “Mom, hey. Yeah, we’re fine. No, no trouble with the car. Yeah. Yes. What? No, why would you think that?” A longer pause this time, and Jordan groans. “Well, hobos living in motel bathtubs is not a thing, Mom.” Despite being exhausted, I grin; I’m sure I’m the one who put that thought in her head.

“We’re fine. Yes, both of us. No, he’s not—” More garbled yelling from the other end. Jordan holds out the phone to me, rolling his eyes and sighing dramatically. “It’s for you,” he stage-whispers.

I grab it, pressing it to my ear.

“…now, mister, I don’t care if he’s in a coma, you give Dyson the phone this instant – “

“Hi, Deanne,” I say, cutting her off.

“Oh!” she chirps, the strict chiding immediately morphing into chipper, normal speech. “Dyson, sweetie, how are you? Is everything going all right? Jordan isn’t lying to me, right?”

I grin. She’s always been like this, calling me or forcing Jordan to put me on the phone when we’re off doing something. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Jordan; contrarily, I think she trusts him completely. She’s a worrier, though, and when she feels like something is even just a little bit off, she begins to panic. This results in frantic phone calls, both to me and to Jordan, double and triple checking details, and asking the same questions repeatedly. It frustrates Jordan to no end, but I understand it. I’m happy to placate her and calm her down, and tend to do so much quicker and better than Jordan does.

I haven’t seen Jordan call or text his mom since we’ve left, and I’m almost positive that’s what she’s freaking out about. “We’re fine, I promise. Jordan’s just terrible at remembering to tell people he’s arrived somewhere safe.” Jordan narrows his eyes at me and sticks out his tongue. I flip him off in return. “We’re in…” I glance at my phone to make sure. “St. Louis.”

“In Missouri?” she asks.

“Yeah, just across the border from Illinois.”

“So far away,” she moans. I chuckle, and she takes a deep breath before continuing. “You boys are getting enough sleep, right? Not driving for too long, stopping to rest and eat?”

“Yes, Deanne, we are,” I say, deciding to leave out the fact that Jordan hasn’t once let me touch the steering wheel this whole trip. “I promise, we’re being careful.”

“Okay,” she says, though I can still hear a twinge of uncertainty in her voice.

“Look, if you’re still feeling worried later on, don’t hesitate to text me, okay? I’ll text you right back. And I promise I won’t do it while I’m driving.”

“You’re a good boy, Dyson,” she coos. “Jordan never answers my texts.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“Good. Oh! Can you send me that picture of you two while you’re at it? The one I took before you left?”

I grimace; apparently, it hadn’t slipped her mind like I was hoping it would. I can’t pretend to forget twice. I’ll have to send it to her, no matter how ugly I feel it is. “Sure thing.”

“Thanks, honey. Drive safe, now.”

“Will do.”

I hand the phone back to Jordan, who takes it reluctantly.

“Hey, Mom.” Muffled talking from the other end. It’s quieter than before; she must not be yelling at him now. “Yeah. I’ll do better. Okay. Okay, Mom. Yeah. Love you, too. Bye.”

He hangs up, giving me an exasperated look as he does. “Holy shit, she just can’t let me be,” he groans, though a laugh tickles the end of his words.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “At least you have a mom that worries,” I retort, thinking about my own mother, who hasn’t even texted me once since we left.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. I can tell he feels a little guilty for complaining about his mom. He knows she just cares, and she wouldn’t worry the way she does if she didn’t care. I know if I’d grown up with her as a mom, I’d probably get irritated with it, too. But still, it’s easier to take things for granted when you’ve never known anything else.

Trying to break the tension, I stand up. “Well, we’re already up. Might as well get on the road.”

Jordan nods and starts getting ready for the day. We’re out and on the highway in less than twenty minutes.

***

We stop after a solid six hours of driving, at a motel situated directly across from a bar. Upon seeing it, I look directly away, hoping Jordan won’t see it. I desperately, desperately want to just go to bed. Though Jordan was driving all day, I was fielding texts from his mother, doing my best to make sure she understood we’re doing just fine. I don’t want to talk to him, or anyone else, for the rest of the night.

Unfortunately, he does notice it and, as I was dreading, he begs me to go.

“Please,” he pleads. “I desperately need a drink. This is so much driving, man.”

“We’ve been in the car for six fucking hours today, Jordan,” I complain. “I’m tired, and sore, and I don’t want to interact with anyone for the rest of the night. There’s a gas station a block away. We can get alcohol there if you really need a drink.”

“No. I need to, like, sit at an actual bar with people who aren’t just you. No offense, but almost twenty hours in the car with you over three days is too many hours. I need contact with other human beings. Besides, I’m the one that’s been driving, not you.”

“Because you won’t let me,” I grumble.

“Please, please, please, Dyce,” he begs, pushing his bottom lip out to pout.

I fidget a little, still not wanting to go. I’m tired, and I’ve never been a huge fan of bars. Too crowded, too loud, too grimy. I much prefer drinking at home with a few friends than out. However, Jordan is right, and honestly, I’m getting sick of just interacting with him as well. The phone call with his mother was the biggest relief this morning, despite the stress of having to text her throughout the rest of the day, and that first conversation wasn’t even in person. So, I give in, and with a triumphant “whoop” Jordan goes and checks us in. We quickly get to the room and throw all our stuff inside.

With our belongings stowed away in the room, we head out and across the street toward the brightly lit bar. Neon flashes on the old wood, promising at least three different kinds of beer and that it is, indeed, open. We duck inside, surprised at how many people seemed to be packed into the little space, and snag a couple of seats at the bar. A pretty blonde, not much older than us, immediately comes over, her curls bouncing as she trots our way.

“What can I get you, boys?” she asks, flashing us a toothy grin framed by red lips. A slight twang afflicts her voice, though it’s not enough to overpower her words.

“Whatever’s on tap,” Jordan says.

“Same,” I murmur. I’m not in the mood to drink, but sipping on one beer won’t hurt.

She nods and comes back quickly with the drinks in hand. She doesn’t leave right away, and Jordan takes it as a cue that she wants to talk. Though the bar is packed, most of the patrons aren’t sitting at the bar, instead choosing to sit at tables together while they drink and eat.

“What’s your name?” he asks, taking it upon himself to start the conversation.

“Marlene,” she replies, “but everyone calls me Marley.”

“That’s a nice name,” Jordan responds. “I’m Jordan, and this is Dyson.”

“Where’re you boys from?”

“New York.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “As in New York City?” We both nod, and she laughs. “Wow. What are you guys doin’ here, then?”

“We’re on a road trip,” Jordan answers. I don’t bother trying to put in any words myself; Jordan thrives on conversations like this, and there’s nothing I want to do less than talk to this girl. She seems nice enough, but I can already feel a tired-induced headache coming on. “Headed to the Grand Canyon. You know, one last hoorah after college and before reality comes crashing down on us,” Jordan chuckles.

Marley giggles. “That sounds exciting. I’ve never been there. Never been that far, period.”

“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

Marley’s eyes light up at the question, and I can tell she’s excited that Jordan genuinely seems interested. Looking around, it doesn’t seem like many people who come here would partake in much small talk with the bartender. Most of them are older and look enthralled with their drinks, paying little attention to anything else. Even the groups they sit in are rather subdued for a bar, with very few hollers or loud laughter punctuating the quiet hum of talk and music in the background.

Girls at bars in New York—bartenders or otherwise—tend to be more guarded when Jordan asks questions like this, prepared for him to use it as an in and push for sex. The thing is, he’s not doing it as an act. Never has. He’s genuinely, truly interested in talking to people. He’ll talk to anyone, anywhere—on the bus, on a park bench, waiting in line at the grocery store. He’s talked to mothers, skaters, homeless people, petitioners, and everyone in between and has been truly happy to do so. He’s told me before that he loves hearing people’s stories, from all walks of life. The photo collection is one part of this love; talking to everyone he can is the other. He’s not asking Marley just to get on her good side, but because he truly wants to know about her life simply for the sake of it.

Her eyes, framed by dark, long lashes, flit upwards as she tries to think. “Well,” she muses, “if I could go anywhere in the world, it’d have –”

A man bumps into my shoulder and almost knocks me off my chair. A little of my drink splashes onto the counter as my arm jerks forward. Jordan steadies me, glaring at the guy to my left. He’s a big guy. Not necessarily muscular or anything, but big nonetheless. My bet would be he’s a trucker or a mechanic of some sort; his shirt has grease stains on it, and his hair is slicked back into a quasi-mullet. Stubble clings to his cheeks, but it doesn’t look artful or intentional on his part. It just looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. The stench of alcohol rolls off his tongue as he leans forward toward Marley.

“Another round, sweet cheeks,” he drawls, deep and slow.

The smile fades from Marley’s face as she narrows her eyes at him. “That was rude, Darryl.”

“Not as rude as you ignoring your customers while you chat these two up.”

She shakes her head, but heads toward the tap anyway without another word, filling up four mugs and handing them over to Darryl. “Here,” she snaps.

“C’mon now,” he says, reaching over to chuck her under the chin. She flinches back, though, and his fingers only touch the air in between them. “Don’t act like that. Give me a smile, sugar.”

I swear I can see steam shooting from her ears. I feel Jordan tense beside me, most likely ready to get up and punch this guy if he tries to touch her again. I put a hand on his arm, trying to calm him down. It must work a little at least, because I feel his muscles relax slightly and the feeling of eminent violence diminish. Marley, instead of fighting the issue, gives him a forced smile. She ends up baring her teeth more than grinning, but it placates Darryl and he stomps off to his table without any other requests.

We’re all quiet for a moment.

“Why did you let him talk to you like that?” Jordan asks, anger tinging his voice, though it isn’t directed at her. “He’s a jackass.”

Marley shrugs, sighing. I wonder how often she has to deal with her customers treating her like that, like she’s their servant or a piece of meat for them to ogle over. My skin crawls as I realize it’s probably every time she’s on the clock. “Yeah, but he gives good tips. If I dish back what he gives to me, sometimes he doesn’t even pay for the drinks and it gets taken out of my check. So, I deal with him. It’s easier that way.”

Jordan presses his lips together but doesn’t say anything. I get where she’s coming from. I’d probably do the same thing if I were her; I don’t do well with confrontation. But Jordan has never backed down from things like this, and I can tell it bothers him that she is.

Instead of pushing the issue, Jordan changes topics, plastering a smile on his face. “So, where would you travel? You never got to tell me.”

A real smile touches Marley’s lips again. “Italy. I’ve always wanted to, ever since I was a kid.”

We continue the conversation, each of us sharing answers to different questions, though I’m quiet as much as possible. Small talk isn’t my thing, and I let Jordan take the reins with this one.

Eventually, though, Marley has to go back to working, and we enjoy our drinks quietly for several minutes. I see Jordan’s eyes flicking around the room, though, scanning and definitively looking for something. I sigh.

“Don’t,” I plead.

His eyes widen as he tries to look innocent. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to set me up.”

“Who said I was trying?”

“You’re perusing the room looking for guys. They’re all way older than us and not exactly my type, so don’t bother.”

“Maybe I was looking for myself,” he mutters, giving me a sideways glance. He knows I know he’s lying, though, if for no other reason than that Marley is about the only girl in here, and the only one remotely close to our age. “But…if I was looking for you, which I’m not saying I was, you’re wrong. There’s a guy over in the back who’s younger. And attractive,” he adds quickly.

I sigh, looking toward where Jordan is referencing. There is, indeed, a man back there, probably in his late-twenties or early-thirties. And Jordan is right, he’s attractive. He’s got a rough, wide beard and tousled midnight hair, setting off his tan skin nicely. He’s got his shirt rolled up to the elbows, allowing muscles in his forearms to push through. I peg him as a farmer. He’s absorbed in a book, though, and I voice my concern to Jordan.

“So? If he shuts you down, fine, whatever. His loss. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Groaning, I pull myself off the barstool and head over to the back. I don’t want to do this, partly because the guy truly does seem absorbed in his book, partly because I hate the flirting games, and partly because it’s almost impossible for me to be interested in someone when Jordan is sitting right there. But I know from past experience that Jordan won’t stop bugging me until I at least go over there and try, so I trudge forward, one foot reluctantly following the other.

I go up to this guy’s table, and when he doesn’t notice me I clear my throat. He starts and looks up.

“Hi,” I mumble, stuffing one hand in my pocket and waving slightly with the other. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Uh, no, not at all,” he says, his voice deeper than I expected, and he gestures toward the seat across from him.

“I’m Dyson,” I say as I sit.

“Keith,” he replies, already turning back to his book.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” I ask quickly, before he’s too far into reading again.

He looks up, questions in his eyes.

I sigh. “Look, my friend is sitting over there, at the bar. He made me come over to talk to you because his life’s goal is to hook me up with random strangers.” His eyes widen a little, and I quickly smooth over it. “I’m not asking you for anything, it’s fine if you’re not gay. But since you’re attractive and sitting alone, he thought I should take a stab at it. I’m not. But can you just talk to me for a bit, make it look like I gave it a shot?”

Keith watches me warily, but nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Thanks. It’ll only take a minute. Do you live around here?”

“Yes.”

I can tell he’s uncomfortable, and I try my best to put him at ease. I’m not good with talking, but I get better at it when I’m trying to make someone else feel better. “Cool. I don’t. Just passing through. Good news for you. You won’t have to worry about running into me after this.” It works. He smiles, just a small twitch of his mouth, visibly relaxing into his chair a bit. I thank my lucky stars that other people’s discomfort allows me to suddenly become a charming, savvy navigator of small talk.

“Where are you from?” he ventures.

“New York. My friend and I are driving to the Grand Canyon.” I decide to take a chance, which will help my odds of making Jordan shut up about hooking me up with this guy. “Do you mind if I touch your hand? Just with my fingertips. Only a second.”

The wariness comes back, but he again nods. My heart warms; this guy is trying to be nice, and I appreciate it, especially since we’re currently located right in the belt of the southern Midwest. I reach out and touch his hand.

As soon as I do, my chair is thrown backward. My head cracks on the ground, and lights dance across my eyes for a moment. A man stands over me, but the little dancing lights make everything fuzzy and I can’t tell who it is.

“We don’t like no fucking faggots here,” a voice growls close to my face. I realize it’s Darryl, that same guy that was rude to Marley.

“Get away from him,” Jordan snarls. I turn my head and see him standing a few feet away, fists balled at his side and his chest puffed out.

Darryl stands, turning his attention away from me and toward Jordan. His fists are clenched as well. My stomach churns, and I desperately hope that nothing will come of this. Jordan’s mom will be so angry with both of us if the night after she calls—not even twenty-four hours later—Jordan ends up in a bar fight. “You standing up for that faggot?”

“Don’t call him that,” Jordan snarls, taking a step toward Darryl.

“Or what?” Darryl chuckles. I see his point. Jordan, while very athletic and muscular, is wearing a long-sleeved shirt that covers his muscles, and he doesn’t look very intimidating. He’s still a couple inches shorter than this guy. Darryl, on the other hand, looks to be at least three hundred pounds and sports extremely meaty hands. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’s had experience punching other people in the face, either for sports or for pleasure.

Jordan doesn’t waste any time. He lunges forward and grabs Darryl by the shirt, shoving him against the wall. I hear Darryl’s head snap against it, and I wince. Jordan gets right in his face, which is frozen in surprise as his mouth flaps open.

I scramble to my feet, fear spiking through me. I grip Jordan’s arm, hard enough that my knuckles turn white, but his eyes don’t even twitch in my direction. I pull on his arm. I’m grateful that he’s sticking up for me, but this is too far. “Enough, Jordan,” I hiss, and he must hear the seriousness in my tone because he finally glances in my direction. His body shifts slightly under my hand before turning his attention back to Darryl.

“You’re going to leave my friend alone,” he growls. “We’re going to walk out of here, unharmed. And you’re not going to bother us anymore. Got it?”

Darryl glowers at him and gives him a muffled response, but it’s good enough for Jordan. He releases Darryl and turns toward me, nonchalantly draping his arm over my shoulder and guiding me toward the door. I breathe a sigh of relief and walk with him willingly. The rest of the bar gives us a wide berth.

As we reach the door, Darryl unfreezes and yells. “You better keep your black ass away from here. If I see you fags again, I’ll kill ya!”

Jordan tenses and starts to turn. I stiffen as well, trying to get my arms up to hold him back; I’ve had enough of this. I love how strong and confident Jordan is, but this macho man bullshit makes my skin crawl. They’d probably end up beating each other into a pulp, anyway, and the last thing I want is a bleeding Jordan or a ride in the back of a cop car. I just want to leave.

To my surprise, though, Jordan doesn’t turn all the way around. Instead, he only turns halfway so that he’s facing me. He grabs my face with both hands and plants a solid kiss on my lips, holding me there for a couple of seconds.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Fire races from my lips to my gut, but I’m so stunned I can’t do anything in response to it. Before I’m able to pull myself together, Jordan pulls back, again wrapping his arm around my shoulder and flipping the bird with his other as we leave. We walk quickly, not running, but not strolling either. My heart is still pounding in my chest. As soon as we’re in our motel, Jordan locks the door and puts the chain across it. He leans against it, letting his head rest back. I sit gingerly onto my bed, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he pulls himself off the door and comes toward me, taking a seat directly next to me. I freeze as he tips my head forward with gentle hands, examining the back of my head. I hiss as he lightly probes where my head had slammed against the floor. “We need to get some ice on this,” he murmurs. “You’ve already got a nice goose egg back here.”

“Great,” I mumble, remaining completely still. He removes his hand and heads toward his bag, coming back with a cold compress. I raise my eyebrows, sending a sharp pain through my head. I wince and take it. “Where’d you get that?”

“Mom made me pack a first-aid kit. I had it in my bag.”

I nod, thankful for Deanne’s worrisome nature, and press it against the back of my head, the cool immediately relieving some of the pain and pressure.

I bite my lip, questions sitting on the tip of my tongue and ready to burst, but I’m unsure if I want to ask right now. Jordan makes up my mind for me.

“Sorry for molesting you back there,” he murmurs, folding his hands in his lap.

I shrug, trying to act as cool as possible. “It’s fine.” It’s not. “But…why did you?”

He gives me a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “That guy was a dick and clearly homophobic. Probably racist, too. So, I thought I’d make him as uncomfortable as possible before making our exit.”

I chuckle. Part of me feels viciously happy we made Darryl uncomfortable. Part of me shrivels down into nothing when I confirm the kiss was nothing more than an act for Jordan. It wasn’t anything but a way to piss some homophobic asshole off. I do my best to make sure he only sees the gratitude.

Jordan bites his lip and averts his eyes, his smile fading from his face. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have jumped you like that. He just made me so angry for hurting you, and I had to do something. It was that or starting a bar fight.” He laughs nervously, as though he’s worried I’m upset with him. My heart simultaneously melts and breaks at the thought.

“You’re fine,” I reply. My voice comes out normal, but I can feel it start to close as tears build in my eyes. “I’m not upset or anything. I’m just glad you didn’t get into a fist fight.”

He nods, but I can still feel tension in the air. My chest tightens; very rarely is there ever any tension between us. On my end, sure. Unrequited love will do that to a person. But on his end? Never. His friendship is uncomplicated and pure, and results in very few issues between us. Now, though, I feel like he’s not saying something, or perhaps he’s upset for some reason. Maybe he regrets kissing me. Maybe he’s absolutely disgusted by it and can’t bear to look at me right now. My eyes burn and I turn my head away.

“Well,” he says, drawing out the word. “I’m going to sleep. Night.”

“Night,” I mutter as I click off the light.

I toss and turn for hours after the room goes dark, rooting around under the covers and desperately trying to forget the feeling of Jordan’s lips on mine. I try deep breathing exercises. I try naming every animal I can in alphabetical order. I try putting in my headphones and listening to a dull, monotonous podcast. I try listening to heavy metal that just about blows my eardrums out. But no matter what I do to distract myself, every so often I’ll hear Jordan sigh in his sleep, or catch him moving out of the corner of my eye, and the full force of his kiss burns at the front and center of my mind. Finally, just past two in the morning, I can’t stand lying in bed anymore and decide that getting into the shower is my best bet of calming down.

I tiptoe past Jordan, doing my best not to even look in his direction. I shut the bathroom door as quietly as I can and only turn on the light once the door is fully closed. I go over to the shower and turn it on, and I wince at the noise of the water hitting the ceramic, like gunfire in the absolute silence of the night. Listening at the door, I don’t hear Jordan stirring, so I wait impatiently for the water to warm up and hop in.

My muscles immediately start to unwind as the hot water cascades over my skin. I sigh, reveling in the warmth. In an attempt to make this night melt away, I go through each of the events that caused this spiral one by one. It’s a trick my dad—a psychologist and therapist, though not my own—taught me to use whenever I find myself in an anxious spiral and nothing else has worked. So, I close my eyes and think back to where all the discomfort started. Jordan forcing me to talk to that guy. I let the feelings wash over me, letting myself feel them. I count to ten, take a deep breath, and picture the feelings blowing away in a huge gust of wind as I exhale. I take several deep breaths, and then I move on to the next thing. The look on the guy’s face when he realized I was supposed to be hitting on him. Then the sensation of falling as that asshole pulled my chair down. Then the wound opened by the word “faggot” being slung at me. Then the worry that Jordan would start a fight and he and I might both end up injured or dead.

I work through each event, pausing and going over it again if it doesn’t feel like I’ve completely let it go. For the most part, it’s working, and my chest feels lighter than it has all evening. But then I’m left with only one event remaining—the kiss. As soon as I think about it, a warm tingle hits my gut and a rush of sadness follows it, and no matter how many deep breaths I take, I can’t make that feeling go away.

I’d been stunned, frozen by the sheer shock of the thing I’d been hoping would happen for nine whole years actually was. I hadn’t been able to move or think in the moment. Now, though, I think about what I would have done.

I would have kissed him back. I would have put my hand on his face, maybe twisted my fingers in his hair. I would have pressed my body closer to his. I would have shown him that the kiss didn’t have to just be a huge “fuck you” to that asshole Darryl, that it could be something more, the start of something wonderful and loving and beautiful.

As I let myself imagine what could have been, my dick starts to rise in response. I let my hand drift down toward it, my eyes still closed as the fantasy I’ve shoved away for so long dances across my eyelids. I rarely let myself think about what it would be like to be with him. As a budding teenager, I couldn’t help it, but it always hurt too much when I realized it would never happen that I almost stopped thinking about it all together. Only little snippets, little reminders of him dating other people, managed to sting me for a very long time. But tonight, that fantasy comes rushing in full force, and I can’t help but to run with it.

I run my fingertips along the length of my shaft, imagining that it’s Jordan’s hands touching me, tentatively, for the first time. My hand drifts lower, caressing my balls, and I think about Jordan cupping them in his large, warm hand. A throb runs through me, spiking my desire, and I grip my shaft more firmly in response. I start moving up and down, thinking of Jordan’s hands, his lips on mine, his breath hot and fast mixing with my own. I’d bite his lip, and he’d moan, turning us both on even more and making the intimacy more intense. I’d reach out and grab him, too, matching his pace with my own. I’d trace the lines defined on his body with my other hand, making him shiver, and he’d grip my shoulder and pull me closer.

Our hips would start moving as both of us near orgasm. He’d squeeze a little harder, bite my ear lobe, kiss my neck. He’d whisper my name in my ear, and I’d be the only thing on his mind. I’d breathe in the scent of his skin, sweat mixed with his musky cologne, and I’d squeeze him back. His other fingers would dance along my skin, and I wouldn’t worry about how different we look and whether we look good together or not. I wouldn’t worry that he wouldn’t find me attractive. Him being with me would be enough, and I’d sink into him without a worry or care in the world. My entire focus would be on him and the wonderful feel of his hands on me, and his entire world, for those few precious moments, would revolve completely around me. We’d move together, our lips desperate for more and more, as we cum in each other’s hands. Tingles would prickle all over my body—my stomach, my hands my face—and we’d fall back onto the bed together, laughing as both of us struggle to regain our breath and we clean each other up. We’d curl up, my head on his chest, and he’d run his fingers through my hair. He’d kiss me on the top of the head, and we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms.

My hand moves quickly on my penis, and pleasure builds inside me. I hunch over as I orgasm, stifling a small groan as cum shoots out into the shower. I pant for a moment and finally open my eyes. I’m met with the stained wall of the shower, alone, with the sensation of the water hitting my back as my only companion. No snuggling. No laughter. No Jordan.

A cannonball hits me in the gut and my legs will no longer support me. I crumble to the floor and I draw my knees into my chest, resting my forehead on my knees. I squeeze my eyes shut as sobs wrack my chest and tears leak from my eyes and the water pounds my back.

Chapter Seven

Jordan wakes before I do the following morning, though it’s not long before his perpetual banging around rouses me as well. I groggily go through the motions of my morning routine. The room is absent of any conversation, and within a few minutes, we’re back in the car.

It doesn’t take long for my stomach to start rumbling. I glance at the box of granola bars in the backseat, but my stomach turns just looking at them. I need coffee. And actual food.

“Can we stop and get food before we get too far?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Jordan mumbles. I look his way. It was one word, but he sounds off. Distant, more so than usual. Distant isn’t something that Jordan does without something on his mind; he’s more of an in-the-moment kind of person.

“You okay?” I prod.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” I know I’m pushing, but the less he talks the more worried I get. Jordan is a talker. One and two word responses are not his forte.

“I said, I’m fine, Dyson,” he growls, anger tinging his voice.

I lean back in my seat, clamping my mouth shut as an icky feeling moves through my gut. Rarely does Jordan shut me up like this, or anyone else, for that matter. The rest of the trip to a small café is dead silent, with only the sound of the tires on the asphalt to soften the quiet.

We don’t pause for very long, and soon we’re heading toward the Grand Canyon again in awkward, uncomfortable silence.

***

A couple of hours in, a brown sign pops up on the side of the highway advertising a hiking trail. Normally, I’m not a very outdoorsy person. It doesn’t take much sunlight to cause an incredibly red and painful burn to show up on my skin, and while I’ve never been completely awkward and klutzy, I’m not exactly an athlete like Jordan. I always tried to get out of P.E. requirements, always tried to worm my way back inside when my mother made me play outside, and always avoided the sunlight like the plague.

But today, I point to the brown sign on impulse and hit Jordan’s arm.

He flinches, cussing as he jerks the wheel a little. “What the hell, man?” he spits. “I’m driving; don’t hit me.”

“Pull off at the next exit.”

“Why?”

“I want to hike.”

No matter the tension in the car, Jordan can’t help himself. He laughs, though it’s marred a little by sarcasm and disbelief. “You? You want to hike.”

I shrug. “I want to sketch. There might be some cool vantage points higher up in the trail.”

Jordan pauses, then sighs deeply. “Fine,” he mumbles, and a couple of minutes later we’re taking the exit toward the trailhead.

It takes us about half an hour to find it; it’s a way down the road, and we’re the only car parked close to it. Eventually, though, we’re out of the car and pulling on the most hiking-appropriate shoes we have. For both of us, it’s shoddy pairs of tennis shoes. Not perfect, but it’ll do.

We stand at the trailhead, and Jordan glances my way. He spreads an arm out toward it.

“You’re the one who wanted to hike. Lead the way.”

I roll my eyes, but take the lead, trudging up the dirt trail with Jordan tagging along behind me.

It doesn’t take long for me to remember why I hate outdoor activities. It’s hot here, and in the trees, it feels muggier than it did out in open. I’m not unused to humidity, as New York becomes humid come late summer, but within minutes I’m cursing the heat and cursing the trees and cursing every goddamn bug that lands on my skin. I only pause for a second at a map of the trail, which splits off into a couple paths at this point, and continue on the one that heads toward a small waterfall.

We continue to trudge, Jordan more easily than me, and soon he gets irritated having to be behind me. He passes me, but as he does he slips on a loose patch of dirt. He falls, catching himself on the palms of his hands and one of his knees. He hisses in pain, and I instinctively reach out to help him up. Instead of taking my hand, though, he knocks it away and hauls himself up with the branch of a tree.

“I’ve got it,” he hisses as he wipes his hands on the legs of his jeans. “I don’t need your help.”

I flinch, and he forges ahead. I stand there for a moment, the lash he struck still stinging a bit. Part of me, the part that’s angry at him for acting so weirdly all day, wants to turn around without another word. Just head toward the car and see how long it takes him to realize I’m not right behind him. But another part of me, the part that knows something is off with him and that it’s most likely not about me, the part that cares about him no matter how much of a jerk he’s being, decides to continue following behind him. I can tell he needs to cool off. He needs this hike more than I do, and he needs some time out of the damn car. So, I let him be frustrated and angry. I let him charge ahead and increase the distance between us. I go at my own pace, following as best as I can.

Soon, I can only see flashes of him through branches and leaves, but I start to hear the faint roar of the waterfall. It pushes me forward. While it wasn’t the reason I made Jordan pull the car over, I do have my sketchbook tucked under my arm and I’m excited to see the falls. It takes about another ten minutes, but soon we pop out of the foliage and into a small clearing.

The view is incredible. Though my legs are jelly and I’m struggling to draw a breath, I’m glad that I insisted we make the trek up here. Since the trail is not an easy one and is obscure, there’s no one else around. We have the ridge and the beautiful scenery to ourselves. I can see for miles, and not one smidgeon of those miles is lacking greenery. The waterfall roars to our left, water cascading down the five-hundred foot drop like it’s nothing. The only place that the green is broken is where the river cuts through it, though the farther out I look the less I can see the water.

Jordan moves toward the edge, but I hang back several feet. When he notices I’m not standing next to him, he turns and waves me forward. I shake my head.

“C’mon,” he whines. “Don’t wuss out. You made us come all the way up here. The least you can do is actually sit at the edge.”

I just give him a look.

“Dyson,” he groans. “We can just sit, put our feet over the edge.”

Again, I shake my head. I don’t have a phobia of heights or anything, but every instinct in my body tells me that standing right on the edge of such a huge drop is a stupid idea, and I listen to it. Jordan rolls his eyes, but moves back to where I’m standing. We sit on a bench close by, sitting in silence for a while as we take in the view. Normally, sitting in the quiet with Jordan wouldn’t bother me, and it’d probably bother him and spur him to start a conversation. But it doesn’t feel normal, and my skin starts to itch the longer we sit there. I feel awkward sitting with him, something I haven’t felt in a very long time, and it makes me upset. I keep waiting for Jordan to break the silence like he always does, but after fifteen minutes of quiet, I realize he’s not going to say anything. I can’t tell if he can feel the awkwardness, too, or if whatever crawled up his ass is what’s making him stay quiet. Eventually, I can’t stand it, and the need to bring some semblance of normalcy to this outing outweighs my usual unwillingness to start conversation and fear of confrontation.

“Are we going to talk about this?” I murmur.

“Talk about what?” Jordan asks, but he won’t look at me, and I know he’s just trying to get out of talking about it.

“The fact that things have been weird since last night at the bar. Everything feels tense and awkward.”

He nods, still looking out into the distance, and he doesn’t respond.

“You’ve been kind of a jackass.”

Again, another nod and no response.

“So,” I prod, “why is that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Everything seems fine to me.” Even though he’d just been nodding along to everything I’m saying.

My brow furrows, and the worry I’ve been feeling over this morphs into anger. He’s lying to me, blatantly, and I can’t stand it. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t lie to me. And the fact that he is now, when it matters and we need to figure this out, pushes my buttons. “Everything is not fine and you know it,” I growl. “You’ve been acting all weird and quiet since last night. You snapped at me, literally pushed away my help, and have been nothing but surly and irritable for hours.”

“Have not,” he mumbles, turning his attention to his hands as he fiddles with his fingers.

“Jordan, you hate being in the quiet. You are constantly talking, or singing, or muttering to yourself. You start conversations with absolute strangers all the time. We’ve barely had a conversation all day. Actually, no. We haven’t had a single conversation all day. It’s all been single words and ‘yes’s and ‘no’s. Don’t try to tell me something’s not off.”

He bites the inside of his lip, making it pucker a bit, and sighs. “Fine. Something’s off.”

I wait for him to say more, and when he doesn’t, I groan and throw my hands up. I hate playing this role, his role. It’s never me that has to push for information and details. It’s always him having to pry information out of me, and I loathe being on the other end of this dynamic. “You gotta give me more than that, man.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Typical emotionally stunted Jordan. “Is it the kiss? Is that what’s got you freaked out?”

His cheeks redden, and I know I’ve hit the issue. A pang shoots through my heart. So I was right. It disgusted him. He hates me. He can’t look at me in the eye anymore. He’s never going to feel comfortable in the same room as me ever again. “You’re the one that kissed me. You don’t have to worry about me raping you in your sleep or anything,” I spit. I wince as I hear the words out loud; I meant for them to be jokey, but they’re laced with venom and come out much harsher than I intended.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” I snap. The hurt I feel is morphing into rage, and I can’t help the bite that’s in my voice. “You said you did it to irritate that douche bag. It’s not a big deal. It’s over, done. Nothing left to think about, right?” I mean it. For him, I do. That’s what he should be feeling, and if it’ll make him feel better, I’ll say it repeatedly until I’m hoarse. But my eyes start to burn and I do my best to keep the shakiness out of my breathing. I try to latch onto the anger instead of letting the pain and embarrassment course through me. But, of course, I can’t keep it all away.

Jordan rubs the back of his neck, splaying his knees and placing his other elbow on one. I watch his face carefully, and to my surprise he looks…torn. Unsure of himself. Normally confident Jordan looks absolutely and utterly insecure. The immediate pain I’m feeling quiets for a moment, and I wait for him to work out whatever it is he’s feeling.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally opens his mouth to speak again. “It’s just…I don’t understand what’s happening.”

I tilt my head in confusion. “I don’t understand what you think is happening.” There isn’t anything happening…is there?

He huffs, leaning back against the bench. He fidgets, bouncing his knee as he looks around everywhere but directly at me. “When we…when I kissed you. All I meant was for it to make that asshole angry. I didn’t mean it as anything else.”

“I know that,” I murmur, a little hurt he’d imply I acted any other way. I might have been feeling it, but it’s no different than how I’ve felt for years, and I know I haven’t changed my actions enough in the last twelve hours to warrant that. “I didn’t think it meant anything else.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he groans, rubbing his temples and closing his eyes. “I’m talking to myself.”

Hope blossoms in my chest. I squash it as soon as I recognize it. This doesn’t mean anything. It means nothing. He is straight. He is straight. He is straight, you stupid mother fucker.

Despite me repeating this mantra over and over in my head, I can’t quite get rid of every shred of the hope. I wait for him to continue as patiently as I can.

He takes a minute as he tries to gather his thoughts. Finally, he stops fidgeting, becoming stock still. “I... I, uh, felt something. That night. When we kissed. I don’t…” He pauses, biting his lip again. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” I say quietly, though it kills me a little inside to do so. I want to kiss him again. I want to throw my arms around him and scream to the heavens in joy and let my voice echo off the edge of the cliff. But I can’t, and I don’t. I’m terrified if I twitch a single muscle, he’ll take off, away from me and out of my reach.

“Yeah, I know. But…what if I do? Want to do something with it.” I don’t have time to say anything before he continues. “I mean, not that I expect it to have meant anything to you. It probably didn’t. I just – I’ve never felt anything for…for a guy. Like that. Never, not once. It’s always been girls. I mean, you’ve been there.”

I frown. “I know. There have been many.”

“Exactly!” he exclaims, seemingly excited that I’ve drawn the same conclusion as he. “And never once for a guy. So…so what am I supposed to do with this?”

I shrug, trying to push away my own feelings and be objective. Act like I have no stake in his romantic interests. The devil on my shoulder says I should tell him to act on his feelings just to make sure. But I know that isn’t right. If this is something, if I want this to go anywhere, I need to be his friend first, hopeful lover second. So I keep my voice as passive as possible. “You don’t have to do anything. Sometimes feelings just happen, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Or you can mull it over and think about acting on it. It’s up to you. It can mean something important or it can mean nothing at all, and it comes down to whether it feels right to you or not.”

He nods thoughtfully, and I remain quiet, though I feel as though I’m going to burst. My thoughts race, zigzagging through my head, running through every possibility of what he could be thinking. I ping-pong between blossoming hope and excruciating negativity. Every time a negative thought rears its ugly head, a hopeful one smothers it. Whenever a hopeful thought sprouts, a negative one crushes it into the dust. It feels like an eternity of tug-of-war before Jordan says anything again.

Finally, he makes eye contact with me, his chocolate eyes uncertain. “I don’t understand this,” he murmurs. “But it doesn’t feel bad. It just feels…weird.”

“Weird is fine,” I answer, the words almost tumbling out of my mouth in my hurry. I mentally chastise myself, trying to remember to keep his feelings ahead of my own. He’ll hate me if I push him into something he’s unsure of, and I’d rather keep the status quo, lopsided as it is, rather than lose him completely. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Or ever. Just mull it ov—”

“Can I kiss you?” he blurts, cutting me off.

My mouth dries up and my lungs collapse. The words die on my lips and I just stare at him. Of all the realistic possibilities I could think up, this wasn’t one of them. I’d hoped for it, sure, but did I think it was realistic? No.

I have to double check and make sure I heard him correctly. “What?”

His eyes flit away and he laughs nervously. “Um, can I kiss you? I thought I’d ask this time instead of mauling you. Again. I just…I want to. To see if I feel the same thing without a huge douche bag breathing down our necks.”

Holy fuck. I take a shaky breath, unable to believe that he’s actually asking me this. I think about pinching myself to make sure I’m not actually dreaming. He raises his eyebrows, and I realize I haven’t said anything. I’ve just been staring at him, almost drooling. “Yeah—uh, yes. Yes, you can.”

He nods, giving me a small smile, and scoots a little closer to me on the bench. He turns to face me, but I don’t move. I’m frozen to the bench, my hands gripping the edges and my shoulders tense. I want to – I want to turn and press my lips against his so badly it hurts—but I can’t unglue myself from the seat. Instead of enjoying the moment, I start to worry about everything that could go wrong. With the kiss itself, afterward if he doesn’t like it, afterward if he does like it. I can’t shut my brain off, though I’m screaming inside for my body to move, to do anything but sit there and look unavailable. He leans forward a little, but I don’t reciprocate the action. It doesn’t slip past him.

He leans back and ducks his head a little. “If this is making you uncomfortable, you don’t have to. I know I’m asking a lot of you.”

“No,” I insist, my body finally snapping out of its frozen state and allowing me to turn toward him. “It’s fine. I’m not uncomfortable.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You look more uncomfortable than I do, and I’m the one who’s having a sexual crisis here,” he laughs.

It makes me laugh as well, which loosens me up a bit. I run my hand through my hair and sigh. Should I tell him the truth? Make something up? I decide to find a middle ground. “It’s not because I don’t want to kiss you. It’s because I do. You’re…attractive. It’s crossed my mind before. I just never thought it’d actually happen.”

Jordan grins at me, and the knot in my stomach loosens. “Thank god. I totally thought you were repulsed by me or something.”

I roll my eyes, but don’t comment. I have the feeling very few people would ever be repulsed by him.

The grin falls from his face as we sit there in silence for a moment. Our eyes make fleeting contact, dart away, and find their way back to each other again. Tension grows in between us, and finally I can’t take it anymore. I lean forward a bit, trying to gauge his reaction. To my relief, he starts to lean in, too, until our faces are separated by a couple of measly inches of space. We pause there, our breath mingling in the shared space. I wait, letting him make the last move forward and giving him the chance to back away if he wants to.

He doesn’t back away. Our lips touch, and this time, I’m ready for it. Electricity runs from where our skin touches down to my stomach. The breath rushes out of my lungs, and my heart sings. For once, for one blissful moment, my mind is silent. I don’t think about what will happen after we break apart. I don’t worry if he’s feeling this, too. I don’t think about the heartache that will ensue if he doesn’t want this to continue. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his lips on mine and the wonderful tingles in my gut.

Too soon, the moment is over and our lips separate. I inhale deeply, pressing my lips together to hide the smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth. I close my eyes and exhale, holding on to the moment for a second longer before I look at Jordan. I’m prepared for him to back away. I’m prepared for him to have felt nothing. I’m ready for it.

But when I open my eyes, he’s still there, still looking right at me and in the exact same position. With uneven breath, he reaches up and touches my face, just brushing my cheek with his fingertips. I inhale sharply, all thoughts again frozen in shock. He leans in again, kissing me more firmly this time and moving his mouth against mine. A thrill runs through me, and my body unfreezes, returning his kiss with enthusiasm. His hand drifts into my hair, holding me close, while my own rests on his arm. We don’t move any closer, or do anything but kiss. But we continue to make out on this little bench in the forest, and for those few minutes I feel as though I’d died and gone to heaven.

Eventually, we head back to the car and continue on our way down the highway. Everything is fine until we get in the car and start driving. We’d walked down from the bench up at the vantage point with smiles plastered on our faces, our hands brushing each other as we walked side-by-side. Warmth was still radiating throughout my body, and I could feel it coming from Jordan, as well. All was fine and dandy, both of us wrapped up in our own little bubble.

But when we settle down in the car, it’s like someone pokes a hole in the bubble and air starts slowly leaking out. It doesn’t pop—the effect isn’t that immediate or quick—but the farther we get from the trail, the more the warmth drains from the car and the less comfortable the silence becomes. It’s not just on his end, either. I’m feeling awkward as well. Not because I’m worried about what he’ll think or do or say when we reach a motel, though I am worried about those things. It’s because the biggest thought running through my head is: Well…now what?

I can’t decide for him about what he wants to do about us, obviously. But what do I want? The dream that has been haunting me, nagging at me, teasing me for the last nine years of my life has finally become reality, at least in part. Jordan and I kissed, and it was wonderful. And now that we have, worry gnaws at my heart. Is that all I wanted? Was the thrill of kissing someone I thought I’d never get to kiss all I was seeking? Am I a glutton for misery, and only fixated on Jordan because I knew I couldn’t have him? And now that I potentially do have him, will all the passion and love I feel for him fade in the wake of reality?

We’re on the road for another couple of hours, and the longer I think about these questions, the more certain I become in my answers. Ultimately, the answer is no, I’m not going to lose interest now that we’ve kissed. I still may be a glutton for misery—I’m struggling to figure out why else I would have stuck to my guns for this long without a single sign that my dreams might come true with him—but my other worries I don’t believe will come true. I love Jordan. I don’t just like him. I don’t just think he’s attractive. I truly, deeply, and unflinchingly love him. I doubt he feels the same. How could he, when he didn’t even look at me that way until a day ago? But I know he cares about me, even if it’s in a different form than the way I care about him, and for now that’s enough.

The first time either of us speak is Jordan asking if we should pull over at the next exit that claims to have lodging. I agree, and twenty minutes later we’re standing in another subpar motel room with rickety twin beds. The tension in the car has subsided after an hour or so of being so close together; now that we’re both standing awkwardly next to our beds, though, all that tension comes flooding back, and neither of us know what to do.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” I assert. He raises his eyebrows, and I wince. “I mean, I’m not expecting you to want to do anything again. If it was weird for you or something. We can just drop it and pretend nothing happened.” I glance at the floor, cursing my pale skin as I feel warmth touch my cheeks.

He’s quiet for a moment. I’m going to explode. “And if I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen?” he finally murmurs.

My eyes flick toward him, and I see that he’s staring directly at me. Not flinching. Not looking away. It gives me the confidence to look back at him in the same way. “Well,” I say, mulling my words over carefully and trying to not sound too eager. “That’s acceptable, too.”

A small smile touches his lips and he takes a step toward me. His smile. It’s beautiful. Seductive. And one, I’m realizing now, I’ve never seen before—but I’m positive many, many other people have. Without warning, panic touches me and I slither backward. I shake my head, suddenly uncertain. Flashes of all the girls he’s dated flood my mind. Dozens of them. None of them scorned, none of them treated badly, but added to the reel commemorating Jordan’s Greatest Hits That He’s Hitting No Longer nonetheless. I see my face added to the reel, and I swallow hard. I don’t know why this hits me now. It certainly hadn’t occurred to me before this, not in this way. It’s not like I wasn’t aware that he’s dated, extensively. Not like I wasn’t privy to all the nasty details. But it does now, and even the thought of potentially having sex with the guy I’ve pined after for so long can’t make me shake it.

Worry touches Jordan’s face. “You okay?”

I shake my head, biting my lip and unable to get any words out. Jordan stops moving toward me, taking a passive seat on the edge of one of the beds instead. He waits for me to speak, watching me with soft eyes and not pushing me. It takes me a moment, but I finally gather my thoughts enough to form a coherent sentence.

“You…you, ah, have dated a lot of people,” I finally stutter.

“Yes,” he replies.

“And you’re not dating any of them anymore.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t date any of them for very long.”

“Yes.”

I stare at him, hoping he’ll make the jump and say it for me, so I don’t have to. But either he hasn’t made the connection or he’s forcing me to say it out loud, because he just stares right back at me, calm as can be. Sighing, I run my hand through my hair and look away for a moment.

“Do you maybe see why I’m a little worried about doing anything more with you?”

He cringes. He hadn’t made the connection, then. “Dyce, this isn’t the same. This is different. You’re different.”

I bark a laugh. “And I’m sure you tell everyone that.” I take a deep breath, trying to tame the defensive anger I’m feeling. “I’m not judging you for it or anything. You never treated any of them badly. But you’ve got to understand why I’m concerned about going into anything more than friendship with you.”

“As my friend, you know that I don’t say that,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at me. “I don’t tell girls that. I’m never anything but honest with them, and I don’t tell them shit that’ll hurt later. You know that. And same goes for you.”

I bite my cheek as I realize that he’s right. I know that, knew it before he said it aloud, but I’m still feeling panicked and uncertain. Their faces are still rolling through my head on a loop, and I can’t seem to shake the fear that I’m feeling right now.

Jordan must see it on my face because he gets off the bed and moves toward me. I don’t back away this time, freezing instead, and let him get within a couple of feet of me. “This is different. And you know it.”

I chuckle nervously. “Well, obviously. Pretty sure everyone else you’ve made out with has had a uterus and breasts.”

He rolls his eyes, frustrated with my lame attempt at deflective humor. “Yes, but it’s more than that and you fucking know it, Dyson. Don’t sit there and try to pretend you don’t.” He waits for me to say something, and when I don’t he continues. “Okay, fine, you won’t admit it, so we’re going to hash things out and lay everything out on the table. You’ve had feelings for me for a long time, haven’t you? And don’t give me that ‘I find you attractive’ bullshit you gave me earlier. I mean real feelings. Like, ‘I want to be with you in a more-than-just-sex way.’”

My eyes flit up to his, and my face must be plain as day because he nods. “How long?”

I gulp, my entire face and neck heated. I’m on fire. “Um.”

He raises one eyebrow and waits.

I try to swallow again, but my throat is bone dry. “Since…since, uh, since we were…thirteen. Since we were thirteen.”

I expect him to flip out a little, but he just nods sagely again. “That’s why you didn’t want to go on any of the dates I tried to set you up on.”

I nod, unable to make eye contact with him.

“I have, too.”

My head whips up and I gape at him. Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t this. I open my mouth and close it several times, trying to get words out, any words, but can’t.

He continues, answering the questions trapped in my throat for me. “Not nearly as long as you have. Don’t get me wrong, for years I didn’t even look at you that way. Didn’t even think you thought of me that way. I mean, obviously, I knew you were gay, but why should that mean you liked me? I’m not that conceited,” he chuckles. “We were just friends.” He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “You remember junior year, at that party when you made a move on me?”

Somehow, my already fiery face gets hotter. I wince and nod, thinking back to the one and only time that my feelings for Jordan were exposed. We were seventeen in the spring of our junior year of high school. He was a running back on the football team, and they had just won a game in regionals, qualifying them for the state championship for the first time in a decade. The whole school was stoked, and, naturally, a bunch of players decided to throw a huge house party. Despite my efforts to weasel out of it, Jordan convinced me to come and managed to get me drinking. Normally, I avoided—and still do avoid—those kinds of situations. Too many people, too much alcohol, not enough quiet. It makes my skin crawl to be in a room packed full of people. But Jordan was so excited, and I couldn’t bring myself to sour his mood at all.

So, I drank. I drank far too much, far too quickly. And at that point, I was struggling with my feelings for him. I was going home in tears all the time, fighting to stay neutral in conversations about girls he liked, and overall just despairing about the whole situation. It was the worst I’ve felt about it to this day, and when I look back on it, it doesn’t surprise me things played out the way they did that night. It wasn’t awful, but still completely mortifying.

Not quite wasted but buzzed, I decided I was just going to tell Jordan how I felt and get it over with. I scanned the room, and when I found him with a group of people, I stomped over and grabbed his arm. I dragged him out of the room, told him to shut up, and spilled my guts.
Well, not completely – I didn’t tell him I loved him. Just that I thought he was hot and that we should go fuck in the other room. I remember leaning in and trying to kiss him, and he gently shoved me away. The rest of the memory is hazy, but I remember Jordan laughing and telling me to go sleep it off. He got me a cab and took me home, making sure I got into bed okay and leaving me water and pain meds for the next day. I woke up the next morning groggy and with a killer hangover. As soon as I recalled what had happened, I texted Jordan in a panic, making sure that our friendship was still intact. He shrugged it off and told me not to worry about it, and since then everything had been the same as it ever was.

So, with his firm but good-natured rejection in mind, I stare at him, confused.

He sighs and tilts his head back a bit, closing his eyes. “I wasn’t…ah, I wasn’t exactly as cool with it as I said I was.” When he sees my eyes widen, he backtracks. “Not like that. I wasn’t upset with you or grossed out or anything. I just…I was buzzed, too. And I wasn’t exactly…opposed to the idea of hooking up with you that night. If you hadn’t been so utterly trashed, I might have.”

I stare at him, mouth agape.

He rolls his eyes. “Stop staring at me like that.” I snap my mouth shut, and he continues. “It’s not like I’ve been crushing on you since then, or anything. I just shoved away the feeling and wrote it off on the alcohol. But it popped up every so often, and every time I would write it off as something else. I was drinking. You dressed nicer than usual. The moon was full.” I laugh and he shrugs, grinning. But the smile fades, and soon he’s back to looking serious and confused. “But when I kissed you at that bar…” He shrugs. “That feeling came rushing back, and I couldn’t blame it on anything else this time. I even tried. Thought maybe it was the adrenaline of the situation. But I kept feeling it, even when I woke up this morning.”

I swallow hard, trying to process all this information. “I still don’t understand how this is different.”

He groans, dropping his head in his hand. “Dude, really? Besides what I just told you—which, by the way, is completely different than any girl I’ve dated, you being a guy aside—besides that, how long have we been friends?”

“Almost ten years,” I murmur.

“Ten fucking years. You’ve been my friend, my best friend, for almost a decade. I didn’t know any of those girls as more than an acquaintance. And you’re sitting here telling me this isn’t different? That our friendship doesn’t make this different from all of the others?”

I stare at the floor, tears pricking my eyes.

He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder, and I don’t move away. When he sees I’m staying still, he puts his other hand gently on my cheek and coaxes my face toward his, looking me in the eye. “I care about you, Dyce. More than any girl I’ve ever dated. More than anyone. And I don’t understand this, and I’m still confused by it, but…I care about you.” His other hand moves up to the other side of my face. “You are not a fling. You are not a one-night stand. You are not an experiment, or a mistake, or whatever other words you have in your head right now.”

“But you just said you’re confused,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out without bursting into tears.

“Confused about why I feel this way doesn’t mean I’m confused about whether I have the feelings or not. It doesn’t mean I’m confused about you.”

He closes the gap between us, planting a solid kiss on my lips. I melt into him, tears leaking out of my eyes but not out of panic or sadness, only as a release. As his mouth moves on mine, his hands drift from my face, down my arms, resting on my hips, leaving a trail of warmth behind them. He pulls gently on my hips, moving us toward one of the beds. I let him, moving in closer as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. I’m about to move downward as well, but I hesitate. While I’m not as promiscuous as Jordan, I’ve done this before. I know what to expect with a guy. He doesn’t. Is this too much? Is it too fast? Should I slow down? Should I—

My thoughts are cut off by his teeth grazing my bottom lip and his hand on my ass. The moment of hesitation passes, and with new courage I straddle him, putting my weight on my knees and kissing him harder. Both of his hands are now on my backside, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops on my jeans. I twist my fingers in his hair, holding his face close to mine.

Suddenly, he gets a firmer grip on me and twists around, quick enough that I don’t fall, and flipping me onto my back. I land on the bed with a thump, the frame creaking beneath me. I laugh, exhilarated by my short time in the air. Jordan grins, quickly swooping in and kissing me again.

We stay like this for a while, Jordan on top of me as we kiss, our hands staying in relatively safe quarters. I can tell this is easy for him. He’s in his element here, and for now, this isn’t so different. Kissing is kissing, and being male or female doesn’t change whether you’re a good kisser or not. I start to worry about what’ll happen if we go farther than this, but I shove the thought away and focus on the feel of Jordan’s lips on mine. Either way, with his body pressed against mine, I can feel his erection against my leg, which gives me a thrill of excitement and hope.

Feeling hopeful and a little daring, I let my hands drift to the bottom of his shirt, my fingers playing with the hemline. I slide my hand under his shirt, letting my fingertips dance along his skin. He takes the hint quickly, sitting up and pulling his shirt off. I stare openly at his chest, as I’ve wanted to for so long. I’ve seen him with his shirt off, but I’ve always averted my gaze, not wanting him to see me stare and not wanting to make him uncomfortable. But I don’t look away this time, and my gut warms in response to his naked torso. He leans in and kisses me again, cutting off my view, and starts to nudge my hemline, tickle a strip of my skin. I freeze, and he feels it.

“Dyson,” he murmurs against my mouth. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you with your shirt off before.”

He’s right. But my muscles are still tense. How the fuck am I supposed to feel relaxed with my pasty, untoned body directly next to his beautifully dark, sculpted one?

He kisses my cheek, my neck, and up around the other side of my face. I relax just a touch, and he kisses my lips again, pulling back after a moment and scrutinizing my face. “I know that look.”

I frown. “What look?”

He rolls his eyes. “You get it every time someone gives you a compliment. The ‘I’m not good enough’ look.” He kisses me softly. “Well, I’m saying you are good enough, and I’d really like to take your clothes off now. If that’s okay with you.” He tilts his head to the side and gives me a grin, waiting for me to respond.

How is it that he’s the one comforting me right now? Though our roles feel reversed—I’m the one that’s done this before, after all—it works, and I smile back at him. He proceeds to tug my shirt off over my head, quickly leaning back in to kiss me.

His skin is warm on mine. I revel in the feeling, running my fingers along his back, grinning when I feel him shiver. Suddenly, he sits up on his knees, straddling my hips. His hands move toward the button on my jeans. I inhale sharply as he undoes it, putting slight pressure on my erection. He unzips them and slides them from my hips with ease, kissing up my stomach and chest when he comes back. Not wanting to be the only one with pants off, I reach up and undo his as well. I try to get them off to no avail, and, laughing, he sits up again and gets them off for me.

He doesn’t immediately come back down this time, though. Instead, he stays kneeling, staring down at me as both of our chests rise and fall heavily. It hits us both in this moment—we cannot come back from this. We’re in the same tiny bed with nothing but our underwear on, with both of our dicks pressed tightly against the fabric. We’re not staring at a line to be crossed. We’ve already crossed it, and our friendship will never be the same if this goes sour. There is no shaking this off. There is no pretending it didn’t happen. A sliver of fear slithers down my spine, but I do my best to shake it off. What’s done is done. And I can either stop it now and desperately try to make things the way they were before, be miserable and feel trapped in a friendship that will never grow into anything more than that.

Or, I can continue into the unknown and hope for the best.

It takes me half of a second to choose. I cannot go back to how we were before. I cannot go back to pretending that Jordan is just my friend, that I don’t harbor romantic feelings for him, that I want nothing more than for him to love me, too. I can’t be just his friend for a second longer. I’ve spent too long in this headspace, too long stuck in this rut. It would kill me to stuff myself back into that box, and I know, as I lay here almost completely undressed with him, that I don’t even want to try.

Taking the leap, I take my own underwear off first, wriggling out of them and tossing them to the side. I lie there, completely naked and vulnerable, waiting for him to make his own move.

To my relief, he chooses the same path, stepping off the bed and slipping his own underwear off as well. He stands there, nude, looking unsure of himself. I swing my legs off the bed and stand as well, not wanting to leave him hanging. I glance down at his erection, coloring at the sight. He glances down at mine as well, and to my surprise he blushes, same as me. I rarely see him blush, and it’s nothing like when I do. When I blush, my entire upper torso, from my collar bone to my hairline, turns an ugly, beet red. When he blushes, only his cheeks turn a little darker, giving him a nice, burgundy hint in his face. I’m jealous of this.

“So,” he murmurs, chuckling a bit. “That’s, uh. That’s a penis.”

I laugh as well, glad he’s breaking the little bit of tension that hangs in the room. “Yes, that is, indeed, a penis.”

He nods, smiling, but it doesn’t quite touch his eyes. Uncertainty hangs there, unusual for Jordan. “Um. I don’t, uh…I don’t really know what to do now.”

Calm drapes over me, infusing every part of my being. I’ve always done better when someone else is freaking out. Though I’m usually anxiety-ridden and unsure of myself, the second someone needs me to be calm, I am. It doesn’t fail me now. “What would you like to do?” I murmur.

“Uh…”

“We don’t have to do anything,” I remind him. “We can stop now. Put our clothes back on. Or just kiss. Or whatever feels comfortable.”

“No,” he replies, and though it’s quick, I can hear the sincerity in it. “I don’t want to do nothing.”

I believe him; he seems firm on that point. But he also still seems hesitant. I decide to take the reins. “Come here.” I take his hand and lead him back to the bed, scooting him as far to the right as I can while I squish in on the other side, propped up on my elbow. It’s a tight fit in such a small bed, but it works.

I lean in and kiss him, pressing my lips gently against his. He relaxes after a few seconds, leaning into the kiss. Testing the waters, I lightly drag my tongue across his lips. He responds in turn, and I slide my tongue deeper into his mouth, pressing more firmly against his lips. We kiss for a few minutes, letting him relax again. When I feel him start to press closer to me, holding my face close to his, I let my hand drift down his chest and onto his stomach, just lightly touching his skin with my fingertips. He stills slightly but continues to kiss me, so I move farther down. I brush the head of his penis, and it throbs in response.

Grinning against his mouth, I move lower and touch his shaft. He shivers lightly and his breathing hitches. I brush him gently, barely touching him, for a few more seconds, before grabbing his penis more firmly in my hand and giving it a long, slow pull. He gasps, breathing hard into my mouth, and my own dick twitches in response. I start to move, slowly and steadily, along the shaft of his penis, taking the time to rub over its head each time my hand makes its way to the top.

His hips move with my hand. As I start to move a little faster, he reaches over and brushes the tip of my penis. I shiver, but pull back a little. “You don’t have to,” I breathe. “This is for you.”

“I want to,” he murmurs, again reaching for me. I let him touch me, groaning when his fingers tentatively touch my dick. I start moving again on him, my own desire making me pull faster. He follows suit, quickly shifting from barely touching me to wrapping his hand around me and matching my pace. I gasp, and he covers my mouth with his own, his other hand twisting in my hair and holding me close. I start to thrust gently against his hand, and he starts to do the same against mine. An orgasm starts to build in me, and I move faster, squeeze him a little tighter. He starts to pulse in my hand, groaning against my mouth, and the orgasm hits. I start to cum and I moan, freezing as pleasure rolls through me.

We stay still for a few moments, both of us breathing heavily. I close my eyes, reveling in the last few waves of pleasure, before opening them again and looking at Jordan. He stares back at me, a small smile on his face. He looks down at himself and laughs.

“Is there a towel or something close by?” he asks.

I furrow my brow, confused.

He gestures to the globs of cum on his abdomen and chest. I blush, but laugh and go the bathroom to find one. When I come back, he wipes himself off. He throws the towel aside and sits up. I take a seat next to him, our shoulders pressed against one another.

He turns abruptly and kisses my tingling lips. He pulls back quickly, looking me in the eye.

“Just in case you were worried about how I feel about what just happened,” he says. I blush more deeply, and he smiles. “I’m going to take a shower. Do you want to come with?” I shake my head. I need a minute alone. He gives me a peck on the lips again and gets up, heading toward the bathroom.

As soon as I hear the shower turn on, I flop back on the bed, grinning like an idiot. I touch my lips, warmth still hovering in my chest.

Chapter Eight

We drift in and out of sleep for the next few hours, both of us exhausted from the drive and the sex. It’s hard to get comfortable in the little bed, and we’re constantly shifting around as arms go numb and chins dig into chests. At one point, I try to extricate myself from his arms and move over to my bed. I don’t want to, but I’m uncomfortable and I know he must be, too. I start to move, but as I do, Jordan’s arm snakes around my chest and pulls me back against him.

“No,” he murmurs sleepily. “Stay.”

After that, it doesn’t matter how uncomfortable I am. I lay with him, with his arms wrapped around me and drifting in the space between sleep and wake, until the sun starts peeking through the thin curtains on the windows.

At that point, I can’t stay anymore, no matter how much I love being in his arms. The whole right side of my body is numb, and I desperately need to get up. I wiggle out of his arms, trying my best not to wake him, but he wakes despite my efforts. He blinks and rubs his eyes, giving me a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I murmur, stretching as far as I can from fingertips to toes. I bend over at the waist and groan as all the vertebrae in my back crack. I go over to the window and look out at the sunrise. It’s early, and no one is moving just yet. I didn’t notice the evening before, but the town is quite pretty. It’s wide open, and houses snuggle up together instead of businesses like back home. Flowers and succulents adorn lawns and gardens. I’m surprised to find myself feeling more peaceful than I have in a long while. I’m not sure whether it’s because of what’s happened with Jordan or if it’s the way this place is making me feel. Maybe it’s a mixture of the two.

I think about getting back in the car today and my stomach rolls. “Do you think we could hang here for today?” I ask.

“Like not go anywhere?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to get back in the car. I’m going to throw up if I have to sit there for a single minute today.”

I grin, and he gives me a half-smile back, but it doesn’t quite sit right. He glances at the door. “I don’t know…we have a long way to go.”

I shrug. “Yeah, but it’s not like we’re on a deadline or anything.” When he doesn’t immediately agree, I look at him more closely. He’s still looking at the door. “Right?” I push.

He finally looks up at me and gives me an unconvincing smile. “Yeah, right. I guess we can stay for today.”

He still doesn’t seem completely on board though. Jitters run down my spine. “I mean, unless you don’t want to stay in the room with me all day. I get it, if you don’t.”

His eyes widen and he sits up a bit more. “No, no!” he exclaims. “That’s not it, I swear. I’m just a little antsy to go, is all. I can wait, though.”

Relief spreads through my bones. “Great.” I plop down next to him on the bed and grab the remote. I flick the television on and hand it to him. “I’m gonna shower. Find a marathon of something?”

“Sure,” he murmurs.

I’m about to get up, but I pause, turning back toward him and placing a kiss on his forehead. I pull back and look him in the eye, and lean down to give him a real kiss on his lips. He kisses me back, erasing all remaining shreds of doubt I felt a moment ago.

He breaks the kiss off. “Go shower,” he says. “You stink.” He grins and shoves my shoulder lightly.

I roll my eyes, but do as he says.

***

That evening, we’re on movie number four. It’s not a marathon of a single series—we couldn’t find a good one happening—but it’s close enough. We’re still crammed into the one bed, and I’m leaning on his shoulder. It’s been nice, relaxing, to lay like this with him today and not have to worry about being in the car at all. Everything has gone well so far, with no weirdness or anything surrounding our kissing or the sex from last night. I feel warm, safe, and happy to be here.

But, of course, our little bubble can’t last forever and soon it breaks. The movie is just starting when Jordan’s phone buzzes. He looks at the screen, his brow furrowing. He swings his legs off the bed. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this,” he murmurs, barely giving me a glance as he hurries to the door. I just stare as he steps outside, not quite getting the door closed behind him. My heart sinks a little, but I try to reassure myself that everything is fine. It’s probably his mom. Maybe he hasn’t been texting like he promised he would. I glance at my phone; surely if he hadn’t been in contact with her though, she would have been trying to get a hold of me?

A thought nags at the back of my head. The last time his mom called, he just answered it. No fuss, no walking out of the room. I even talked to her. But he reacted like this a couple days ago upon receiving a text from his cousin. Something is wrong, and he won’t tell me what. The thought hurts my heart, but not because of any expectation I have for him as a partner…if that’s even what we are right now. For nine years, the biggest secret he’s kept from me has been that he failed a test he said he aced because I’d done well and he didn’t want me to think he was stupid. He’s never once lied to me about girls or his family life, never once covered anything up. Whatever it is now, it had to be big for him to be skirting around it, and that causes worry to gnaw at my bones.

Finally, worry and curiosity break through my every defense. Though I know I shouldn’t, I get up and move closer to the door. I don’t press my ear up against it or anything, but I’m damn close. I errantly hope that Jordan doesn’t come crashing through the door in a huff, or I’m going to both get caught and get trampled. Thankfully, the door is cracked a bit, making it easier to hear what he’s saying. He’s not speaking quietly, either, though I can tell he's trying.

“…you mean? I’m already more than half-way there. You can’t just—”

He pauses, listening to the other person speak.

“Shay, please. It’s not a mistake. I need to see her. I want to see her.” His voice breaks a little, and I can tell he’s fighting back tears.

Another pause.

“It doesn’t have to be. It doesn’t have to be anything more than a visit. I’m not going to sit here and pretend I have any say in this right now. It’s your call. But please, I’m begging you. Don’t make me turn back around. Let me see her. Please.”

There’s another long break, and for a little bit all I can hear are Jordan’s attempts to keep his breathing quiet.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice relieved. “Thank you, thank you. We’ll be there by the end of the week. Bye, Shay.”

I back away from the door, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to look innocent, but my face gives it away the second he walks in the door. He gives me one look and sighs, his face falling.

“How much did you hear?” he asks. There’s no anger in his voice. Just resignation.

“Pretty much all of it,” I murmur, deciding that trying to lie isn’t going to help me here. “I don’t understand what’s going on, though. I just know you’re keeping something from me. Like, something really big.”

He rubs the back of his neck and inhales deeply. “I, uh, didn’t want to go to the Grand Canyon on a whim,” he admits.

“Shocker,” I reply, rolling my eyes and attempting to keep some humor right now. I’m terrified if I let myself act as panicked as I feel, I’ll scare him away or make my abstract fears a reality. “You’ve never wanted to go anywhere, ever.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “I was surprised you went along with that one.” He chuckles, but it quickly disappears. “Shayla isn’t my cousin.”

“Okay,” I say. I didn’t guess this, but it doesn’t surprise me. His family rarely has drama, and he’s been acting too strangely for this to be a family thing. And if it was a family thing, I seriously doubt he’d have kept it from me. He would have just told me. He’s told me about family deaths, arguments, illnesses, and everything in between. “Then who is she?”

He bites his lip, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “She’s…I dated her. Like two years ago. Dark hair, super tiny, Chinese,” he says in response to my confused look.

It all clicks. Her face flashes in my mind. I remember her shocking me; she’s so tiny, no taller than five feet and weighing no more than a hundred pounds, but she’s fierce. Intelligent and fiery. I only met her a couple of times, but she was one of my favorites that Jordan has dated. I was a little upset for them both when she broke it off, despite the happiness about Jordan being single again. If I were to pick a girl for him, it probably would have been her. If I remember correctly, she didn’t give an explanation when she decided to dump him. Just started ghosting him, and when he could finally get a hold of her she didn’t give a reason. It hadn’t lasted that long, Jordan had just shrugged it off, and apparently, the memory had slipped from my mind. Jordan hadn’t mentioned her since then. My stomach sinks at the implications of this random phone call and the text from before.

“She lives a couple of hours away from the Grand Canyon. We’re kind of headed to see her.”

“Why?” I ask, though the more uncomfortable he looks the more the inkling that’s formed in my head grows.

He presses his lips into a thin line. “Remember how she stopped talking to me out of the blue?”

I nod.

“She…uh, she found out she was pregnant. With my kid.”

Though I’d subconsciously guessed this, it still knocks the wind out of me. A kid. A kid. Not once was this a scenario that I’d pictured in my head. Jordan always swore that he was ridiculously careful with protection; he sure as hell didn’t want kids or any nasty STDs. I find it hard to believe that Jordan got someone pregnant. When I catch a little of my breath, all I can squeak out is, “How?”

He barks out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, you see, Dyce, when a guy and a girl like each other—”

“No, asshole,” I snap. “I mean, how the fuck did this happen? You told me you were always careful.”

“Shit happens, Dyson. I don’t know. Maybe the condom was broken. Maybe she missed a pill that day and forgot about it. Maybe the planets aligned and the blood moon rose in the sky and the cosmos decided that a particular sperm was going to slip through.” He throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t fucking know how. It just did. And there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

Okay. Fine. Shit happens. I can deal with that. But there’s still something I can’t quite accept. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper, cursing the fact my voice is trembling and it’s also laced with poison.

“I didn’t know. Not until graduation. She cut me off completely. I didn’t even know she was pregnant.”

“Why the hell is she calling you now?” I spit. I’m angry, and I can’t say why. Mad at him for getting her pregnant. Mad at her for calling him after almost two years of hiding a child from him. Mad at them both for ruining the new thing between Jordan and me that I’ve been pining after for so long. I know it’s irrational to be as angry as I feel at either of them, but I can’t help it. It hurts. And instead of wallowing, I feel angry.

He shrugs, not making eye contact with me. “She called me that night, when she knew the ceremony would be over. She said she didn’t want to tell me earlier because she wanted to do it on her own and didn’t want me leaving school over something she didn’t want me involved in. She left school after that year ended and moved back home.”

“That still doesn’t explain why she wants you there now.”

“She changed her mind. Wanted to let me know that I have a daughter. She said she didn’t feel right keeping her from me and keeping her from knowing her dad.” He looks down at the floor. “Her name is McKenna,” he murmurs.

I sit, frozen, for several moments as I try to process what he’s telling me. Emotions try to claw their way out of me—despair, frustration, incredulity, confusion, and more anger. They all swirl around inside my head, mixing varying shades of reds and blues and yellows, until all I’m left with is an ugly, muddy-brown soup that I don’t know what to do with. Panic starts to squeeze my chest, and I take a deep breath to calm myself. Letting myself feel so out of control isn’t helping. So, I take a deep breath and try to work through everything logically.

Am I angry at him for getting her pregnant? A little. But neither he nor I can do anything about it, and what I feel is more of a disappointed-angry than anything. It’s not fair of me to be angry at him for an accident, and one that he didn’t even know about until recently. I can get over that, and quickly.

Am I angry at her? Again, a little, but I know that rationally it’s ridiculous for me to be. I can’t blame her for getting pregnant; I remember her being ambitious, not the type to want to settle down at age twenty and have a baby. I’m positive she didn’t want a baby any more than Jordan did. I also can’t blame her for calling the father of her child because she wants him to be a part of her daughter’s life. Of course she does. Of course she wants her daughter to know her father. This is also something that I can get over and can’t reasonably stay upset about for very long.

Am I angry at him for not telling me any of this before now? Hell, yes. I can forgive him getting her pregnant in the first place. I can forgive her for waiting until graduation to tell him. I can even forgive Jordan not telling me the real reason why we’re heading to the Grand Canyon. What I can’t forgive, and what’s eating at me right now, is that he didn’t tell me before we started …what? Dating? Fucking? I don’t know. But no matter what we label it as, we’re more than friends now. We crossed that line last night and there’s no going back. We have something between us and we’ve acted on it, and him having a child across the country affects me as a—sort of—boyfriend more than it does as a friend. As a friend, I can be happy for him, though it might take him away from where I’m living. As a boyfriend, he might decide that he doesn’t want to be with me, but instead with his child’s mother, destroying our relationship and leaving me with nothing but heartache. He should have told me. He should have said something before the sex. Before I allowed myself to fall face-first into the feelings that I’ve been suppressing for almost a decade. If he’d done that, maybe this wouldn’t hurt so badly. But he didn’t, and now it feels as though he struck a terrible blow and I’m trapped in a corner like a wounded animal.

“You should have told me,” I growl, not making eye contact with him. I’m terrified if I look him in the eye, I’ll shatter into a million pieces and be nothing more than a pile of broken glass on the floor. “We’ve been in the same car together for days.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I just…I couldn’t get the words out. I wanted to tell you before we left. But I couldn’t. And then we were just in the car for longer and longer—”

“Why did you kiss me?” I yell, tears now streaming freely down my face. I feel the cracks start to show. All it will take is one tiny tap, one little nudge and I’ll be broken. Despite my attempt at working through things logically and calming down, panic has seized my spine and my actions are out of my control. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can feel is the panic, the hurt, the anger. I finally look up at him, and his eyes are wide and pained.

“What?” he whispers. A flash of hurt crosses his face, but I ignore it and continue to throw my words at him.

“Why. Did. You. Kiss. Me. I didn’t know why we’re going to the fucking Grand Canyon, but you sure as hell did. You knew you had a daughter and her mother waiting for you over there. So, why did you kiss me when you knew that it would end the second we get there?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, his voice louder now, filled with confusion and hurt. “Nothing has to end, Dyce.”

“You say that now. What happens when you meet your daughter and you want to stay? If you live close by? If you end up moving in with them? If you fall in love with Shayla?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“How do you know?” I shriek, leaping off the bed and pacing. “How the fuck do you know that? It seems possible to me. She’s the mother of your child. You liked her at one point. It’s not like she’s someone you hated or didn’t get along with. I think you did love her, on some level. It wouldn’t take much to feel that way again.”

“Dyson, no,” he pleads, standing up and trying to take my hand. I rip it away. He takes a step back, and I can see on his face that I’ve hurt him. I don’t even care. Right now I’m just trying to hold myself together, using the rage I feel as a glue to keep myself in one piece. “It’s not going to be like that.”

“You say that now. But when you meet McKenna, when you see Shayla again, when you realize that you guys could be an honest to god family, you won’t feel that way.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t!”

He tries to reach for me again, tries to cup my face with his hand, but I push him off. I’m shaking now, the energy and feelings inside of me ready to burst. His eyes glow with concern as his hands fall limply to his side. “I care about you. People have all sorts of family dynamics. Shay and I don’t have to be ‘together’ for me to be a part of McKenna’s life.”

I shake my head, my vision blurred to the point I can only see an outline of him. I can hear he’s telling the truth, or, at least his truth. He believes nothing will change once we’re there, once he sees what his life could be like as a part of a family. There’s a possibility nothing will change, or perhaps Shay won’t want him super involved, or she won’t want to be with him, or some other thing I haven’t even thought of. But I honestly can’t see it going that way, not with the person Jordan is. If he was a flake, if he committed a crime, if he was an alcoholic or a drug addict, sure. I could easily see this going badly. Even if he was just a shittier person, even if he was just more like me, I could see this not working out. But with Jordan being Jordan? No. He’s an incredibly truthful, nice guy. Any person would be lucky to be with him and any kid would be lucky to have him as a dad. Shay will see that. Jordan will fall in love with McKenna on sight, and Shay shortly after. And that is the only outcome I see as being completely plausible.

And because of this, I lose it. I push past him, trying not to touch him as much as I can, and head toward the door.

“Wait, Dyce—”

“No.”

“Dyson—”

“No!” I scream, throwing the door open and stalking out without a backwards glance. I slam it behind me, effectively cutting off Jordan’s protests.

I can pretend I’m taking the high road. That I’m stalking off with all my dignity intact and I’m sticking it to Jordan by doing so. That I’m doing so for myself, because I need to have someone who’s honest with me from the get-go. That I’m strong enough to walk away from someone I love because they’re not treating me how I should be treated. But that isn’t what’s happening. I’m bolting. There’s no dignity in this. No strength or poetry. I’m just plain, flat-out bolting before all my worst fears and predictions come true. Hurting him before he can hurt me.

I walk for a while, long after the last rays of the sun have faded from the sky and long after I should have returned. Well, ‘walking’ isn’t exactly what I’m doing. ‘Running-away-without-actually-running’ is probably a more appropriate term. When I finally make my way back to the motel, I open the door to a sleeping Jordan, still completely clad in his clothes from the day. He clutches his phone in his hand lying curled up on his side. Wincing, I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s on silent, and while I was walking Jordan texted me over a dozen times and tried to call me four times. All the texts are frantic, trying to figure out if I’m okay, where I’m at, if I’m coming back, if I’m lying in a ditch somewhere. Though I’m still angry at him, I feel guilty making him worry.

Sighing, I collapse into my own bed, trying to fall to sleep, even just a fitful, restless sleep, to no avail.

Chapter Nine

Instead of sleeping that night, I stay up with my eyes glued to the screen of my phone. Jordan is restless. Each time he stirs, or makes a noise, or rolls over, I’m afraid he’s going to wake up and I’ll have to deal with him. I freeze, holding my breath and staying as quiet as possible. But he never does wake up, and I continue scrolling through the Internet.

I’m not just looking through social media. For a while, I do, putting off what’s really got me on my phone. But eventually, I can’t stop myself from looking.

I search for the nearest airport and a ticket home.

It’s easy to find airports. One is a couple of hours down the road, and almost completely in line with our trek. Another one is only half an hour away, but north, which is off-track and would make Jordan go out of his way to take me there. I settle on that one. He can deal.

Plane tickets take a little bit longer, mostly because I’m a penny-pincher and the prices make me gag. It’s because I’m wanting to leave immediately, and I know it. If I could wait until we reached Arizona, I could maybe get a ticket for a few days from now that’s cheaper. Or maybe I couldn’t. I don’t know; I’ve never actually bought a plane ticket for myself. But either way, I don’t want to leave a few days from now. I want to leave now, so I continue searching for the cheapest ticket, sifting through every travel site and airline that I can. I finally settle on one—still far beyond what I’m comfortable paying—and stare at it.

But I don’t purchase it. Not yet. There seem to be a few seats left, and I can probably wait until the morning to actually make the purchase. I rationalize this move by thinking that Jordan may be an ass and not want to take me to the airport. As I think it, though, I know it’s wrong. Jordan would never do that. If I’m determined to go home, he’ll take me to the airport. I can’t buy it yet because I’m not sure I want to go home.

So, I leave it be. For now.

***

I manage to snag a couple of hours of sleep before sunlight starts pouring into the room. Too soon, though, I’m forced to open my eyes and see Jordan gathering his things. He’s changed already, looking like he’s pretty much finished his morning routine. He glances in my direction when he hears me stir, but he quickly looks away and continues picking up clothing without a word.

I get up and do the same. I only change my shirt, not bothering with my jeans, and quickly brush my teeth. The room is eerily quiet as I do, with only the sound of our shuffling feet on the rough carpet to soften the silence.

Eventually, though, we’re both ready to go, and we stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. Neither of us wants to make the first move toward the door, and neither of us wants to say anything. Jordan, though, decides to be the bigger person and heads for the door. That’s when a little surge of anxiety hits and I realize I have to say something before we’re on the road.

“I’m going home,” I blurt.

Jordan freezes mid-stride and whips his head toward me, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?”

I clear my throat and push my shoulders back, doing my best to look confident, though I don’t feel it. “I said I’m going home.”

Confusion morphs into pain as my words register in his head. He starts to stand, reaching for me, but when he sees me take a step back he lowers his hands. “I can’t turn around, Dyce.”

“I’m not asking you to. I just need you to drop me off at the nearest airport. It’s just thirty minutes away.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but I can feel his anxiety spike. Guilt twists at my stomach, but I shove it down. I need to go home. I can’t be around him. I can’t watch him fall in love with her. “Please. Don’t,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes away from mine. I can hear a little tremor in his voice, and my resolve to go falters.

“Please just take me to the airport,” I say, though I can hear that I don’t sound quite as firm as I did a minute ago. “I’ll figure it out from there.”

“No,” he says, firmly. I’m about to argue, but he gets the words in before I can. “Just…just hear me out, please.” I close my mouth and wait. When he sees I’m not going to interrupt him, he continues. “I know I’m asking a lot of you. I should have told you sooner, and it isn’t fair for me to ask you to stay. But I need you. As a boyfriend, as a friend—” He chokes, swallowing hard as his words get cut off. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t do this by myself. I need you there. I understand if you can’t, but…please.”

I take a deep breath, anger wrestling with sympathy inside my head. I don’t want to stay. I can’t stay, for the sake of my own sanity. Every bone in my body is telling me to bolt before he sees me fall to pieces, before he can break my heart, before it no longer feels like an option to stay. I feel walls pressing down on me, and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it before I explode. But the look on his face…I can’t leave, either. Despite the shittiness of the whole situation, he needs me right now, and I can’t leave. I’ll never forgive myself if I do. And if I do, he might never forgive me. I could potentially destroy any chance at us remaining friends.

If there’s a chance for that at all after this.

So, instead of storming off or refusing to be there for him when he needs me, I sigh and lean against the small desk in the corner. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll stay.”

Relief floods Jordan’s face. “Thank you.”

“Whatever.”

He stands, taking a tentative step toward me. “No, seriously—”

My shoulders stiffen. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

Jordan takes back the step forward and sits back down on the bed, ducking his head. “Yeah, I know that.”

I nod, stalking toward my side of the room. We don’t speak as we head toward the car, nor as we get on the highway and drive.

***

For three hours, we manage to maintain the silence. We don’t discuss the sex. We don’t discuss what we’re going to do now. We don’t discuss what will happen once we get to Shay’s house. We don’t even talk about where and when we’re going to stop for food. Jordan just pulls into a drive-thru about an hour into the trip, taking off as soon as the food is in our hands.

It’s not until Jordan almost runs us off the road that we finally speak again.

We’re driving along just fine when it happens. I’m pointedly staring out the window, fascinated with the huge expanse of land that lay on either side of our car. Not a tree to be seen. Just huge fields, some of them empty, some of them filled with crops either fully grown or just starting to sprout. The long dancing grass isn’t present, but that’s okay. There are other plants that I can look at, and though none are as enticing as the golden waves of grass, they work just fine for now.

Music plays softly in the car, and it’s the only noise besides the white noise outside of the car. It’s been like this for hours, and I’m not ready for it when Jordan shouts.

“Shit!” he yells. I jump in my seat, nearly knocking my head against the roof of the car, and turn toward him. I’m thrown against the center console as he jerks the steering wheel to the right, running us right over the rumble strip and into the dirt beside the road. “Shit, fucking, fuck,” Jordan mutters, a string of profanities tumbling from his mouth as he tries to get control of the car. I sit stock still, gripping the door handle and not breathing.

It feels like forever, but he does get the car back on the road and continues driving. Thankfully, no one else is on the road, both to see us swerve or to get hit. We’re both breathing hard now, and I glare at him.

“What the fuck was that?” I shriek.

“Coyote,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the road in front of him. “It came running across the road.”

“You almost killed us to save a coyote?”

He shoots me a glare before quickly returning his eyes to the road. “We didn’t almost die. And I didn’t mean to swerve that hard. It just happened. My hands jerked.”

I roll my eyes and huff, crossing my arms and leaning back in my seat and looking away from him again. The quiet in the car is more poignant now, though, and it’s not long before Jordan can’t stand it.

“How long are you going to be mad at me?” he asks.

I shrug, keeping my face pointed determinedly in the opposite direction of his.

“No, I need a better answer than a half-assed shrug. What do you need from me to make this better? What do I need to do?”

“Does it matter?” I mutter.

Jordan slams on the brakes, throwing me against my seatbelt. He pulls over to the side of the road and throws the car in park. He glowers at me, fully turned in his seat to face me.

“What the hell?” I moan, coughing as I try to get my breath back.

“‘Does it matter’? Of course it fucking matters, Dyson.”

Anger bubbles inside me. “You’ve liked me for two seconds. So, no, I really don’t think it does.”

Jordan hits the steering wheel, taking a deep breath before continuing. When he speaks again, his voice is measured, but I can tell he’s trying really hard to keep it that way. “You know what? You’re right. I haven’t liked you that way for very long. I’ll give you that. But you know what else? I’ve loved you like a brother for years. Fucking years, Dyce. I’m sorry if I bruised your ego. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. But right now, you need to grow the fuck up.”

I finally turn toward him. “I need to grow up? You’re the one that—”

“You don’t get to act like a child right now. I have a child. I’m the one that’s supposed to be freaking out, not you. You’re my friend. I need my friend. Just because you’re worried that the crush you’ve had might not pan out doesn’t mean you get to stop being my friend.”

Tears sting my eyes and I look away. I was right, despite what he swore he was feeling the other night. He’s never going to see me as more than a hookup. Nothing more than a crush. Nothing more than a fling. And when the fling stops, he’ll just want us to go back to being friends. This realization hits me like a truck, and I can’t breathe, let alone give him a coherent response.

“Well? Do you think you can put aside a little jealousy and insecurity for like two seconds here? Do you think you can man up a little and—”

“I love you,” I exclaim, cutting him off. It comes out of nowhere. I wasn’t planning on saying it, not at this moment, but the words come nonetheless. I almost shriek them.

Jordan freezes, the words drying up in his throat. I flit my eyes toward him and see that he’s just gaping at me. “Wh…what?” he stammers.

Well, cat’s out of the bag now. Might as well go for it. “I’m in love with you,” I choke out. “It’s not a crush, it’s not a fling, and it’s not some stupid sex game to me. I’ve been in love with you for nine fucking years.” The words come tumbling out of my mouth the longer I talk, and I start to gain more steam. Start to feel more anger, more frustration with him. But also release – I’ve wanted to say these things for so very long, and to finally get to say them to Jordan’s face is one of the most cathartic experiences I’ve ever had. “I’m not being petty, or childish, or whatever else you’re thinking. I am in love with you, and I never, ever thought you’d look at me that way. But then we had sex the other night, and I was so fucking happy and I let myself think that maybe, just maybe, I could have you. That we could be a thing. That we could be together and I could have a real relationship with you. And that, after almost a decade of pining, the only thing I’ve wanted might finally come true.

“But then you told me that you have a kid,” I spit. “A kid that you knew we’re going to see. And a kid throws a huge fucking wrench into every foreseeable future for us. So yeah, I’m freaking out right now. I’m feeling insecure. But only because you opened the door for us and let me get a taste of what I’ve wanted for years, only to slam it in my face and tell me you need me as a friend.” I shake my head, huffing for a moment before continuing, my voice harder and surer now. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like I’m just a friend now because it’s easier for you. It’s not fair to me, and you know it.”

My chest heaves up and down, and I finally close my mouth. The words stop pouring out of me. I wait for him to respond. Part of me waits in nervous anticipation, wondering if he’ll freak out or kiss me or tell me to get out. Part of me just doesn’t give a rat’s ass anymore about how he’s going to react. The words are out there. My feelings are finally out there. And now he has to say something.

It takes him a moment to form a sentence. “I…” He clears his throat, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t…uh, know that you felt that way.” He looks up at me with soft eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me before? You told me it was just a crush.”

I laugh, but it comes out strangled and harsh. “Because that would have gone over well I’m sure. You were experiencing feelings for a guy for the first time. I didn’t think coming out of the gate professing my undying love for you over the last nine years was the best way to handle the situation.”

He sighs. “Yeah. You’re right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Dyson, I’m sorry. Really. If I’d known how you felt, I wouldn’t…” He trails off.”

I need him to finish the sentence, though. “Wouldn’t have what? Slept with me?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t regret that. And I still think you’re overreacting to the whole situation. I’m positive we can work something out. But I wouldn’t have acted like such a dick wad. I’m sorry about that—it isn’t fair for me to ask you to act like you would have before. I didn’t think about it that way.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes trained on the center console instead of on me. “I thought you just needed a kick in the ass. Don’t give me that look,” he interjects when he notices me staring at him. “You know you need it sometimes.”

He’s not wrong. More than once, he’s been tough with me. He’s more than capable of compassion and sympathy, and sometimes that’s how he’d behave when I’d have a bout of anxiety. But other times, he’d realize that sympathy wasn’t enough. He’d make me talk through how irrational I was being, and force me to figure out solutions. He’d make me snap out of it. Though he didn’t do it often, the times he did do it worked. This time, however, it wasn’t what I needed, but I understand where he’s coming from. He didn’t have all the details. He thought I was just being a jealous shit.

Which, to a degree, I am. Not completely, but a little. I can understand why he thought being a bit of an ass would work. I exhale deeply. “Yeah, I know,” I mutter.

“I wish you had told me sooner,” he murmurs.

“I wish you had told me sooner,” I retort.

He gives me a small grin and finally looks up at me. “Look, I can’t say ‘I love you’ back right now. I mean, I literally only just figured out I have any romantic feelings toward you at all a few days ago. I’m not quite there yet. I care about you, I’m just…not there yet.” My heart sinks, but I know he’s right. I can’t expect him to return the sentiment immediately, and I don’t. “But,” he continues, “I can say that knowing you love me doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t feel bad at all.” His smile grows a bit, and his eyes are warm.

Heat grows in my belly. For the first time since he told me about his daughter, I feel hope for us. Maybe I don’t need to be so worried about the whole situation, and maybe it doesn’t spell the end for us. If Jordan thinks he could grow to love me as a partner, not just as a friend… The thought sends a thrill through me, and I’m suddenly no longer as afraid to move forward with him.

I reach out and place my hand on his. He turns it over so our palms are touching, and he interlaces his fingers with mine. A smile touches my lips, and my tense muscles start to relax. Jordan leans across the console and presses his mouth against mine. Warmth travels slowly, like molasses, from my lips down into my gut, melting away the urgency of my worries. They still linger in the back of my mind, but they don’t feel as big and bad now. They feel manageable, even beatable, with Jordan by my side.

Too soon, we pull apart. “Ready?” he asks, turning back in his seat so that he’s facing the steering wheel.

I inhale deeply through my nose and nod. “Ready.”

Jordan smiles and pulls back onto the highway, and in no time, we’re back on our way to Arizona.

Chapter Ten

It takes us another day and a half to get to Shay’s house. We drive as far as we can that day, stopping only for food and gas, until the sun starts to set. It’s only then that we stop for the night. We pull into a motel and get a room, this time with only one bed. We’re exhausted though, mentally drained from the driving and the arguing, and neither of us have it in us to do anything but share a kiss goodnight. Both of us crash almost as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

The following day I wake up feeling strange. We only have a couple of hours left in our journey. No more motels. No more days in between. Today, Jordan will meet his daughter. I have no more time to use as a buffer between me and this meeting. My chest constricts a little, but then I feel Jordan’s hand slide into my own, and the tightness loosens just enough for me to breathe. He gives me a smile, and before seven in the morning we’re on our way.

As we draw nearer to her home in Mesa, my mouth starts to dry up. I try to open my mouth to talk, to do anything to take my mind off Shay, but I can’t. I look over toward Jordan and see that he’s just as nervous as I am. For different reasons, obviously, but nervous all the same. Seeing him like this loosens up my chest enough for me to talk.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

He laughs. “I’m about twenty minutes away from meeting my eighteen-month-old daughter, who I just found out about a few days ago. Her mother might hate me, the kid might hate me, and this may be the only time I ever get to see her. How do you think I’m doing?” He tries to laugh again, but it comes out flat, and I know he’s just trying to act tougher and more blasé than he’s feeling.

I reach over and touch his arm. “McKenna isn’t going to hate you. I don’t know about the other things, but I’m absolutely positive that little girl isn’t going to hate you.”

He swallows hard enough I see his Adam’s apple jump. “I haven’t been there for her,” he murmurs.

“She’s what, not even two, right? She doesn’t know that. She doesn’t understand the concept of ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ and you being there for her or not yet. You still have time to get to know her. She’s not going to hate you. In fact, I don’t think it’s possible for any kid to hate you. You’re too much like them.” I nudge his arm, happy that I manage to get a grin out of him.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighs. “But that doesn’t help me with Shay at all.”

“You didn’t know. She didn’t let you know. All you can do is be here now. And besides, once she sees you interact with McKenna, I really don’t think she’s going to feel poorly toward you.”

Jordan takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he tries to relax. “Thanks, Dyson,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing it gently.

I stare at our hands and Shay’s face, twisted in disgust, flashes in my mind and causes my gut to sink. I clear my throat. “Jordan, if you’d rather not tell Shay…I mean, I understand if you don’t want her to know about us.”

He shoots a glance in my direction. “Why wouldn’t I want her to know?”

I press my lips together. “Because she might not like you being with a guy and might not want you to be around McKenna because of it.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment, and I feel like I’m dying inside as I wait. “No,” he finally says. “She won’t feel that way. I remember her being tolerant of other people’s lives. Besides, even if she did feel that way, I wouldn’t want to hide you.”

Outwardly I just nod, but inside I’m soaring. I wouldn’t want to hide you. He probably doesn’t realize it, but it’s probably the best thing he could have said. It doesn’t matter that I’m a guy. It doesn’t matter that I’m not as attractive as him, that I don’t look like I should be his friend, let alone a partner. None of the surface stuff matters. He wouldn’t want to hide me, pretend like we’re not together, and for me that says more than anything else he could have possibly said.

***

My stomach ties itself into intricate knots as we pull up into the driveway. The house is nice, bigger than I expected, although I probably shouldn’t be surprised. We’re in Arizona, not New York. There’s a bit more space out here for big houses than in downtown Manhattan. It doesn’t look different from the other houses we’ve passed along the way. Predominately made up of earth tones, the house almost blends in with the surrounding scenery. A few other houses have grass, but few try to keep it up. It’s not even ten in the morning and already I’m starting to sweat; it’d be difficult to keep grass alive, and I don’t blame most of the neighborhood for not even trying. Instead, many people have different colored rocks, gravel, or packed dirt for “yards”, and many sport a plethora of different succulents. Shayla’s house is no different, surrounded by shades of brown and red and dusty green.

We park and get out of the car. Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we move toward the front door. It’s a foreign sound to me. I’m used to the slap of shoes on pavement, of splashing through puddles, of cars honking and the buzz of voices and music in the background. Here, it’s quiet except for a few bugs chirping and a random bird calling in the distance and our feet crunching the ground beneath us. It sets me on edge. By the time we reach the door, I’m ready to bolt at the slightest sound.

As I think this, Jordan slips his hand into mine, intertwining our fingers and giving me a light squeeze. Instantly my nerves calm a little, the deafening roar that is my thoughts quieting for just a moment.

We pause in front of the door. I wait for Jordan to make a move; it’s his daughter, his big life changing event, not mine. It’s not my place to make the first move, nor do I think I could have even if I wanted to. I glance over at him and see that his brow is furrowed with worry. I rub my thumb against the back of his hand. He looks at me, giving me a nervous smile. In this moment, I’m content. We’re standing on the cusp of something huge and unknown, hand in hand, and for one more moment, it’s just me and him.

Too soon, though, he lets go and knocks on the door.

It only takes a second for Shayla to open the door. She makes the gap wide enough for her to stand in, but no wider. She looks us up and down, same as I’m doing to her. She looks different from how I remember. Rounder is the word which comes to mind, but that isn’t quite what I mean. She used to be all angles, petite but sharp. Now, though, she seems softer, less angular, than she was before. It’s not weight-gain—she’s just as tiny as she was two years ago—but perhaps motherhood. Maybe becoming a mother has softened some of those sharp angles. And maybe I’m just remembering her wrong and she’s always looked like this. I’m not sure. Either way, looking at her and scrutinizing her keeps me from panicking.

Her dark hair is thrown up into a messy bun. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, glancing from Jordan to me and back again. We’re all quiet for a moment, none of us quite sure what to say.

“Hey, Shayla,” Jordan finally murmurs, breaking the quiet.

“Hey,” she replies.

When she doesn’t say anything else or move from the doorway, Jordan clears his throat. “Can we come in?”

She glances behind her, and when she looks back I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. My heart softens toward her, and any residual anger I’m feeling toward her dissipates. No matter what happens from here on out, she isn’t going into this wanting Jordan back, or wanting to have a family that’s “whole” or conventional. She wants what’s best for her kid, and the indecision I see in her face tells me she still isn’t sure this is what’s best. She’s wrong, though. Jordan will do anything for this child. And my heart sinks knowing this.

“Yeah,” she finally says. “Just be quiet. She’s napping. She should be up soon, though.”

We walk into the house, Jordan and I basically tiptoeing our way in. Shay looks back at us and rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to be that quiet. Just take off your shoes and it’ll be fine. She’s in the other room.”

My cheeks burn, but Jordan and I both slip off our shoes and follow behind her in just our socks. She leads us to the living room and has us sit down on the couch, leaving for the kitchen and coming back with glasses of water. Normally, I’d say no thanks. I have a hard time accepting food and drinks from people I don’t really know; it makes me feel awkward, eating in front of them and making them get food for me in their own house. But right now, I desperately need something in my hands and to keep me occupied, so I gratefully take the glass from her hand and clutch it in my own.

Again, we sit in awkward silence. None of us want to look right at the others, and my eyes drift around the room. Like the outside of the house, it’s nice and spacious. This room makes up a few different spaces—living room, dining room, kitchen. There are no walls, just an island separating the kitchen from the rest of the ginormous room. The walls are mostly white with only a few decorations splitting up the lack of vibrancy. Even the furniture and carpets are neutral, pastel colors, and being in such a clean-looking space spikes my anxiety. I’m thankful that Shay only gave us water and not a more colorful, stainable drink. The only thing that brightens up the place and makes it more welcoming are the baby toys littered around the space. I can tell Shay tried to clean up a little before we got here; most of the toys look haphazardly kicked to one side of the room, but none of them are put away. A playpen sits close to the corner, but the baby is not in it. The bright colors of the toys warm the room up, and I choose to focus on those instead of the rest of the room.

They’re bigger than I would have expected, since babies are so little, but I remember quickly they enjoy putting things in their mouths and can swallow little things. The keys on a ring are the length of my hand and an inch wide; the little keyboard has only five keys, each about two inches wide; the ball is at least the size of my head, big enough that I’m not sure that a baby could even wrap her arms around it. Each toy is brightly colored, sporting vibrant hues of red, blue, green, and yellow. Very few of them have white on them, and none have any colors that could be considered muted.

We sit in the silence for a few minutes before Jordan, again, has had enough of it. “So,” he says, “where’s your mom?”

“Business trip. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

Another awkward pause. “This house is really nice,” he offers.

“Thank you.”

“What does your mom do?” He pauses for a moment and changes his questions. “What do you do? Are you working? Or here with the baby?”

She inhales slowly, seeming to gather her thoughts, though she might just be uncomfortable with Jordan trying to continue a conversation that doesn’t want to happen on its own. However, she answers the questions. “My mother is a doctor. There’s a convention in Seattle where she is right now. She’ll be back tomorrow. I do work. Mostly freelancing stuff. Little things I can do while McKenna is asleep.” She pauses for a moment, looking off to the side while she thinks. “I wanted to work more—it’s not like we can’t afford a nanny—but my mother insisted I stay home when I brought up work and maybe going back to school soon. Said I should get in as much time with McKenna as I can before she starts going to school during the day. I’ll think about it then.”

Jordan nods, but doesn’t continue that line of conversation. I can tell that he’s twitchy, on edge, and it just exacerbates how I’m feeling. “When will McKenna wake up?”

Shayla narrows her eyes a touch. “I don’t know. Soon. I can’t predict the exact second she’ll wake up.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and I see him glance away. Heat rises in my chest; he’s already nervous and wanting to please her. She doesn’t have to be so defensive.

But it instantly dissipates when I see her face fall and hear her sigh. “No, I’m sorry. You’re excited to see her. I…I’m just nervous about this, okay? I wasn’t sure about this when I first called you, and I’m still not sure about it now. I’m not sure about you.”

I half-expect Jordan to defend himself, to tell her that he’s a good guy, that he’d never hurt Shay or her daughter, that she has nothing to worry about. I know I want to. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just keeps nodding and keeps still. “I know, Shay. I don’t blame you. I don’t expect anything from you, or from her. You don’t know me. Not really. You’re in charge here.”

She nods her head. I see her shoulders drop and her face unclench a little as she relaxes. She opens her mouth to speak, but as she does a soft cry comes from another room. I swear her ears prick up at the sound, and immediately she’s on her feet and headed toward the hall. Jordan straightens up as well, though he doesn’t turn and doesn’t try to follow Shayla. Instead, he grips my knee tightly and he shoots a nervous, uncertain look my way. I put my own hand on top of his and gently rub circles on his skin with my thumb.

It’s muffled, but I hear Shay cooing at the baby, murmuring indistinct words of comfort as the little one wakes. There’s rustling, the sound of a drawer opening, more cooing. A few babbles from the baby. It only takes a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity waiting on that couch. The entire time, Jordan won’t let go of my knee. With every sound, his hand clenches, digging into my muscles. It doesn’t feel good, but I let him grip. I let him use me as a rock. I know I’d want him to do the same for me.

Finally, I hear footsteps heading toward us. We both turn to see Shay coming out of the hallway with the baby in her arms. Although I’m not sure if “baby” is the right term. I was expecting a little bundle of blankets tucked in the crook of her arm. The child she holds is much bigger than that, though, sitting on her hip rather than cradled in her arms. I do the math, thinking back to when she and Jordan broke up, and realize that the baby is closer to being a toddler than she is a baby. At least a year and a half old, probably closer to two. I knew her age earlier, but the connection between her age and her size hadn’t clicked until this very moment.

Though she may potentially ruin the new relationship I have with Jordan, my heart still melts at the sight of her. I can’t help but admit that she’s beautiful. Her head is topped with a mop of dark, curly hair, like Jordan’s, and though her face resembles her mother’s, her eyes slanted slightly and her nose tiny, her skin is darker than Shay’s, lighter than Jordan’s. She seems to be a balanced mix of the two of them.

She clings to her mother’s side, leaning her head against Shay’s shoulder as Shay walks toward us. The little one glances at Jordan and me, and I see that she has chocolate brown eyes. She doesn’t make any noise as she assesses us, just sticks her chubby fingers in her mouth and gnaws on them gently. Shay doesn’t take the seat she had before across from us. Instead, she sits on the edge of the coffee table, directly in front of Jordan. She shifts the baby so that she’s sitting on her lap facing Jordan, taking the little hands in her own and placing a peck on the little cheek.

“McKenna,” she says, her voice a little higher and more cadenced than before, “this is your daddy.” She glances up at Jordan, her eyes quickly flitting back to the baby. “Jordan, this is McKenna.”

I turn my gaze toward Jordan’s face.

He’s staring at McKenna with wide eyes, his lips parted slightly. His chest rises and falls quicker than it was earlier. His hand is gone from my knee now, resting instead on his own. I look more closely at his eyes, and I see they’re wet. It doesn’t take long before I see a couple of tears sneak out from them.

I shrink away from him. Not because his obvious and immediate love for this little child freaks me out. Not because I’m angry at his reaction or upset that he already seems to adore her. I lean away, shrink as far into the couch as I can because I feel like an outsider. I do not belong here. This moment is not mine, and I have no place in it. Right now, all Jordan can see is McKenna, and Shayla as an extension of McKenna. He’s probably not even aware that I’m sitting next to him anymore, and he probably wouldn’t notice if I got up and moved away or started doing the can-can dance in a huge fluffy skirt a few feet away. He is enthralled by the little human in Shay’s lap, and I’m not even an inkling of a thought in his mind.

So, I shift away from him, staring at the floor and giving him only occasional glances.

“Hi, McKenna,” he eventually whispers, his voice cracking a bit. He clears his throat quietly. “Hi, sweetie.” I see him reach a tentative hand toward her, touching her fingers. She grips his own fingers with her tiny hand, and Jordan exhales a teary laugh. “You’ve got a strong girl on your hands, Shay.”

“Tell me about it,” she laughs. I look her way and see that she has relaxed considerably since we first arrived. Maybe it’s just having her baby in her arms. Maybe it’s seeing how Jordan loves this child already. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Really?” he breathes. “I, uh, I don’t know how, though. I’ve never held one so little before.”

“It’s fine, you won’t break her or anything. She’s not so little anymore.” Shay tucks her hands under McKenna’s arms, lifting her and handing her to Jordan. “Just set her on your lap.”

Jordan does as instructed, grabbing McKenna just under Shay’s hands and situating her sideways on his lap. For a moment, he’s still, just holding her there and looking completely unsure of himself. But McKenna looks up at him and reaches for his face, breaking the uncertainty and making Jordan chuckle. He starts bouncing her gently on his knee and his arms visibly relax.

“Well, hello, little one,” he coos, letting her explore his face with her hands. She pats him, looking him over and gripping his shirt when she finishes her exploration. She uses his shirt to pull herself up, tucking her little legs under her. She stands on his legs, balancing herself with both of her hands on his shoulder, leaning against him and glancing around the room. She babbles, making random noises. I have no idea what she’s trying to say, but Shayla does.

“Set her on the floor,” she tells Jordan. “She’s getting antsy, wants to run around.”

Jordan again does as he’s told and carefully puts McKenna down. Immediately she takes off, heading toward the side of the room with all her toys. She bends over and picks the ball up, using both of her arms to carry it. She toddles back over to Jordan, handing him the ball. More tears leak from his eyes and his face twists up as he tries not to cry. He smiles at her.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, laughing gently. She smiles back at him, taking back off toward her stash of toys without any more fuss.

“She likes giving people things,” Shayla says. “Especially people she likes.”

McKenna’s head comes back into view as she runs around the other side of the table, going straight for her mother. She has the ring of keys in her hand. She holds them out and Shayla takes them from her, smiling gently and kissing the top of her head. “Thank you.” And again, McKenna takes off back toward the toys.

Jordan laughs. “She must be a favorite with other kids.”

Shay gives him a wry grin. “Sometimes. She loves giving things and even doesn’t mind sharing that much. Doesn’t do so hot when someone tries to take something from her, though.”

“I don’t blame her.”

They laugh, and I just watch. Suddenly, though, I feel a bump against my leg. Startled, I look down to find McKenna leaning against me, staring up at me with her wide, brown eyes. She holds out a little stuffed tiger to me, staring me dead in the eye. I freeze. I wasn’t expecting her to acknowledge me at all, let alone try to interact with me. Tentatively, I take it, not wanting to upset her. She stares at me for a moment, leaning against my leg and her little arms thrown over my thigh. Quickly, though, she pushes me away and walks in uncoordinated baby steps back toward the toys. Now that she’s given toys to everyone in the room, she doesn’t waste any more time with us, instead sitting down a few feet away and playing with a couple of other things by herself.

“Don’t look so scared, Dyce,” Jordan teases, nudging me with his elbow. I flinch, but try to give a convincing smile. Honestly, I am terrified. Being an only child with only a few cousins, all of whom are several years older than me, I’ve never interacted with a child in such close quarters. Never did any babysitting, never had friends who had baby siblings. The closest I ever came to that was when I met Jordan’s younger siblings, but the youngest is only four years younger than us. She was nine when I met her, nowhere even close to this size. I never know what kids, especially kids too young to give direct answers, want from me, and it freaks me out to no end. “She doesn’t bite.” His face scrunches up though and he looks to Shayla. “She doesn’t bite, right?”

“No, she doesn’t bite,” she laughs, getting up and taking her original seat across the coffee table. “She might end up ripping your hair out of your skull or an earring right out of your ear, but that’s about it.” She looks directly at me for the first time since we arrived and gestures toward the tiger in my lap. “That’s one of her favorites. She must like you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” I mutter. They laugh, and so do I, though I do mean it. I seriously don’t know why she’d like me more than Jordan or her own mother.

We’re all quiet for a moment, Shayla and Jordan just watching McKenna play. He’s enraptured by her. Completely and utterly under her little child spell. I can’t blame him, either. I’m not great with kids, and she’s even got me feeling a little gooey inside.

“When’s her birthday?” Jordan asks.

“October eighteenth,” she says. “She’ll be two this fall.”

“Does she talk yet?”

“Some. She knows a few – ‘mama’, ‘ball’, ‘bye-bye’, ‘go’, stuff like that. She’s quiet, though. She prefers to show me things instead of telling me. She understands more than she says out loud.”

“A lady of few words, then.”

“Exactly,” she laughs.

They continue going back and forth like this, Jordan peppering Shay with questions about the kid. He asks everything he can think of—her favorite color, which toys are her favorite, does she have any baby friends, what does she like to do, when does she sleep, when does she eat, does she poop normally. He even asks questions about Shay’s pregnancy and the birth, which surprises me. Jordan isn’t unfamiliar with lady parts and isn’t embarrassed by talking about them, but he asks as many questions as Shay is willing to answer, even the ones which most guys don’t want to know about, like how labor was and if she needed any stitches or anything afterward.

After a while I tune them out. Neither even glance in my direction, which I’m not necessarily bummed out by. I don’t really want to hear about all the nitty-gritty details about Shay’s epidural and labor horrors. I excuse myself to use the restroom, but when I’m done I don’t go back to the couch. Instead, I head toward the front door, quietly slipping out and shutting the door behind me. Shayla glances up at the sound and then over at McKenna, probably checking to make sure her child wasn’t somehow walking out the front door. Jordan doesn’t even twitch at the sound. He may not have even heard it at all. He just keeps talking to Shay.

I exhale deeply and slowly as I sit on the front step, strategically staying out of the heat of the direct sun. I close my eyes and try to immerse myself in the quiet, to match my thoughts with the cadence of the bugs—cicadas, perhaps, though I’m not sure—in the background. It’s rhythmic, not overwhelming. Just sort of there without anything in particular to say. I’m surprised to find that I enjoy the sound. Though I’m used to the noise of New York, the noise here is not nearly as jarring or as harsh as it is there, and it does wonders for my nerves.

It doesn’t fix them completely, though, and try as I might to make my thoughts as mellow as the cicadas, I just can’t seem to do it. All I can think about is Jordan just inside the door, having a conversation with a girl he used to date about the child that they share. If anyone looked in on them now, without hearing the talk, they would never think that Jordan had just travelled across the country with his gay friend and hadn’t known McKenna before ten minutes ago.

They would think that those three people are a family. And they’d never see me, sitting out on the front porch all by myself. I’m not in the picture. I am not a part of the family.

Chapter Eleven

After about an hour alone with Shay, Jordan comes looking for me. He opens the front door and pokes his head out, looking down at me on the steps.

“Hey,” he says, “we’re going to have lunch. Should be ready in a few minutes.”

I nod. I wonder if either of them will realize them having lunch together will be like a date. “Okay. Can you give me the keys?”

His brows lower as he looks at me. “Why?”

I give him the same confused look. “I was going to go while you guys have lunch. Get something for myself.”

“No,” he says slowly. “You’re going to come inside and have lunch with us. Like I said.”

Oh. A smile touches the corners of my lips as I realize that Jordan doesn’t want to exclude me. He doesn’t want to send me away while he and Shayla have a meal together, like a little family. Part of me realizes that I’m going to have to stop acting so shocked whenever Jordan treats me normally, like an actual partner, and start expecting it. But most of me isn’t quite there yet, and is just thankful that seeing McKenna hasn’t seemed to dull his feelings for me. Yet.

I follow Jordan inside and sit at the dining table, where Shay is already seated. McKenna sits next to her in a high-chair, a little bib around her neck. It doesn’t do much; she’s got little pieces of chicken and applesauce for lunch, and the applesauce is all over her face and tiny hands. She munches on them happily though, making gurgling and babbling noises every so often. Jordan and I sit opposite them, me more hesitantly than him.

A plate of chicken breasts and bowls of steaming veggies sits in the middle of the table. Shay serves herself and passes the food to Jordan, and then to me. We eat quietly for a few minutes, the only sound punctuating the silence being McKenna’s soft babbles. Jordan and I exchange glances every so often, and he gives me a soft smile.

“So,” Shay says, breaking the quiet. “Dyson. I’d like to ask you a few direct questions, if that’s okay.”

I almost choke on my food. What the hell does she want to ask me? Coughing, I warily respond to her. “Uh. Okay.”

“How long have you been friends with Jordan?”

“Almost ten years,” Jordan interjects. I only have time to open my mouth before he answers for me.

Shay glares at him. “I asked Dyson. Not you.”

“I could have told you that, though. Why do you need to ask Dyson?” Jordan’s brow furrows in confusion, and I see that he honestly doesn’t understand, just as I don’t. He wasn’t trying to monopolize the conversation or belittle me by answering first; he’s just very aware that Shay and McKenna are his thing, not mine, and was confused as to why Shay would need to ask me a question that he could answer perfectly well.

“Because,” Shay replies, “I’ve already gotten a feel for you. Dyson hasn’t said two words since you guys got here. If he’s going to be spending any amount of time around my daughter, I’m going to get to know him a little.”

My cheeks start to burn, but I nod and gesture toward her. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” She inhales deeply through her nose, staring at me the whole time. I fidget uncomfortably; I remember her being a very intense person, and apparently, that hasn’t changed. “What’d you major in?”

“Accounting,” I murmur.

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“I draw some.”

“He draws a lot,” Jordan interrupts. He nudges me with his elbow. “Don’t be modest, dummy.” He turns to Shay. “I know you want him to talk, but he won’t tell you this, so I will. He draws insanely well. He could totally make a career out of it.”

“Why don’t you?” Shay asks, directing the question toward me.

I swallow hard. This isn’t something I wanted to talk about with Jordan, let alone with this girl that I don’t know well at all. “Too unpredictable.”

She nods. “I can respect that.” She continues to stare at me as she mulls over her next question. “Are you seeing anyone?”

My face is immediately on fire. I glance involuntarily at Jordan and quickly shift my eyes back to Shay. Her sharp eyes catch it, though, and again she nods.

“You’re with Jordan?” Jordan opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up a finger and continues looking at me. “Not you. I want him to answer.”

I gulp. How the hell is she so intimidating? She’s a whole foot shorter than I am. But she is fiercely intimidating, height be damned. This is what I liked about her before, when she was with Jordan; she always called him on his bullshit and nothing, I mean nothing, got by her. She’s quick and intuitive, and it was great for Jordan. For me, not so much.

“Yes,” I finally whisper. I clear my throat and speak more firmly. “Yes, I’m with Jordan.”

She nods and glances at Jordan. “I didn’t know you were bi.”

He shrugs and grins. “Neither did I.”

The comment breaks the seriousness hanging in the room. Shay laughs, and so do Jordan and I. A weight lifts from my chest—Shay doesn’t hate me. She’s not immediately disgusted by Jordan and me being together. She’s not telling us to leave, she’s not acting weirdly. I smile for the first time since we showed up at her house.

“How long have you guys been together?” she asks.

“About forty-eight hours,” I mutter. Jordan grins and shoves my shoulder lightly.

“Sounds about right,” he chuckles. He turns to Shay and the smile slips from his lips a bit. “Are you cool with this?” he asks, and I can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

She waves her hand at him and leans back in her seat. “Why wouldn’t I be? We’re not together. You can date whoever you want. Besides,” she says, glancing in my direction, “Dyson seems like an okay guy.”

Jordan’s smile returns to his lips, but Shay’s slips from hers.

“I’ve got to warn you, though,” she murmurs. “My mom…she won’t be as cool with this. I don’t know exactly how she’ll react, but it probably won’t be good.”

The room goes still. Even McKenna, who is covered in applesauce at this point, stops babbling and moving her food for a moment.

“Well, we’ll just talk to her,” Jordan asserts.

Shay shrugs. “You can try. It might work, depending on her reaction. If it’s mild, you can probably change her mind. If it’s not…” She shakes her head and rubs the back of her neck. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look this concerned since we got here, and it worries me. “She can be…difficult. Especially with stuff that affects McKenna.”

Jordan’s brow furrows. “How does this affect McKenna?”

Shay laughs. I stare at him, shocked he doesn’t see it. “I think that her father dating anyone, let alone a man, affects her. Whoever you date will be near her, and often, most likely.”

“Why would your mom care?” Jordan asks. “I mean, about Dyson being a guy, not about the dating thing. I get that.”

She sighs. “Her parents moved here from China before she was born. They had very strict ideas about what was acceptable and what wasn’t, and being gay was definitively on the ‘not acceptable’ list. She’s told me some of the things they used to tell her. I’m actually shocked she’s as tolerant as she is after hearing some of the prejudiced shit her parents used to spew.” She glances quickly at McKenna and winces. “Crap. I mean crap. Not the S word.”

“You’re not making her sound very tolerant,” Jordan mutters.

Shay hears the bite in his voice and glares at him. “My grandparents would freak out if they found out anyone was gay, whether they knew that person or not. My mom doesn’t give a flying poo what people do with their lives. She doesn’t think families with gay parents are great, necessarily, but she’d never try to stop a gay couple from having kids. She’s always told me that if someone’s personal choices don’t affect me, I can’t be upset with them, and as far as I can tell she’s stuck with that line of thinking. For her personal life, though…she won’t want a gay couple in McKenna’s life. I think she’d have freaked out if I was gay. All she’ll see is you and Dyson disrupting any chance at McKenna growing up in a ‘conventional’ sort of family. She hates me being a single mom as it is, let alone bringing in you as a bisexual father and your boyfriend.”

“Well, then, we’ll just tell her she has to deal,” Jordan growls.

I can tell that Shay is getting angry at Jordan; every time he opens his mouth, her eyes narrow a little bit more, her jaw a little bit tenser. “First of all, she’s my mother. Her opinion matters to me, and while I won’t agree with her on this, I’m not going to estrange myself and McKenna from her for it. Second, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t just walk away or tell her to just “deal.” I’m a single mom with enough income to buy about three meals a week. She’s the one that puts a roof over my head and food in my and McKenna’s stomachs. I might not agree with her, but I can’t just tell her to deal with it or else.”

“You have me. We can find a place, or find two places if you don’t want to live with me, or—”

“Do you even have a job, Jordan?” she spits. “Do you even have any source of income, at this very second?”

Crickets chirp as Jordan presses his lips together.

“I didn’t think so,” Shay hisses. “Don’t sit there and try to make plans and act like I’m being ridiculous when you don’t have anything better to offer. I love my mother. Yes, she can be prejudiced and I don’t like that. But I love her, and McKenna loves her. We have a nice home, we never have to worry about food, and McKenna has two people that adore the crap out of her here. I’m not going anywhere. McKenna isn’t going anywhere. So, we’re just going to have to figure this out with my mother and that’s that.”

The room is quiet for a moment. McKenna doesn’t join in, though, and babbles obliviously while she smacks her hand against the high-chair table. The pit of worry I’d had when I first came in opens again and threatens to swallow me whole. I can feel the tension in Jordan’s muscles beside me, and I know that he’s dying to say something else. I know he doesn’t agree with what Shay’s saying. He’s too cut and dried for that, too upfront and already too invested in McKenna’s well-being. He probably sees Shay’s mother as a bad influence, but Shay doesn’t and even I don’t. Prejudices aren’t the way to go, obviously, but if what Shay says is right, then all she wants is what’s best for McKenna, and she’s going to do whatever she thinks is best.

Shay isn’t being unreasonable, either. Not to me, at least. Her reasoning is sound; Jordan doesn’t have shit going on right now. This is all he’s got planned, and the next week, the next month, the next year, are a mystery to him. He has no job, no income. No place close by to live. Him suggesting that Shay leave the comfort and stability of her home for uncertainty and insecurity is absurd, and I don’t blame her for shutting down that line of thinking. Even if she didn’t have reasons A, B, and C for not even entertaining Jordan’s ideas, I can understand her not wanting to fight her mother too hard on her prejudices. No matter what her mom thinks, she’s still her mom, and being mom trumps about everything else. Despite being cold and rather distant for most of my life, I still love my mother. I still care about her, and I still want to make her proud of me. So, while Jordan might not understand Shay’s unwillingness to go against her mother, I do.

And deep down, I know it’s going to have to be me that acts if it comes down to it. If it comes to Jordan having to choose between me and his daughter, I’m going to have to make the decision. He’ll be torn, split between his best friend and his newly found daughter, and even if he’s confused, I’m not. It has to be his daughter. He can make new friends. He can date new people. He has only this one daughter, and I won’t let him screw this up.

Even if it means I’m not in the picture.

The silence drags on for a few more minutes before Shay clears her throat and stands. “I need to give McKenna a bath. You guys can stay tonight. There’s a spare room down the hall, second door on the right, if you guys want to settle in.” She carefully extricates McKenna from the sticky mess that’s her high-chair and disappears in the hallway.

“Well,” Jordan says, breaking the new quiet that settles on us after Shay leaves. “We should probably get our crap.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, standing and heading toward the door in a daze.

Before I can get very far, though, Jordan’s hand falls on my shoulder and turns me around. He looks at me with tender eyes and grips the tops of both of my arms. “You know it’ll be okay, right? We’re going to sort this out, and everything will be okay.” He gives me a small smile and rubs my arms a bit.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, but the words fall flat as I speak them and leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Jordan doesn’t seem to hear it, though. He kisses me softly and pulls me toward the door. I follow in a daze, not listening as he continues to jabber on about the weather and how adorable McKenna is. Instead, all I can think about is the dark abyss of despair that waits for me when Shay’s mother comes home and all of this must end.

***

Later that evening, as the sun barely brushes the horizon, I sit on the steps of the back porch. My sketchbook sits in my lap, and I loosely hold a pencil in my hand. I’ve been drawing for about an hour and it’s not finished, but I don’t want to continue. I wish I’d brought pastels or chalk or even colored pencils with me; it’s not the scenery, but the colors here which are making me want to sketch. All that sits in front of me is a normal backyard. A nice yard, for sure, but just a yard nonetheless. There’s nothing special about it—except for the colors. So much of New York is tinged in gray or has a blue undertone to it; here, everything is vibrant and warm. The sun doesn’t make things look cooler, but warmer. Everything has red and yellow tones to them, and all I want to do is put that on paper. But the lone pencil I have makes the warm scene in front of me look dull and lifeless, and no matter how much detail I add to it, it refuses to reflect what I can see. So, I sit, just staring at the yard and at my sketch, unsure what to do and not certain I even want to keep trying with this one.

“Shay has stuff if you want it.”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Jordan chuckles and moves closer, peering over my shoulder as his knees press gently on my shoulders. “It looks good, though.”

“It needs color.”

“Well, like I said, Shay has some stuff. She mentioned it to me after you said you draw. I think she said she has oil pastels and water colors. She tried to get into art at one point, but she said she never did. It’s all just sitting there, unused.”

My interest peaks, but I shove it aside. I don’t want to ask Shay for stuff, even if it’s art supplies she never uses. I don’t like asking for favors from people I don’t know on a regular basis, let alone from my boyfriend’s baby mama. So, I shrug, and he drops it. He plops down next to me on the step. He keeps no space between us, letting our shoulders press against each other. He notices that I’m just staring off in to space, not looking at him, and prods a little.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

I shrug, but, as I knew when I did it, it isn’t a good enough answer for him.

“No, c’mon, Dyce. What’s up? You’ve been quieter than usual since this morning.”

Just sitting here wondering if this is the last time I get to feel your body against mine. Mulling over the impending demise of our relationship. You know, the usual stuff. But I don’t say any of this, partly because I don’t want to worry Jordan with it and partly because I feel like vomiting the second I even think about telling him. Instead, I turn toward another line of thinking, one that isn’t what’s bothering me the most, but that I have been worrying about and will be convincing enough to cover up the rest of it.

“She’ll never like me,” I murmur. “McKenna. She’ll see me as the person that took her dad away from her.”

Jordan scoffs and I glare at him. “Seriously? That’s seriously what you think?”

I shrug, turning my eyes away from him. Heat burns in my cheeks. This isn’t the big issue right now, but it’s still one I’ve been thinking about since he first mentioned he has a daughter. “Wouldn’t you feel that way? If someone else was dating your mom or dad?”

Folding his hands together, he takes a deep breath before continuing. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Liar. “Yes, you would. You’re just saying that to shut me up.”

“No, Dyce, I’m not,” he growls. I can tell he’s starting to get angry with me. “I’ve never felt that kids look at a parent’s new partner as the ‘person who took them away’. I mean, every situation is different, and maybe someone cheated or something. That’s a whole other can of worms that I’m not going to touch, and that literally doesn’t apply here. But when parents just start dating new people? Nah.”

“But—”

“Do you remember Pete Mulligan?” he interrupts. I nod, though confused as to why his name just fell from Jordan’s mouth. Pete went to middle school with us. He moved before high school. Neither of us had been good friends with him. He seemed like a decent kid, not ostracized or super popular, but he had his own group of friends and never crossed paths with either of us. I furrow my brow as I wait for Jordan to continue. I don’t understand why he’s bringing up Pete now. “Pete was a totally normal kid, right?”

Again, I nod.

“Never had any issues with his parents, right?”

“I have no idea, Jordan,” I sigh. “I didn’t know him very well.”

“Well, I did.”

“Liar.”

He backtracks. “Okay, I didn’t ‘know him’, know him. But we did have a heart-to-heart in seventh grade about his parents.”

“Why?” I raise an eyebrow, skeptical of this conversation.

He shrugs. “That year my mom always picked me up. We’d stand together sometimes and wait for our parents. I noticed that a few different people picked him up, so one day I just asked about the situation. He was cool about it.

“He told me his parents had divorced the year before. Nothing explosive, no heated fights or abuse or cheating or anything. They just realized they didn’t love each other anymore and weren’t happy. Everything was amicable. They’d both started dating new people, though—that’s why I saw so many different people picking Pete up. When I asked if that was weird, he said he was a little upset about it at first. He’d wanted his parents to get back together, and dating new people kind of ruined that hope. But he got over it pretty quickly when he saw how happy his parents were with these new people.”

He pauses, and I wait for him to finish. After a few seconds, though, I realize he’s not going to say anything else. “So…”

“So, it’s not the end of the world when parents date other people. Pete spent twelve years of his life with his parents being together, and he got over it. McKenna will never know anything else. She’ll have nothing to even get over.” He places his hand on my knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You’ll always just be a part of her life. She won’t resent you, or think you’re taking me away from Shay, or that you’re disrupting our family. To her, you’ll always have been a part of her family.”

Tears prick my eyes and I turn my head away, not wanting Jordan to see. He’s not having that, though. He coaxes my face toward him with his fingertips, giving me a half-smile when my eyes finally meet his. He presses his lips against mine, soft and full, and my insecurities and worries start to melt away. He’s right. McKenna will never know a life where her parents are together. Maybe this can work. Maybe I don’t have to be excluded.

Reality comes crashing down, though, and I remember that it can’t be that way, no matter how McKenna might feel about the situation later.

A small cough from behind startles us, and we break apart. I turn to find a woman, small and dark-haired like Shay but older, standing in the doorway. Her arms are crossed, her eyes staring us down. She looks immaculate, powerful and intimidating in a creamy tailored suit and burgundy heels. My stomach drops as she continues to glare at us. This must be Shay’s mom. I see Shay standing a few feet behind her, looking distraught. She said earlier her mom would be home tomorrow; she must have caught an earlier flight or something and didn’t tell Shay.

Jordan’s on his feet before I can even think of moving. He puts out his hand for her to shake. “Hi, ma’am. I’m Jordan.”

She glances down at the hand Jordan offers but doesn’t take it. She remains still with her arms crossed against her chest. She stares him down until his hand awkwardly drops back to his side. “You’re Jordan?” she asks.

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The Jordan that impregnated my daughter and didn’t bother to follow up with her?”

His face tightens imperceptibly. “I didn’t know—”

She holds up one hand, cutting off his sentence. “Yes, I know. You didn’t know.” She looks over her shoulder and glares at her daughter, who winces and sits down on the couch. “Fine. That one is on Shayla. To be clear, though, you are the father of my granddaughter?”

“Yes,” Jordan replies through tight lips.

Her eyes flick down to me. I feel like I’m going to wither away on the spot. “And who is this?”

“Dyson. He’s a friend.”

She narrows her eyes at Jordan. Even though she’s staring at Jordan, I feel as though I’m going to shrivel up into a husk. I thought
Shay was intimidating. This woman is power incarnate. “Do you often kiss your friends, Jordan?”

He winces. I’m going to throw up.

“He’s my boyfriend,” he amends, though I can tell that he has a hard time speaking the words, and sends a stab of pain through my heart.

Shay’s mother nods. “I see.” She gives me another glance before giving Jordan a hard stare. “You have until tomorrow to leave.” She turns on her heel to leave.

“Wait, what?” Jordan exclaims, all appearances of calm and composure shattered.

She pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “Was I not clear? You need to leave. Immediately.”

“Why?” he says, almost yelling at this point. “Shay wanted me to meet McKenna—”

“And you have, haven’t you?” She turns around completely. She’s tiny next to Jordan, but she certainly holds more power here. And she knows it. “You met your daughter. My daughter has fulfilled her obligations to you. Now it’s time for you to go.”

“That’s Shay’s decision, not yours.”

Her lips thin into a minuscule line. “Shayla’s judgement is skewed. She cares for you, and that makes her vulnerable. It’s not her fault,” she amends, glancing back at her daughter. Her face softens a little, but when she turns back to Jordan her expression is hard again. “Motherhood can make even the strongest woman soft. A clear head needs to make the decision, and hers is not. It’s not in McKenna’s best interest to be a part of such a…broken family.”

Jordan laughs. “And Shay being a single mother? That’s not a broken family?”

She narrows her eyes to slits and her jaw clenches. “It’s better than this.”

Jordan flinches. I don’t. I’m numb at this point. I shut down almost as soon as I saw she was behind us. The second I saw her face, I knew that Shay hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d talked about her mom. This woman disapproves, greatly, and she isn’t being shy about it. I’m used to people disapproving, of giving me stares, of being fine with homosexuality in theory but feeling repulsed when it affects their personal life. I can see in her eyes that she sees me and Jordan’s feelings for me as an obstacle in her family’s path. I am a wrench in any plan she has for Shay and McKenna. Just as I thought McKenna was going to be a wrench in mine.

Though she’s making things impossible for me and difficult for Jordan and Shay, I can’t bring myself to be angry with her. Maybe all my anger is tapped out. I was so furious with Jordan for so many reasons, and now all I feel is exhaustion and resignation. But I can also understand her. Despite being obstinate in this situation, I can tell that she’s fiercely protective of her family. Shay said her mom wasn’t happy when she found out Shay was pregnant, but didn’t kick her out. She helped her, even made sure Shay gets as much time with McKenna at this young age as possible. She loves Shay and loves McKenna. Though it’s incorrect and ultimately will end up hurting more people than it helps, she feels she’s protecting her family, shielding those she loves from a life she believes will be detrimental to McKenna. She’s wrong. But I can’t fault her for it.

She walks away, leaving Jordan standing outside the doorway and me on the steps. After a moment of stunned silence, Jordan sits next to me again, though not as close as before. We sit in the quiet for a few minutes. Jordan doesn’t seem to know what to say or what to do.

I do. I just don’t want to put it into words.

Eventually, though, the quiet is broken by Jordan’s voice. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he murmurs. “That…that was more than I was expecting. She didn’t—she didn’t even give me a chance to explain or talk or anything! What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” I sigh.

I see Jordan give me a look out of the corner of my eye, his lips twitching angrily. “What do you mean ‘nothing’? I can’t just let that woman shove us out of McKenna’s life without a word from Shay.”

“I know.”

“So, what should I do? I mean, I can talk. I can try to work this out, maybe make us all sit down together and talk.”

That won’t work and you know it. Not without Shay behind you one hundred percent. “I can leave,” I whisper.

It doesn’t register with him at first. “I can pull up statistics on other kinds of families for her to look at. Show her that having more than two parents or gay parents or whatever doesn’t hurt the kid in any way. She’ll probably respond better—” I can almost hear the gears click into place. “Wait, what did you just say?”

I grimace, and though it makes me wilt inside, I stick to my guns and repeat myself. “I said, I can leave.”

Jordan’s whole body turns toward me. I feel the anxiety rolling off his body in waves. “No, no you can’t,” he argues.

“It makes the most sense.”

“No, it doesn’t! You can’t just leave. You’re with me, and she’s just going to have to deal with that.” I see desperation flicker in his eyes, though I’m sure it has more to do with his friend leaving than his partner. We haven’t been together long enough for him to freak out like this. I’m the one that this will hurt the most. He’ll move one, and I keep this in mind as I continue talking to him.

“She’s not going to.”

“I’ll make her.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I can’t keep you from your kid, Jordan. I can’t be the reason you can’t see her.”

“You won’t be. We’ll all sit down together and we’ll work this out, okay?” He grabs my shoulders and turns me so that I’m facing him. “No more talk of leaving, okay?”

I nod, and he pulls me against his side. He continues to ramble on about when and how he should try to talk to Shay’s mother, running through different ideas and points to make. I give an appropriate noise when necessary, sprinkling his monologue with “ohs” and “yeahs” along the way. But I’m not paying attention. I’ve made up my mind already, and no matter what conclusion Jordan comes to, I’m doing what I think needs to be done.

Chapter Twelve

“I’m going to go talk to Shay, okay? I’ll be right back.”

I nod, not looking at Jordan. He stands and kisses me on the top of the head, moving quickly. He’s in a zone now. It’s like the Mother’s Day debacle all over again; he’s just going to bulldoze everyone and take as much as he can into his own hands and make things go the way he wants them to. But it isn’t going to be enough this time. This time, it’s me who’s going to get my way.

After Jordan is gone for a minute, I stand and head inside. Shay’s mother is standing at the kitchen counter, staring intently at some documents scattered across the surface. She glances up at me when I open the door, but turns back to her papers.

“I thought I told you to leave,” she murmurs. “Jordan doesn’t seem to understand what the words mean.”

“I know,” I whisper. I clear my throat and try to stand a little taller. “Mrs.—ah…” I pause, realizing I have no idea what Shay’s last name is.

Her eyes flicker up for a moment. “Just call me Leah. And Ms., not Mrs. I haven’t had a husband for a long time.”

My interest flickers at this, but I know now is not the time to ask, nor the time to focus on other, less important topics than what I need to talk about now. Nor do I think she’d appreciate me prying into her personal life when she already sees me as a tool for destruction in her granddaughter’s life. “Leah.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Jordan is a good guy. He already adores McKenna.”

“That doesn’t change the present situation,” she murmurs.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, but choose not to argue the point. Of course it changes the situation. Of course loving his daughter should change the way she sees him. But instead of trying to change her mind, I choose to pick my battle carefully. I’m positive I only have one shot at this, both with her patience and before my resolve crumbles. So, I focus on the plan I already have—the one that will end up with both of us losing something, but having a chance at happiness elsewhere. Even if it’s without each other.

I skip past all of the probing small talk I had planned; Leah obviously doesn’t have the patience for it. “It’s me you have an issue with, right?” I ask bluntly.

She stops looking at the documents in front of her. She places her hands on the counter and looks directly at me. “You’re correct,” she states, unflinchingly.

“It’s not Jordan?”

“Well, he’s dating you, so yes, it is Jordan as well. But in general, no, it’s not Jordan himself I have an issue with.”

I nod, figuring as much. I know what I have to say, but the words stick in my throat. Leah sees as much and pushes.

“I don’t have much tolerance for stilted conversation, Dyson. I’d appreciate it if you could spit out whatever you’re trying to say.”

Internally I wince, but externally I steel myself and inhale deeply. “I know you don’t think so, but Jordan really is a good guy. He’ll do whatever his little girl needs him to do, and he’ll love every second of it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Your point?”

I spit the words out before I can check myself. “If I left, could Jordan stay?”

She gives me a measured look, not giving anything away. I do my best to keep my face neutral and expressionless, even though I’m dying inside. “And where would you go?”

“Home. New York.”

“That doesn’t necessarily solve the problem I have with you two, you know.”

Water starts building in my eyes, and I do my best to blink it away. This is for Jordan. This is for me. “That’d be it for us. I’d break it off. You’d never have to see or hear from me again. Jordan wouldn’t hear from me again.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Jordan would have still dated a man, though,” she muses, talking through the logistics of this out loud. “He may see others.”

I shake my head. My whole body is trembling now. I desperately hope she can’t see it. “I’m it. He’s never dated a guy before. I can guarantee he won’t again.” Honestly, I can’t guarantee that. Who knows—dating me might have opened a whole new world for Jordan, and he might find other guys he wants to date or fuck or whatever. But part of me feels that this isn’t true, and so I feel all right telling Leah he flat-out won’t again. Anything which will make her let him be with his kid.

“I’d like to bring Jordan out here to discuss this.”

Panic grips me. “No,” I blurt. She raises her eyebrows and I backtrack, sighing. “Look, if Jordan comes out here and knows I’m leaving, he’ll talk me out of it. He’ll argue. He’ll hang on, kicking and screaming the entire time. We’ve been friends for years, far longer than we’ve been dating, and he won’t want me to leave. He’ll try to say that we can just be friends, if nothing else. He’s as stubborn as a mule, especially when it comes to the people he cares about.”

“And you can’t do that?” she asks, coolly and calmly.

“No,” I choke out. My throat tightens as the tears start to pour over my eyes. I wipe them away angrily. “I can’t do that.” Flashes of us in bed flip through my head, and my cheeks heat. No, I couldn’t go back to just being friends. Not for anything. It would kill me to do it, and though Jordan might want it, I have to put my foot down somewhere. “And I don’t think he can, either, not really. Putting a couple thousand miles between us feels like the best way to keep anything from happening again.”

She stares me down, scrutinizing my expression. “You obviously are upset by this. Why offer this, then?”

“She’s his daughter,” I murmur, keeping my eyes glued to the countertop instead of her. “I can’t get in the way of that. I can’t keep him from knowing his own daughter.”

There’s silence now. I try to calm myself before speaking again. Finally, I muster a little more strength and look up at her, and I have my shaking voice under control for the moment.

“If I leave, there’s nothing inherently wrong with Jordan. There’s nothing you should have a problem with, nothing which can’t be fixed, anyway. So, I leave. Jordan stays.”

She stares at me a moment longer, pursing her lips slightly. “If you leave, Jordan can stay.”

Relief and agony simultaneously rush through me. A little part of me had hoped she’d say no. That she’d say no matter what, Jordan has dated a man which is enough for her to want him away from her granddaughter. But I knew it wasn’t that. Like Shay had said, Leah doesn’t give a fuck what people do as long as it doesn’t affect her or her family. Him having dated a man in the past isn’t affecting her family in the future. McKenna won’t remember me. She won’t remember that Jordan ever dated me. Without me present, everything can still work out all right. I’m so relieved because I can do something to make this better, I can make it so Jordan can know his daughter. I have a way of making this a clean break for both of us.

But as she says Jordan can stay if I leave, a large piece of me dies and gets swallowed up by the abyss in my chest.

I nod, fighting back the waves of agony as they hit me. “I’ll need a ride to the airport.”

“I’ll pay for your cab.”

Good enough. I stuff my hands in my pockets, trying to keep her from seeing that they’re shaking, and head toward the hallway. I walk as quietly as I can to keep Jordan from hearing me, and I slip into the guest room without incident. I can hear Jordan and Shay’s muffled voices from the other room, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s all indistinct, though it sounds heated. Mechanically, I pick up what little stuff I’d taken out and shove it back in my bag. It takes me less than five minutes to get everything in order. I step back outside and pause in front of the door their voices are coming from.

I want to say goodbye. I want to tell Jordan that I love him, one last time. I want to hug him and kiss him and beg him to talk me out of this. To tell me that we can find a way other than this one to make everyone happy. We could move out here, permanently. We could find a little apartment close by, and we could see McKenna almost every day. We’d find jobs, maybe get a cat or a fish or something, and we’d build a life together. Or a dog – Jordan could finally get that damn puppy he’s wanted for so long. We could be happy.

But I don’t knock. I don’t open the door and throw myself at Jordan. I don’t let myself say goodbye. I keep moving, being as stealthy as possible, and am soon back out in the main area.

“The cab will be here in ten minutes,” Leah mumbles, absorbed in her paperwork again. She holds out some money without looking up.

I nod, even though she’s not looking at me, and grab the money from her hand. When I look at it, though, I realize there’s far more than a cab ride’s fare there. I make a noise to protest, but Leah shushes me quickly.

“For the ticket as well.”

I want to argue but don’t. She wants to pay for my ticket, fine. She’s helping me destroy a large piece of my life right now. It’s the least she can do. I just head for the door and step outside without another word.

The ten minutes it takes for the cab to get here are the longest ten minutes of my life. It’s a mixture of agonizing slowness and blurred quickness. I’m constantly terrified that Jordan will step outside and see me standing there with my bags clutching a few hundred dollars in my hand. I’m constantly hoping that Jordan will step outside and catch me trying to leave. I run through a thousand reasons to stay, a thousand reasons to walk back in and throw the money back in Leah’s face and to tell her to suck it, I’m staying. But the one big reason to leave keeps slapping me in the face every time I veer away from it. So, I continue to wait in their driveway, a hurricane of anguish and fear and anger and longing.

Eventually, the cab shows up. I toss my stuff in and jump in before I can bolt.

Chapter Thirteen

It doesn’t take long for me to find a flight once I get to the airport. I wait for a couple of hours, taking an overnight flight and landing in New York early the following morning, but it’s not that big a deal. A couple of hours isn’t going to make a difference. I’m leaving, and that’s that. I feel antsy until I hit security; up until that point, I keep waiting for Jordan to come running at me through the airport, pushing people aside. I keep watching and expecting him to grab me by the shoulders and beg me to stay. Every second I’m standing there, every minute I’m waiting around for a ticket, for security, I worry it’s one more minute he could show up.

But he doesn’t. All the checking over my shoulder is fruitless. I make it through security without incident, and once I’m in the terminal, I let out a deep breath. I feel relieved…but also disappointed. He didn’t stop me. He probably doesn’t even realize I’ve left yet. If he noticed I wasn’t around, Leah might have told him I’d just gone on a walk. Or a drive. Something that would appease him for a couple of hours and keep him from worrying or trying to catch up to me.

He’s probably still talking to Shay about what they need to do about Leah. He’s probably trying to logic it out, trying to figure out a loophole, trying to figure out how to get everything he wants without sacrificing “everything.” He’s never been good at that, sacrificing things. He always tries to find a way to get around whatever the obstacle is, and he’s told me time and time again that there’s always a way to get what you want—even though he has plenty of evidence to dispute this statement.

When we were fifteen, he’d tried to con his mom. It was the first and only time he tried to do it on such a large scale. Before, he hadn’t thought he could get away with it without getting his ass reamed, and after, he knew he couldn’t. Not with his mom. He wanted a puppy. Not just a dog, but a little puppy. He wouldn’t settle for anything else, even when Deanne tried to talk him into a grown rescue dog, one that was already housebroken, crate trained, and done with teething. Jordan refused to even consider it; all he could think about was cute puppy kisses and raising a dog from start to finish. Deanne, wise mother that she was, knew that, no matter how many promises Jordan made, he wasn’t going to care for the dog like he said he would. So, she gave him an ultimatum: he could get a puppy, but he had to quit sports. All of them. She told him he didn’t have the time or energy for both, not at fifteen, not while he had school and hours of homework on top of that.

He didn’t like that. He didn’t think that she was right. In his mind, he had it all planned out, down to the hour, about how he was going to give a puppy all of the attention it deserved and have hours of practice, games, and traveling for sports. He decided that he was going to get a puppy anyway and bring it home, figuring that his mom would have a harder time saying no to a puppy that was right in front of her instead of a theoretical one. I tried to talk him out of it—his mom was both too smart and too headstrong for the plan to work—but he wouldn’t listen. He bought the puppy, a cute little mutt from a pet store, and brought it home. His plan, as I predicted, backfired horribly. Deanne flipped out and dragged him back to the pet store. When she was told the puppy couldn’t be returned, she took to social media and found another home for him, and within twenty-four hours Jordan was puppy-less. He didn’t ask for a dog again after that.

And yet, despite this and other glaring evidence against his theory, Jordan still vehemently claims you can always find a way around obstacles and get what you want. He’s never been good at compromise, never been adept at realizing the world doesn’t work that way. Ever the optimist, he never wants to admit that sometimes, you just can’t get everything you want. You can’t have too much, want too much, without being willing to sacrifice something in return for it.

I’m positive that right now, whether he’s realized I’ve left or not, he’s trying to find his loophole. And if he can’t find it, he’s going to try to barrel through it and bulldoze anything—or anyone—that gets in his way. Part of me wants him to try. Part of me has an inkling that Leah is not one that will be easily bulldozed, or maybe she can’t be bulldozed at all.

***

When I land early the next morning, LaGuardia is almost a ghost town. A few flights are still getting in, mine included, but there are far fewer people than I expected. I’ve only been to this airport twice before for family vacations. We’d always land in the late afternoon, close to rush hour, and the place was bustling and crowded. It took us almost two hours, both times, just to get off the plane, get our bags, and get seated in a cab, let alone actually getting home. It’s later now, though, and the buzz I remember isn’t present today. It only takes about twenty minutes for me to get into a cab, and soon I’m on my way.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks when I don’t immediately tell him, not bothering to turn his head to look at me.

I open my mouth to say corner of Lafayette and Broome, Manhattan, but the words stick in my throat. An image of an empty apartment flashes in my mind. Jordan’s door will be cracked open, enough that I can see inside. His clothes will be everywhere; packing always brought a hurricane of clothing with it for him. My footsteps will be loud in the empty space. Tomorrow, when I wake too early, the silence will be deafening and the absence of Jordan’s morning clanging in the kitchen will slice right through me.

So, instead of what I intended, something else comes out of my mouth. “Williamsburg,” I blurt, the words tumbling from my lips before I can stop them. “Brooklyn.”

The guy nods and we pull away from the airport. The ride feels like forever, though the traffic is light and it’s only a few miles. For almost the entirety of it, I debate whether I should change my mind and tell the cabbie to go to my apartment or not. Twice, I open my mouth to do it. Twice, I end up closing my mouth without having uttered a sound.

Within fifteen minutes I’m sitting in front of the apartment complex with my bags, with the cab disappearing around the corner. I stare at it for a while, wondering how long it would take me to walk home and if I could make it with my bags. I could find a subway station. Find another cab. Hitch a ride with a stranger. I could find a way home; that cab wasn’t my end-all-be-all.

But, sighing, I discard these ideas and start trudging up the familiar walkway. I’ve been here a thousand times over the last decade, and not once has it been this hard. Not even the first time, when Jordan brought me home to meet his family. Not even when Jordan had been in trouble and Deanne called me to come over and interrogated me about what had happened. Not even when I realized one of his sisters had a crush on me and I was fourteen and was terrified to be around her.

Now, though, leaden weights are attached to my ankles and I drag them with me every step of the way. Jordan has a child and Jordan fucked me are etched into them, and I’m terrified Deanne will see them, and see through me, the second she opens the door.

Eventually, I make it up to the building and into the elevator. I pause in front of their door, rapping my knuckles on the door quickly before I can bolt. With Deanne ever being the early riser, it opens within seconds of me knocking, still clad in cozy pajamas.

Deanne’s eyes widen when she realizes it’s me. “Dyson?” She looks me up and down, and then to either side of me.

“Hi, Deanne,” I murmur. I’m not quite able to look her in the eye, and she picks up on it immediately.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her whole body tensing up as she does. “Where’s Jordan? Is everything all right? Is he hurt?”

“No!” I exclaim, kicking myself for not thinking about this. Of course, she’s worried that something happened. I showed up at her home, without her son, far earlier than expected after we took off on a cross-country road trip. She probably assumed the worst. “Jordan is fine. He’s still in Arizona. I took a plane back by myself.”

Her brow furrows, but the rest of her body relaxes upon hearing that her son is fine. “Why?”

I shift uncomfortably, moving my bag from one hand to the other. “Can I…uh, can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” she says, snapping out of the questions and ushering me inside. She grabs my bags from me and sets them down in the living room. I sit down on the edge of the couch; she takes a seat in her big, plush armchair. Normally, I’d sink into the couch, throw my arms up on the sides, and relax. I always feel calmer here, more at home than even in my own house. Now, I sit ramrod straight, touching the least amount of material as possible. I’m ready to run. Ready to bolt. And she can feel it.

“So,” she starts, “how was the drive?”

Great. We went to a county fair, got to see some beautiful sights—oh, and I found out we were headed to Arizona so that Jordan could meet his daughter and catch up with the girl he impregnated two years ago. And then I professed my love for him and we fucked. So…yeah.

“Fine,” I say instead. She waits for me to elaborate. I don’t.

“Well, what brings you here, hon?”

“I can go,” I exclaim, jumping off the couch.

She waves her hands at me and motions for me to sit down. I do so, slowly. “No, no. I wasn’t saying I need you to go. I was just asking why you’re back in New York before Jordan.” She glances at my bags. “And why you stopped here first before going home.”

I bite my lip and say nothing. I can’t even look at her. Part of me is screaming to just say it, say anything. She’s a wonderfully kind woman, and she loves Jordan to death—and me, if I’m being honest. I know she loves me. She’s taken me under her wing and treated me like her own child. She’s not going to hate me for any of this.

Part of me is terrified I’m wrong and this will be the thing that breaks the relationship I have with her. That if I tell her what’s happened, she’ll hate me for it. She won’t want me near her family again, and I’ll lose her and the sense of safety and love that comes with her.

The silence is overwhelming, though, and I know I can’t keep saying nothing. So, I decide to go with the news that doesn’t seem directly related to me. It’s not my news to tell—none of it is—but I can’t hold it in for much longer. I need to talk to someone. I need to let someone know what’s happening.

I need a hug.

So, I speak.

“Jordan has a kid,” I mumble, keeping my eyes glued to the coffee table in between us.

She pauses for a moment, her face frozen in confusion as she tries to process what I just said. “Wh…what?” she murmurs. I can see out of the corner of my eye that she’s gaping at me.

“Jordan…uh, Jordan has a daughter. Her name is McKenna.” I let her sit and process for another moment before I continue. When she doesn’t try to ask any more questions or interject, I fill in some of the gaps for her. “He didn’t know until last week, the day before we left. She lives in Mesa, in Arizona. It’s why he said he wanted to go to the Grand Canyon. I didn’t know either until a couple of days ago.”

“How old is she?” Deanne whispers.

“Not quite two. It happened sophomore year.”

She nods slowly, her eyes glazed over as she stares into space. It takes her another moment before she says anything else. She glances up at me. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

I shrug, understanding her hurt. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me until I overheard him talking to the mom. I think he was freaking out a little bit.”

“Do you have any pictures of her?”

I wince, having forgotten for a moment how obsessed she is with having pictures of her people around her. It’s probably where Jordan got the idea for his collection of photographs. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” She sits, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Well, that’s all right.”

I wait for her to say something else. She doesn’t. Instead, a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, and she starts to laugh as tears leak out of her eyes.

“I’m a grandma,” she breathes, covering her mouth with her hand as she leaps off the couch and dances in a little circle. She turns to me, laughing, her eyes wide and wet. “What did you say her name was again?”

“McKenna.”

“McKenna,” she sighs. “Such a pretty name.”

“You’re not mad at him?” I ask. I wasn’t expecting this from her. I didn’t think she’d be furious or not want to help or anything, but I wasn’t expecting pure, radiant joy from her, either. I thought she’d be frustrated, or hurt, or at least a little skeptical. Instead, I’m facing her as she embraces the role of a grandparent, even before she’s met the little one.

“No. I mean, do I wish this could have happened a few years from now, after he’s settled and has a job? Yes. But it happened now, and I can’t be upset with him for it. Things happen. He’ll make it work. And so will we.” She grins again, all her teeth shining. “And I’m a grandmother now. A grandmother, Dyce.” She squeals again, clapping her hands and jumping like a little girl.

I smile as I watch her dance around the room, but it doesn’t touch the rest of my body. A pit of worry opens in my gut. She’s probably picturing Shay and Jordan getting married. Moving in together. McKenna growing up in a conventional sort of family. She probably thinks that Jordan and Shay will fall in love, or at least be “together” in some capacity. She’s so happy right now, with this idea in her head. All she can see is a little girl and Jordan as her dad, and she’s thrilled.

And I’m sitting here, on her couch, falling apart inside while she jumps around the room feeling excited for her son.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her pull out her phone.

“No!” I shout, cringing at how loud the sound is in the otherwise quiet apartment. She starts, nearly dropping her phone. “Don’t call Jordan,” I say, trying to lower my voice so no one else will wake up. “It’s early there still. He’s probably not even awake.”

“Right,” she murmurs, setting her phone down on the table. I look away from her. I hear her move quietly across the room, and she sits directly next to me. A warm hand settles on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Dyson?”

I nod, but my lips are pressed together tightly and my lungs feel as though they’re going to burst.

“Sweetie, you don’t look like you’re okay. What’s bothering you?”

Tears prick my eyes and I squeeze them shut. She’s not my mom. She’s not the person I’m supposed to go to with this stuff. It’s her kid I’m talking about. I’m not her child. She’s not my mom. And I’m terrified she will look at me differently when I tell her about Jordan and me.

But I think back to when she found out I’m gay. All the times she sat with me and listened when I was frustrated and confused and hurt when the boys I dated were dicks. She listened when I told her about assholes at school that left crude notes on my locker, or hissed things under their breath when Jordan wasn’t around, and went to the school and demanded that the principal put a stop to it or she would. I think of all the times I’d gotten scrapes and bruises, all the times she’d patched me up, and the one time I’d broken my arm at fifteen and she sat with me at the hospital, letting me lean on her and stroking my hair to keep me calm while we waited in the emergency room. She’d never once looked at me and seen anything but a kid who needed a mom like her. And she’d never once faltered, never once let me down, never once treated me as an outsider in her home.

She loves me. As her own son, she loves me. And before I can talk myself down or convince myself I’m blowing her affection out of proportion, I speak.

“I’m in love with Jordan,” I blurt.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I know, honey,” she replies, rubbing my back as she does.

That’s all it takes. Those three words. I know, honey. I burst into tears, covering my face with my hands as I sob. She doesn’t try to stop me. She just keeps rubbing my back and lets me cry. It takes a while before I cry myself out, and she doesn’t push me to get it done with.

Eventually, though, the tears dry up and I stop hiccupping. I wipe my eyes and look up at Deanne. She laughs, patting me on the back.

“Oh, honey, you are as red as tomato,” she chuckles. “Let me get you a cool cloth.”

She stands and moves into the kitchen, completely shifting into care-giver/mother-bear-protection mode. It’s her cure-all, a cool cloth. Fever? Cool cloth. Crying spell? Cool cloth. Depressed? Anxious? Stressed? Hiccups? Cool cloth on the forehead. And for whatever reason, it works almost every time, no matter what it is. Jordan always fights her whenever she tries to make him lay down with a cloth on his forehead, but whenever she offers it to me, I take it. There’s not much else I’ve found that works better than her damn cloths.

She comes back over and makes me lean my head back, placing the cloth on my forehead and over my eyes a bit. Within minutes my whole body feels cooler, calmer, and I feel ready to keep forging forth in my confessions.

I sit back up and take the cloth off, turning toward her. “There’s…ah, there’s more.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

I nod, rubbing the back of my neck. Heat starts to gather in my face again, and I take a deep breath to try to keep calm. “We…Jordan and I…uh.” I pause as I try to think of a way to phrase this that doesn’t include the words “fucking” or “hooking up”. Whether it’s with a guy or a girl, I’m positive that Deanne doesn’t want to know when or how Jordan’s had sex. “We kind of started…dating.” It’s not exactly right. It was just a couple of days, most of it fraught with anger and tension and confusion. But it’s as close as I can get without giving her the nitty-gritty details.

“Oh,” she repeats. She gathers her thoughts for a moment, and I try not to burst while I wait. “I didn’t realize Jordan liked men.”

“If it makes you feel better, neither did he.”

She laughs, breaking the tension that’s building inside of me. I start to relax; if she’s laughing, she doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t hate Jordan. She might be a little confused, but I can’t blame her for that. Jordan has only ever expressed an interest in dating women before. It shocked me, too.

“So, you guys are dating now,” she continues. She smiles. “Oh, you guys will look so cute in pictures! You have to let me take pictures of you two when he gets home. I know he hates it, but I just need a couple.”

Pain twists in my gut. I turn my face away from her and try to keep my face from scrunching up.

Her enthusiasm immediately dies down. The room is quiet for a moment while she thinks. I can hear the puzzle pieces sliding together as she works it out.

“Why isn’t Jordan here, Dyson?” she asks quietly.

I swallow painfully. “She…Shay’s mom. Leah. She doesn’t think that McKenna should grow up with her dad dating a guy. She told us to leave, and Jordan didn’t want to.”

I swear, if the fires of hell could reach up and fill somebody’s eyes, they’d be filling Deanne’s right now. “And that boy let you leave?” she fumes.

I fight a smile, if for nothing else than the infallible anger Deanne summons when Jordan isn’t his usual kind, compassionate self. But the feeling doesn’t last for long. “No,” I correct. “He didn’t want me to. But…Leah wasn’t backing down. I asked her if she’d let Jordan stay if I left. She agreed. So…”

“So, you got on a plane,” she finishes, her eyes softening as she looks at me. “And didn’t tell Jordan.”

My eyes fill again and I quickly wipe underneath them. I nod, clenching my fists together in front of me. “He already loves her. McKenna. I couldn’t be the reason he can’t know his daughter.”

“Oh, Dyson,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and squeezing me tightly.

I lean into her embrace, resting my head on hers, as water starts streaming down my face. It’s not as bad this time, though, and I don’t end up wracked with sobs. Just a few sniffles, and I’m able to get control of myself again.

“You know,” she says as she releases me, “Jordan isn’t going to just let you leave.”

“I don’t even think he realizes I’m gone,” I mutter, half-bitterly, thinking about my very quiet phone. Not one text, not one phone call. Complete and utter silence from him.

“Even if he hasn’t, he will soon. And he’s not one to just let bad things happen to him without putting up a fight. You know that.”

“He can’t have both. He can have me, or he can have McKenna. I won’t let him choose me over his own daughter.”

“Well, just be prepared,” she warns, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “He’s extremely stubborn, and I can guarantee he isn’t just going to let you walk away without a fight.”

I don’t say anything and let her go into the kitchen to start fixing breakfast before the rest of her family starts stirring. And while I hope she’s wrong and that Jordan will just let me go in peace, I know in my gut that she’s right.

Chapter Fourteen

I leave before the rest of Jordan’s family has a chance to wake up. Deanne hugs me goodbye as I open the door, enveloping me in warmth and the scent of lavender.

“You come by if you need anything, okay?” she says into my ear. “Even if it’s just a hug.”

I start to choke up a little and disentangle myself from her arms. I nod to let her know I heard her, and I’m out the door with my bags in hand. I debate just hailing a cab—part of me doesn’t want to deal with the subway during peak morning hours with two bags—but decide I don’t want to pay for a cab or sit in traffic. I take off for the nearest J train station, and soon I’m stuffed in a cramped train car and on my way home.

Normally, I’d be sitting with Jordan, heading back to our apartment from either of our homes. We’d either squish onto one of the benches, or just stand, depending on how many people there are. He’d chatter almost incessantly, talking about how annoying his sisters were, or how much of a dick my parents were, or how crushing his mom’s hugs are. It’d ease the anxiety, the sliver of fear I feel whenever I’m stuck in a space with a lot of people. I’d focus on the way his lips move when he talks, the light glinting off his teeth when he smiles, the lilt of his laughter as I crack a quiet joke.

But he’s not here. And I deal with my racing heart, my sweaty palms, the feeling of bugs crawling under my skin by myself. As I’ll have to from now on.

Within the hour, I’m standing in my apartment. It’s quiet, but not silent like I was afraid it’d be. I can still hear cars driving by, horns honking, and people talking loudly outside. I can still hear footsteps in the stairwell as other occupants come and go. I can still hear my neighbor’s music through the walls, set to some heavy metal band, as per usual. It’s comforting to know that I’m not actually alone in this apartment, that there are still people outside and in the building and I’m not isolated on a desert island. It’s not the quiet or the loneliness that gets me.

What sends me to my knees is the realization that everything is normal. People are still going about their business, still going to work and meeting with friends and being happy without any idea that my entire world has collapsed in the span of a few days. None of the people around me have a clue, and none of them would care if they did. Life will go on. Jordan will forget me. He’ll love his daughter, he’ll build a life there, and he’ll find happiness. There will be life going on around him, and soon he’ll rejoin it.

But I’ll be sitting here, in this apartment, as I try to piece myself back together without the world even noticing that I fell apart in the first place.

I glance over at his door—cracked open, just like I thought it’d be. I can’t bring myself to go open it further. To look at what he’s left behind. Will he ask me to ship the rest of his stuff to him? Will I have to pack up his clothing, his photographs, everything that he’s held dear and close, leaving no trace of him? A new person will have to move in; I can’t afford this place on my own. They’ll take over his space, removing every last shred of evidence that Jordan resided here. Or maybe I’ll have to leave this place entirely. I don’t know if I can handle watching someone else live in the space that Jordan once occupied.

I turn my attention away from his room and focus on getting myself to mine. I leave my bags where I dropped them by the door and heave myself off the floor. I shuffle toward my room, numb to everything around me, and collapse on my bed. I’m not sure if it’s jet lag, or how much I want to shut everything off, or both, but it doesn’t take long before my eyes close and I drift off into blissful unconsciousness.

I wake hours later to the sound of the front door rattling. I blink my eyes open and look blearily at the clock; I slept for over four hours. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up, confused as to why someone is rattling my door instead of knocking.

But then the tumblers click in the lock and the door clicks open. I freeze. I can’t see who it is with my door blocking the view. Did someone just break into my apartment? I grip the edge of my mattress, my entire body on edge now, as I try to listen carefully. Someone stomps across the living room, not bothering to stop or try to creep across the space, and I don’t have to wonder who it is for very long.

 Jordan throws my door open, letting it slam against the wall. He’s absolutely fuming. His breathing is ragged, his chest puffs against his shirt, and his nostrils flare. I stare at him, stunned. He must have gotten on a plane first thing this morning. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. So, I say nothing, choosing to just gape at him instead.

He, on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants to say. “What the fuck, Dyson,” he growls. There is no hint of humor in his face, no sense of hurt or confusion. Just raw anger.

I say nothing. Even if I wanted to, my chest is compressed so tightly I don’t think I could squeak any words out. I’m not afraid of him; I’ve seen Jordan angry, though possibly not quite as furious as this. I’m not worried he’ll hurt me. Physically that is—just being in his presence, when I’ve already left once, is enough to threaten to shatter me completely. I’d been strong enough to leave once, knowing that it’d end up being best for both of us. I don’t know if I can do it a second time.

He doesn’t wait very long, anyway, impatient and upset. “You left. Without telling me, without saying goodbye, without any form of discussion about it. You decided that’s what was best and just did it. You took off without a second thought for me.”

Immediately I become defensive, the cracks filling in a little, becoming more reinforced. “All I did was think of you,” I snap. “I left for you, so you could be with McKenna. If I’m not there, you get to watch her grow up.”

He narrows his eyes and clenches his fists. “We could have talked about it. You could have run it by me—”

“I did run it by you!” I shout, leaping off my bed. All the hurt and despair quickly morphs into anger. I know it’s not fair of me to be so angry at him – I am the one that took off—but I can’t help it. “You shot me down, didn’t even let me think through everything. You were so positive you could have everything you want, but you can’t! Not this time.”

“You didn’t let me try to sort it out.”

“You weren’t listening to Leah. You think you can talk your way out of anything, but life doesn’t work like that, Jordan! She was firm. Absolutely and utterly firm on this. She’s never going to back down. Not when she thinks me being there will hurt McKenna.”

“Justify it any way you want, Dyce. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you left.” I can’t tell for sure, but I’m almost positive his eyes are glistening, despite the roiling anger that’s coming off him in waves. “You told me you loved me and then you left.”

Ouch. He’s not wrong, and it stings. My mouth snaps shut and I stare at him. We’ve only been talking for a few minutes, but I know that Jordan could go around and around like this for hours. He’s done it before with far less serious topics than this. He’ll continue to tell me that there’s a way around it. He won’t let me give up on the two of us being together while he’s still able to parent McKenna. He’ll wear down all my defenses until there’s nothing left. It won’t be because he’s controlling or pushy or hardheaded, though he can be all those things in smaller doses. It’ll be because he knows I want it more than anything. He knows I love him. He knows that I’ve loved him for a long time. He knows that it must have crushed me to leave, and that it will decimate me to stay away. And he won’t let me stop fighting for us because of that.

I realize I have to dissuade him from this line of thinking. I have to turn him away from it, no matter what. Because, at the end of the day, I do love him. I know how much he already loves McKenna, and how much it’ll kill him if he can’t be there for her. It’ll eat him up every day until there’s nothing but resentment for me and guilt for her. I can’t keep him from his kid, no matter what it does to me.

So, I lie.

“I don’t love you,” I whisper, and then curse myself for the words coming out so quietly. If he’s going to buy this, I have to be absolutely firm. I cannot waver. I cannot falter. He’ll sniff it out in a heartbeat.

Jordan becomes very still. “Shut up. You’re just saying that.”

I clear my throat. “No. I don’t love you,” I say in a clearer, stronger voice. “I thought I did, before all of this. Before you liked me, too. But the kid…it’s too much. I can’t be around all of that. I left for you, but I left for me, too. I need a shot at being happy, too, Jordan. I need to be able to have a life that isn’t constricted by a love that I can’t have.” There—a little truth. A little truth to the lie. Hopefully enough to make the lie believable.

Jordan is immobile for a moment, and for a second I wonder if he believes the lie I fed him. I watch him carefully, afraid he’s going to implode if he doesn’t speak soon.

“Bullshit!” he shouts, finally, shattering the silence in the room. I flinch, but he doesn’t notice. “Bull-fucking-shit, Dyson.”

“It’s not,” I murmur, but his shout startled me out of my place of strength and I can feel my resolve weakening. The arguments I crafted fall to shambles around me as he calls out my lie. Because he’s right. It’s bullshit. I love him. But I need him to believe that I don’t, for his sake and for mine.

“Yes, it is,” he retorts. “You said you’ve loved me since we were thirteen. That doesn’t just go away.”

“I don’t love you,” I breathe.

“Liar.”

“I don’t love you.”

“Well, I love you!” he shrieks.

I stare at him, my eyes wide. His head lolls back and he runs his hand through his hair. He starts pacing in the limited open space I have, all the energy he’s trying to hold in eking out of him.

“Look, I know I said I couldn’t say it back when we were in the car because I didn’t feel it,” he explains. “I know that. But I did. I just couldn’t say it out loud or admit that I did. But, Dyson, you’ve been my best friend for so long. Of course, I love you. It didn’t take much for that to turn into…I love you.” He sighs. “When I realized you were gone, I had to come after you. I had to tell you.” He stops pacing and stands directly in front of me, putting his hands on either side of my head. I sniffle, tears building in my eyes. “I love you, Dyson,” he murmurs.

I kiss him without a second thought. Tears flow down both of our faces, and I can taste salt on his lips. His fingers twist in my hair, holding me close, and my arms snake around his waist. His teeth graze my bottom lip, sending desire shooting through my body. I can’t help it—my hands slip under the hem of his shirt and run over his bare skin.

He freezes for a second, and I instantly try to backtrack, taking my hands out from under his shirt and kicking myself for doing that. My head floods with worries. Was that too quick? Was it too much? Am I pushing him? I’d forgotten for a moment that we’ve only done this once before. He’s only done this once before. I can’t push too hard; he has to set the pace.

But the moment of awkwardness lasts for only half a second before Jordan starts yanking his shirt over his head and pawing at the bottom of mine. A thrill runs through me as I realize that, though he might have hesitated for a second, this isn’t last time. He might not want to take it slow, either.

And he certainly seems like he doesn’t. Soon my shirt is on the floor as well and his hands are digging into my back, clutching me close to him. His chest radiates warmth, smooth against my own skin. He locks lips with me again, more firmly and intensely this time, twisting his tongue with mine. Sliding my hands down his back, I hook my thumbs under the waistline of his underwear, teasing the skin there. He shivers, making me smile against his mouth. His hands leave my back and move to my front, working at the button of my jeans. It doesn’t take him long, and within seconds both my pants and underwear are on the floor. My erection springs out into the open, and Jordan pushes me toward the bed. When my legs touch it, my knees bend and I sit on the edge. I raise an eyebrow at him, unsure what he wants to do.

He grins and kisses me on the mouth without answering my look. But then he starts kissing away from my lips – my jaw, my neck, my chest, sinking lower and lower until he’s directly next to my penis. His breath tickles it and I shiver.

It’s a little awkward at first. It’s not like he’s never received blow jobs, but he can’t seem to translate that into giving them, at least not right away. He dives in, bobbing up and down ridiculously fast and hard. He takes me too deep, as well, and I can hear him gag a bit. I wait a minute, trying to let him figure it out, but his teeth nick me in his hurry, making me wince, and I decide to stop him. I touch his shoulder and he looks up at me, eyes wide.

“Slower,” I murmur, touching his cheek. “And don’t worry about going so deep. Do whatever is comfortable for you.”

He nods, and turns back to my erection. He’s a good student, doing what I told him. The improvement is immediate and immense. He wraps his lips around the tip and slides slowly down my shaft, but only to about half-way this time before moving back up. I tilt my head back and groan softly. It feels amazing, having his mouth on me, and I can’t help but to wrap my fingers in his hair. He continues to move on me, taking his time and working at an even pace. As he nears the top of my shaft after a slow bob, he sucks a little harder and flicks his tongue across my tip. I shiver as a little shock of pleasure runs through me. It doesn’t escape his notice, and he starts to move a little faster, spending a little more time at the top of each movement. Pleasure starts to build in me, making me bite my lip. I’m nearing orgasm—but then a thought runs through my mind and I nudge Jordan’s shoulder to get him to stop.

He takes his lips off me, giving me a confused look. Doubt skitters through my mind—he won’t want to do this, don’t even ask—but I shove it away.

“I want you to fuck me,” I breathe, making myself stare him right in the eye.

His eyebrows raise slightly, but he doesn’t look averse to the idea, and it gives me confidence. “Like…fuck you, fuck you?”

“Yes.” I bite my lip and force myself to add more. “If you don’t want to—”

“No, no,” he interrupts, placing his hands on my hips. “I do.” He inhales deeply before kissing me gently on the mouth. He pulls back, though, with concern in his eyes. “Are you…it’s not going to hurt you, is it?”

“No,” I murmur, kissing him. “It’ll feel good.” I reach over into my nightstand drawer, pulling out a small bottle of lube. I take his hand and close his fingers around it, kissing him again. I reach down and start undoing his jeans. Taking the cue, he stands, letting me pull them and his underwear down as he shimmies out of them. I stand as well, pressing my mouth to his as I run my fingertips over his dick. He shivers, making me smile, and I grab him a little more firmly, slowly working him over. I hear the cap of the lube open, and I pause as he pours quite a bit onto his penis. I continue rubbing him, making sure he’s completely covered, before I turn away from him and kneel on all fours on the bed.

He touches my ass, and I arch my back in anticipation, waiting for him. Tentatively, the tip of his cock touches me, but he doesn’t push much farther than that. Thinking he needs some help, I reach back with both of my hands and spread my cheeks, both showing him where he needs to go and giving him the okay to go ahead and stick it in. He takes the hint, and his dick finally starts pushing into me, slowly. As he sinks deeper into me, a moan escapes me, and he freezes.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, a hint of panic touching his voice.

“No,” I reassure him. “It feels good. Keep going.”

He does, pushing just a little deeper into me before slowly sliding back out. He continues to move, evenly and slowly, getting used to the feeling and still, I’m sure, worrying about me. I start to push back against him, wanting him to move faster, and that’s all it takes for him to let go a little bit. He starts moving faster, coming in a little harder. I moan again, and he takes the cue. He’s slamming into me now, his balls slapping against me with a definitive slap every time he thrusts. I reach for my own dick and start rubbing it, matching his rhythm and squeezing firmly. His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my skin, and his breathing becomes more ragged. The pleasure starts building again, and I jerk myself faster as he moves.

A groan escapes his lips as he starts to pulse inside me, sending me over the edge and making me cum as well. We stay there for a few moments, both of us panting as the last waves of pleasure run through us. Eventually, though, he pulls out of me, and we both flop onto our backs with our legs hanging over the edge of the bed. His hand reaches for mine, and our fingers interlock. He rubs circles into the back of my hand with his thumb, adding a nice warmth to the tingles still lingering in my body. I don’t want to move from this spot. I don’t want to think about anything but the feel of his hand in mine, the smile that’s tugging at the corners of my mouth as I revel in the last little waves of pleasure in my body.

But as the tingles start to fade, a question nags at the back of my mind. “So, was any of that…weird for you, or anything?”

“No, actually,” he says, soothing my fears. He looks at me, smiling. “Definitely just felt good.”

I grin back at him, giving him a peck on the lips. “Good.”

We lay there for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s company. But we can’t stay here forever, and soon all the worries and negative emotions I’d been feeling come worming their way back inside me. I sigh. I can’t just leave him now. I can’t just tell him to go. He wouldn’t, even if I did, and now we’re in even deeper with each other than we were before. Content as I might be lying in bed with him, it doesn’t make the situation with Shay and McKenna any easier.

“You shouldn’t have come for me, you know,” I mutter, but I snuggle into his side, pressing my body against his.

“I can’t let you leave, not when neither of us really want you to,” he murmurs, pecking me on the nose. “I just can’t.”

“What the fuck are we going to do then?” I sigh. “Nothing has changed with Leah. She’s never going to let you near McKenna.”

“We’re going to talk to her. Make her listen to us.”

“She’s going to see you as a flight risk. You took off after me.”

“Because I love you.” He kisses me on the nose again, and I can’t help but to smile a little. “We’ll make her see.”

I sigh, dropping my head and letting it rest on his chest. Tomorrow will be hell. We’ll need to get back on a plane, fly for hours, and have the argument of our lives. We probably won’t win it, and more likely than not, we’re going to end up losing and someone is going to get hurt—me, Jordan, McKenna, or all three of us.

But I push the worries from my mind and focus on the rise and fall of Jordan’s chest under my cheek, matching my own breath to his and letting myself feel warm, cozy, and loved. Even if it’s just for one more night.

Chapter Fifteen

We do some research, hash our argument over, book a flight that night, and early the following morning we’re back on a plane to Arizona. It’s much easier than the last, if for no other reason than I get to hold Jordan’s hand as we climb into the air. He dozes off to sleep almost as soon as the wheels are off the ground, and his head droops until he’s settled on my shoulder. I close my eyes and revel in his soft, almost inaudible snores, the feel of his breath tickling my neck, the citrusy scent of his shampoo filling my nostrils. Every time I’m afraid I’m going to panic, each time I’m worried I’ll go off in the cabin and won’t be able to stop myself from screaming, I ground myself in his presence. I focus on him, on the fact that, no matter what happens today, right now his hand is nestled in mine and he’s relaxed enough to sleep. I focus on that, and not the worry that’s gnawing a hole in my stomach.

All too soon, we touch down in Phoenix, and the wheels hitting the ground jerks Jordan fully awake. It doesn’t take us long to get off the plane; neither of us had any bags to check, and we stroll right past baggage claim and toward the line of cabs. We’re silent as we wait, and silent as we take the short car ride from the airport to Shay’s house. We haven’t said more than a handful of words to each other since we woke this morning, most of which dealt with logistics of where to go and how much time there was before our flight. I’m not sure why we don’t speak. I think part of it, though, is that both of us realize there’s nothing more to say. Nothing we can say now will increase our odds of winning this argument or make us any more prepared, nothing that will make either of our feelings clearer or more defined. We’re as ready as we can be, and instead of speaking, we simply take strength from each other’s presence.

As we pull up to Shay’s place, though, a question threatens to burst from me that I promised myself I wouldn’t ask him. I told myself it’s too much, that it’ll put too much pressure on him to give me an answer about something he can’t really know until it happens. But I can’t help myself, and the words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, hating the way the words taste as they tumble off of my lips. “If we can’t convince Leah to change her mind?”

“We’re going to,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes at me. I know he’s not angry at me; he’s just defensive, angry at the possibility of this not working. But it’s a possibility I need him to be aware of. He needs to be prepared for everything not to work out in his favor, no matter how much that goes against his nature.

“I know,” I concede, trying to placate him. “But if, hypothetically, it didn’t work. What would you do?”

He inhales deeply, turning his gaze away from me as he thinks. He takes forever with his thinking, and I want to scream at him that this is a gut decision. I don’t do gut decisions, and rarely would I tell Jordan – King of Impulsive Decisions—that he needs to not think about something. I want to tell him this now, though, because this isn’t logical. Whatever choice he makes, there are ways to reason for it and against it.

“Honestly, if I had to choose—which I won’t have to…” He sighs. “Is it terrible for me to say you? Like, honestly, truly, I think I’d choose you. Does that make me a terrible dad?”

I furrow my brow at him, legitimately confused and slightly concerned. “I’m not sure,” I say, cautious. “It might, just a tad. Elaborate.”

“I love McKenna already. I do. And I want to be a part of her life, help Shay out, be a real dad to her. But if I chose being a dad over being with you, I’d just be miserable. I wouldn’t get with Shay, even though you think I would. Don’t lie, I see it in your eyes,” he chastises as I open my mouth to argue. I snap it shut and let him continue. “I’d be a wreck. I’d always worry about you and miss you. My mind would be somewhere else, and I’d never be a fully engaged parent, which isn’t fair to her or Shay.”

“Are you telling me you’d just forget about her and be a fully engaged boyfriend if you went with me?” I laugh, both pointing out the flaw in his logic and trying to lighten the mood a little.

“No, I’m not,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’d think about her all the time, and I’d miss her, too. But you’re a grown adult who can understand if I’m missing her and be there for me when I do. I can’t ask a little kid to comfort me when I miss you.” He glances at me, running his hand through his hair. “Besides, if I choose you, there’s still a chance later for me to be a part of McKenna’s life. We’ll get jobs, maybe convince Shay that she can move out and in with us or something. Maybe Leah will come around later. But you…if I choose McKenna now, I’d risk you moving on and losing you forever. And that terrifies me.”

“C’mon, Jordan. She’s your kid. You’d really choose the guy you’ve been dating for less than a week over your kid?” I ask, not wanting to ask this but genuinely concerned about his reasoning on this. I don’t want him to choose her—selfish creature that I am, I don’t—but I know that he should want to choose his kid.

“You know it’s more than that,” he murmurs. “Yeah, we’ve been dating for a few days. But I’d be choosing my best friend. And the thought of not having you in my life at all…” He shrugs, though he’s still not looking at me. “Like I said before, you’re not a fling. You’re not some random guy I’m hooking up with. I think Shay and even McKenna, later, would understand that.”

I nod, and though I don’t take his words as a promise, they placate my concerns. He’s right, and since he seems to have done some thinking and listened to his gut, I’m not going to argue anymore. When it comes down to it, I won’t hold him to this. He might take one look at McKenna’s little face and crumble, and I would understand. But for now, I appreciate the sentiment.

Lacing my fingers through his, I take a deep breath and lead us up the driveway to the front door.

This time, I knock. I’m going to let him run this argument, both for his sake and for mine, but I need to take this first step. I will fall to pieces if I have to argue with Leah. Getting her to agree to something I figured she’d already be open to was enough; I don’t think I can get through a whole argument without crying—out of anger, frustration, fear, or all three—and I know she’ll pounce on it. I’ll chime in when I’m needed. But for now, in this moment, I need to knock and take this step toward facing her.

Thankfully, it’s Shay that answers the door, not Leah. Her eyes widen as she takes us in, and she glances behind her nervously.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” she hisses, keeping her voice as quiet as possible.

“Please, Shay,” Jordan says. “We just want to talk to your mom. Try and sort this out without screaming at each other. We just want her to hear us out.”

Her eyes flit over her shoulder again, but she sighs and opens the door, ushering us inside. We do as requested, hanging back by the door as Leah looks up and realizes who’s standing there. Her lips thin into a straight line and her eyes narrow.

“What are you two doing here?” she asks, keeping her voice level. I’m sure it’s not for our sake; McKenna is sitting in her lap, happily shaking a rattling toy up and down.

“We just want to talk,” Jordan murmurs, to his credit keeping his voice as level as Leah’s.

Daggers shoot from her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. She just continues to stare at us and hold McKenna. If it were just me standing here, I would have already fled from here, unable to face down her stony stare.

Shay steps in though, before Jordan or Leah can say anything else. “It’s time for her nap, anyway,” she says, reaching for McKenna. Leah lets her go reluctantly, keeping her eyes trained on Jordan and me. “Just talk to them. It can’t hurt.”

Her eyes flit up to her daughter, and her mouth twists a little. But she gets up and sits at the dining table without another word. Taking that as our cue, we shuffle into the house, taking our seats as Shay takes McKenna into her bedroom.

The silence is awkward, tense, as Leah stares the two of us down across the dining room table. I can’t look at her for more than half a second at a time, terrified I’ll burst into flames if I look at her for too long. Jordan, on the other hand, sits with his hands folded loosely on the table in front of him. He doesn’t stare at her, not like she’s staring at us, but he doesn’t seem afraid to look at her. His eyes drift around the room, nonchalantly taking in his surroundings. He looks completely relaxed until I glance toward his legs. His right knee is bouncing ever so slightly up and down, not enough to shake his whole body or be noticed across the table, but enough for me to be able to see it. I want to put my hand out and still it, to squeeze his knee and let him know I’m here, but I don’t, afraid that Leah will notice and I’ll break whatever weird suave intimidation technique Jordan’s got going on here.

After what feels like an eternity, Shay finally comes back into the room, looking frazzled and not at all the image of strength she was when we were here yesterday. She glances at her the seat directly next to her mother, but decides to take a seat more in between her and Jordan. Leah’s lips purse almost imperceptibly, but she doesn’t say anything.

“McKenna is down for her nap,” Shay says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “As long as we’re not too loud, she’ll be fine.” She gives pointed glances to both Jordan and Leah. “That means no yelling. Both of you.”

I stifle a laugh, positive that Shay did this on purpose, and not for McKenna’s sake. She could have been playing off in another room while we all talked, or even just been in the playpen in here. She’s too young to have any clue about what’s going on. But Shay insisted on having her sleep while we talk. Looking at the way she’s staring down Leah and Jordan, though, I would bet that she wanted to wait specifically so that these two can’t yell. They’ll have to keep their voices down to a reasonable decibel, and that might keep the conversation more civil and on topic than if they could get in each other’s faces and scream. Worried as she looks, Shay is still working them both, and I give her kudos for doing so. She might not have complete control over the situation, but she sure as hell has some, and she’s using it as fully as she can.

Both Leah and Jordan only give her small nods as acknowledgement, keeping their gazes focused on each other. The room grows quiet again, and I find myself waiting for them to quick draw on each other, like in an old Western movie.

Leah shoots first. “So, Jordan. I thought we’d already discussed this.”

“No, you gave orders,” he hisses, his fists clenching imperceptibly on the table. “There was no discussion.”

She smirks, acknowledging that he’s right, but not giving him the satisfaction of a verbal concession. “What makes you think there’s going to be one now?”

Jordan’s face scrunches up and he opens his mouth to speak, but, realizing that he’s already losing control of his emotions, I quickly step in and try to keep us on track. “We just want you to listen,” I interject. I glance over at Jordan, and he reluctantly leans back and closes his mouth. “That’s all. We just want to talk.”

Leah leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. When she doesn’t say anything, I take it as a cue to speak, and nudge Jordan to do so.

He clears his throat. “Look, I know that this situation freaks you out. I know that, even if I wasn’t with Dyson, you’d have reservations about me coming in and being a part of your granddaughter’s life.”

“You’re not wrong,” she murmurs, raising an eyebrow. I want to slap that smug look off her face.

He glares at her, and I worry I’ll have to step in again. To my relief, he simply takes a deep breath and continues. “I’m not perfect. I just graduated college, and no, I don’t have a job yet. I dicked around enough to get Shay pregnant, which says enough in itself, I know. But, Leah, I love McKenna. I met her yesterday, and I already love her.”

“Love isn’t enough,” she snaps. My brow furrows, a little confused. Isn’t this the whole issue here? “Love isn’t going to make you a good parent. You’ve only seen her as a cute little girl and haven’t had to deal with any of the hard stuff yet. When you have to, you’ll bolt.”

“Why do you think I’ll bolt?” Jordan’s voice starts to rise, and I put a hand on his arm to snap him out of it a little. He huffs and shakes my hand off, but his voice lowers when he speaks again. “I know it’ll get hard. I know there will be days she won’t stop crying or screaming. I know there’ll be days I want to rip my hair out I’m so tired and frustrated. It’s not going to be all cute stuff and laughs and playing games with her. I understand I’ll need to be a parent, not just a friend. That doesn’t scare me.”

“You haven’t been here. Why should I expect you to be later?”

“Mom,” Shay snaps, interjecting for the first time as she glares at Leah. “We’ve been over this. He wasn’t here because I didn’t tell him. We dated for three months. He tried to follow up, but when I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore he backed off. Like a gentleman.”

Leah opens her mouth, presumably to argue, but Shay cuts her off, a touch of red coloring her cheeks as she glares her mother.

“Would you rather have had him badger me and pester me until I let him in? Would you rather he didn’t respect me enough to take no for an answer?” Leah presses her lips together and doesn’t say anything. Shay nods, looking quite pleased with herself. “I didn’t think so. Stop bringing that up. He dropped everything and drove—drove—over here as soon as I told him. He did everything right with the information he had.”

Leah narrows her eyes, but keeps quiet. Jordan uses this gap as a way to continue speaking, nodding thanks at Shay before doing so.

“I know you don’t think that McKenna should grow up with a dad that has a boyfriend. I get that.” He pauses, shaking his head and coughing a humorless laugh. “Actually, no I don’t get that. Look, this isn’t a fling. It isn’t a phase. It isn’t some hookup. Dyson has been my friend for years, and he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He’s a great guy, and he’ll love McKenna just as much as I do.”

“He seemed fairly willing to leave the other day,” Leah muses, raising an eyebrow.

It infuriates me how calm and sure of herself she seems right now, and it seems to do the same for Jordan. I can hear how hard he’s trying to keep his voice level, and I applaud him for doing so. I wish I could let him know right now. “Because you forced an ultimatum on us. He left because he was trying to make sure that I get to see my daughter. He left because he cares about me enough to try to do what he thought was best, even if it wasn’t best for him.” We’ve kept our touching to a minimum from the moment we knocked on the door, but Jordan reaches over and grasps my hand firmly in his. Warmth rushes through me, and I fight a smile, despite the situation. “He’s a great guy, and McKenna would be lucky to have him as a part of her life.”

She stares at us for a moment, mulling over her response. “You still don’t have a job. You don’t live here. You won’t contribute anything to her life.”

Jordan barks a laugh. “Well aside from the fact that ‘contributing’ comes in more shapes than stark financial support—we’re not even going to touch on that subject right now—we’ll move out here. We’ll get jobs. We’ll work wherever we have to until we can get started in actual careers.” He glances over at me, a little worry in his eye. We haven’t discussed this, and he must have just realized that he’s assuming a lot. We’ve only just started dating; moving somewhere together is a huge step, no matter how long you’ve been friends before that.

I give him a small, reassuring smile, though. I’ll follow him anywhere he’ll let me.

Leah is quiet for a moment. The room is stifling as we wait. “You are still two men,” she murmurs, “who are romantically involved. I can’t allow that around my granddaughter.”

“Oh, my god!” Shay shouts. All of us start, not prepared for her to be the one that breaks her “no yelling” rule. She glowers at her mother, fury and impatience coming off her skin. “Mom! Are you being serious right now?”

Leah narrows her eyes. “Shayla—”

“Don’t ‘Shayla’ me,” Shay snaps. “Look, I wasn’t sure about this either when they first got here. I don’t care that they’re together, but I was going to agree with you because I didn’t want to risk you kicking me and McKenna out. I didn’t want you to not be a part of her life. But I can’t do it. You’re being absolutely ridiculous.”

“I am not—”

“Yes, you are,” Shay says, interrupting again. Her cheeks are red and fury radiates from her. “They drove over two thousand miles just to see her. Then Dyson left so Jordan would be able to be with her. Then Jordan left because he loves Dyson and couldn’t let him just leave. Then they both flew back, the very next day, because they care enough about McKenna not to give up on her just because her grandmother is being an asshole.” Leah opens her mouth to speak, but, again, Shay shuts her down. “Yes, I called you an asshole. But that’s what you’re being. These two guys care enough to have done all of that, both for McKenna and for each other. Everything else is all details and we’ll work them out. But if I were to pick anyone else to be in McKenna’s life, it’d be two people like this.”

Shay finally pauses long enough for Leah to get a word in. “She’ll grow up thinking this is okay,” she growls.

Shay snorts. “What, that it’s okay to love who you want?” She rolls her eyes and scoffs, and I can tell that this isn’t just about allowing Jordan to be around McKenna anymore. This is about Leah setting a bad example for McKenna. “I shouldn’t have been even remotely okay with you acting like this. I’d rather leave and struggle on my own than live in a house where my daughter will be around someone that tries to tell her it’s not okay to be gay, even if that’s who she is.”

“She’s not,” Leah insists.

Again, Shay laughs. “How the fuck do you know that? She’s not even two! I doubt she has any idea what gender is, let alone whether she likes boys or girls. Or both! Maybe she’ll like both. Or maybe she’ll like none. Or maybe she’ll like girls more or boys more or something else in between. And you know what? It shouldn’t matter. You love her, right?”

“Of course, I do,” Leah snaps, her words a sharp staccato.

“Then it doesn’t matter one bit. Having a dad with a boyfriend isn’t going to turn her gay. She either will be or she won’t be. She’s going to be who she’s going to be, no matter what. I’d rather her grow up knowing that it’s okay to be herself. So,” she says, looking at both Leah and us, “you can either accept the fact that I want Jordan to stay and be her father, and that he wants to stay—with Dyson—or you can’t. And if you can’t, I’ll leave and you won’t see her again.”

Leah’s eyes widen, and for the first time I see fear trickle into her expression. “But…but she’s my granddaughter. You can’t just take her away.”

Shay’s face softens, and my heart breaks for her. I can’t imagine how difficult this is for her. “I don’t want to. I want her to have her grandmother in her life. But I also want her surrounded by people who will accept her and love her for exactly who she is, no matter what. Jordan and Dyson can do that. Can you?”

It takes a moment, but Leah finally nods her head. Stiffly and reluctantly, but she does. It’s not exactly an affirmation that she’ll be civil toward us, or that interacting with her will ever be pleasant, but it’s a start. The room instantly relaxes, and Jordan exhales slowly, giving my hand a firm squeeze. Shay stands, moving toward her mother for an embrace, but Leah leaps out of her seat and holds a hand up toward Shay. I can’t tell if she’s about to cry, or scream, or what, but she doesn’t look as though she’s completely pulled together. A first for me to see her like that. She stalks away, opening and slamming the front door behind her. We all wince, and Shay leans toward the hallway. When no cries emanate from McKenna’s room, she sighs and sits back down, holding her head in her hands.

“I’m sorry she’s like this,” she murmurs, “and I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you sooner.”

Jordan shrugs. “It’s all right. I understand.”

“She’ll come around,” Shay assures us. I wonder how much of that assurance is for herself. “The hard part is getting her to admit she’s wrong. Everything else just takes time.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Jordan asks. He can’t help himself, though I’m glad he asks.

“And if she doesn’t…” Shay sighs, raking her fingers through her long hair. “If she doesn’t, then I’ve got to stick to my guns, I guess.”

Jordan nods, content with that answer. I think he would have been content with anything she said, as long as it revolved around McKenna being in his future. He turns to me, giving me a crooked smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for keeping me in check.” He nudges me with his elbow, making me smile in return. “Like you always do.”

I lift our entwined hands to my mouth and kiss the back of his hand. “Always.”

The rest of the day consists of Jordan, Shay, and I mapping out the logistics of Jordan and I moving here. We research apartments close by, potential jobs both here and in Phoenix, find garage sales and thrift stores we can hit up for potential furniture and other odds and ends, since there’s no way in hell I’m trying to ship the pieces of shit we already own across the country; it’d cost more than the furniture is worth to do so. We book flights, both back to New York to gather the rest of our things and say goodbye to our families, and the returning trip to Arizona. I break it to Jordan that I let both of his enormous cats out of their bags, and he ends up on the phone with his mom for over an hour, mostly assuaging her doubts and fears about him moving so quickly and so far away. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t have any doubts about his daughter or about me, just as she hadn’t when I told her. It eases my mind to know that she’s acting this way with Jordan, as well. I call my parents as well, though the phone call isn’t nearly as long; my mother simply checks to make sure we’ve thought through everything logically, and, when everything seems to be in order, she gives her okay and hangs up. I sigh, a little disappointed, but remind myself that this is her way of showing that she cares; running through every logistical point is her way of making sure I’m taken care of. She’s never cared about me being gay – in fact, she reacted sort of indifferently when I told her. It doesn’t seem to shock her when I tell her I’m with Jordan, or that he has a child. Or, if it does, she doesn’t show it. Either way, she doesn’t react to my news, and simply makes sure I’ve thought everything through.

McKenna wakes quickly after the argument with Leah, and she adds happy company to our stressed mix. We rotate who’s playing with her, keeping both her and us happy, though I shorten my turns quite a bit and readily hand her off whenever Jordan or Shay looks at her longingly. I’ll admit she’s growing on me, and even holding her is starting to feel a little less terrifying. But I’m still nervous around her, and I figure I’ll have plenty of time to get used to having a little kid around. For now, I’ll just focus on getting us here permanently.

When all is said and done, it takes us well into the late afternoon to get everything sorted out. Shay finally closes her computer, the top latching to the bottom with a satisfying click, and we all sit back and sigh in relief, happy that everything is worked out. Jordan and I have applied to multiple jobs in the area and several apartments. If we’re not able to move in immediately when we come back, Shay says we’re welcome to stay here until we find one. For the most part, everything seems to be in order. Jordan and I will be headed home in a couple of days, and then a week after that we’ll be back in Mesa.

But as we’re sitting and relaxing, Shay’s glances toward the front door become increasingly frequent, and the worry in her eyes continues to grow. Jordan doesn’t seem to notice; he’s completely engrossed with McKenna, and not one fraction of his attention notices the anxiety Shay is exhibiting. It makes my heart hurt, seeing her worry, and I decide to take it upon myself to try and help.

I stand up, leaving my warm seat on the couch, and touch her hand. She starts, glancing up at me with wide eyes. “I can go look for her, if you want,” I offer. “Just walk around for a while.”

She immediately shakes her head, but I see the “yes” in her face. “No, you don’t have to do that,” she says, her voice not as sure as her words.

I give her hand a pat. “It’ll give me a chance to get out of the house for a while. I love Jordan, but Jesus Christ I need space sometimes,” I chuckle. “He can be a bit much sometimes.”

She laughs, her posture visibly relaxing as we talk. “How did you make it in the car with him for so long?”

I shrug, flashing her a grin. “Unresolved sexual tension.”

She giggles, exhaling slowly and deeply as she quiets. She glances over at Jordan and McKenna, then turns her gaze back to me. Her eyes are soft and pleading. “Thank you,” she whispers, putting her hand on top of mine and giving it a squeeze.

I nod and smile at her, glancing at Jordan before I head out the door. He doesn’t look my way. I shake my head; meteors could be crashing down outside, earthquakes could be rocking the house down to its foundation, a fire could start in the other room and burn half the house down to embers, and Jordan would never notice, not with McKenna’s attention focused on him. I’ll have to help him work on that. Probably a good idea to be aware if something dangerous is happening around your child.

I’m looking behind me when I open the front door, so I don’t see her until I’ve shut it behind me. I freeze mid-stride when I turn, though. Leah is sitting on the front steps, staring off across the street. Not much of a search and rescue mission. Taking a deep breath, I take the last couple of steps toward her and take a seat next to her, keeping a little space between us. I wrap my arms around my knees and stay quiet for a moment.

She doesn’t say anything as I sit next to her. She just keeps her eyes focused on the house across the street. I try following her gaze, but there’s nothing of interest over there. Just another house and another yard. I’m not sure if this silent tactic is a slight toward me, or if she is just zoning out. I decide to break the quiet and find out.

“How long have you been sitting out here?” I ask.

She shrugs, though her posture doesn’t round out at all as she does. “A couple of hours. I’m not positive.”

A couple of hours? My brow furrows. That’s a long time to just be sitting here—not walking, not driving, but just sitting outside her own home, like she can’t come back in. “Why don’t you come inside?”

A laugh spurts out of her, but there’s no humor to be found in it. I glance over at her and realize that her eyes are glistening. The answer to my question dawns on me in a flash; she’s not coming inside because she’s terrified to. Not necessarily because of me, or Jordan, or our relationship. It’s something else. I wait for her to explain.

She sighs, still staring out into nothing. “I can’t face Shayla. Not after what she said.” She pauses, her gaze shifting to her lap. I swear her cheeks color a bit, but I write it off on the sun starting to set. “After what I said.”

“She wants you there,” I assure her. “She’s been worried about you all day.”

“I don’t think I can do it,” she whispers.

My heart breaks for her. Even though she’s the reason Jordan and I almost broke up, even though she almost destroyed a potentially beautiful and fulfilling part of Jordan’s life, my heart aches for her. No matter what she’s said or done to me and Jordan, she loves McKenna, and she loves her daughter. And now, she’s scared she’ll lose them if she can’t be perfect, if she can’t shake a lifetime of homophobia in one evening. I don’t think any of us, not Shay or Jordan or I, expect that of her. But to try to convince her of that…it’ll take more than a few words from me, or even from Shay. We’ll all have to be patient with each other.

To my own surprise and to hers, I reach out and take her hand. She flinches, her eyes flicking up to my own, but she doesn’t recoil. “You’re not perfect. Shay knows that. She knows you won’t be able to change your whole mindset in one evening. All she’s asking you to do is try.”

Tears start leaking from her eyes, and she hastily wipes them off her cheek with her free hand. For the first time, she looks up at me and looks me directly in the eye, without any hint of malice or contempt. She stares at me openly and with vulnerability. “And you?” she asks, her voice cracking. “Can you, or Jordan, forgive me?” She shuts her eyes and turns away, again swiping at the trail of water running down her face. “I’m not sure trying is enough, for either of you. And I don’t blame you if it isn’t.”

I give her hand a light squeeze. More than anything, I feel, she needs someone to tell her it’s okay. That being imperfect is okay. That simply trying is okay. I wonder if anyone’s ever said that to her before. “It’s enough. For now, it’s enough.”

Surprisingly, she gives me hand a squeeze back. She sighs. “Jordan is— rightly—going to be furious with me. He has quite the temper, doesn’t he?”

I chuckle, thinking back to just yesterday when he came bursting through my door in a whirlwind of fury, hurt, and desperation. “Yes, he does. But he’s also compassionate. It won’t take long for him to warm to you, if you’re trying.”

She nods. Her eyes flit toward me again. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I think I hurt you the most, and I apologize for that.”

I shrug, and the words “It’s okay” rise to my lips. I shove them away, though; it wasn’t okay. None of it was. But I still open my mouth. “I forgive you,” I respond.

She flashes me a watery smile, sighing. “I don’t understand a lot of it. You and Jordan.”

“We’ll help you. Like I said, Shay doesn’t want to cut herself off from you. She loves you. She won’t leave you to drown by yourself, and neither will I. Or Jordan, for that matter.”

“Thank you,” she says, giving my hand another squeeze before standing. She holds herself almost perfectly straight up and down. She rolls her shoulders and gives herself a little shake, and it appears she shakes off all the uncertainty and worry she was feeling just a moment ago. When she turns back to me, all trace of the tears, of the anxiety, are gone. I restrain myself from gawking at her; I’ve never seen anyone who could compose themselves that quickly, or that well. She gives me a tight smile, waiting for me to stand before opening the front door and stepping inside.

Chapter Sixteen

“Mom, you’re crushing my lungs.”

Jordan squirms as Deanne keeps her arms wrapped tightly around him. Though she looks tiny next to the behemoth that is Jordan, she’s not a weak person, and I’m sure that her hug is legitimately squeezing Jordan’s insides. I’ve been on the other end of those hugs as well; we’ve always joked with her that they’re potentially lethal and should be doled out sparingly to prevent internal injury.

Today, though, there is no rationing of affection from her. The rest of Jordan’s family stands a few feet away, rolling their eyes as they wait for their turn to say goodbye. It finally takes Jordan’s dad prying Deanne’s arms away for her to let go and give everyone else a chance to hug him. His dad wraps him in a bear hug, but quickly releases him and hands him off to one of his sisters.

I turn to face my own parents, standing a little way away and out of reach of Deanne’s crushing hugs. Without Jordan in her arms, she’s prone to latch onto the nearest person instead; my mom learned this the hard way years ago. I close the gap between us, resisting the urge to shove my hands in my pockets. They both stand there awkwardly, each of us waiting for the other to make the first move.

I finally can’t take it anymore. I reach toward my dad, and he gives me a stiff but firm hug. It only lasts a second, and when he pulls back he looks me in the eye, patting me on the shoulder and nodding decisively before letting go. A man of few words, I’d never expected a lengthy goodbye from him. I see tears pooling in his eyes as he backs away, and that’s enough to know how he feels.

I turn to my mother next, waiting for her to make the first move. While my dad is predictable, my mother isn’t always so. I don’t want to force anything on her, so I let her decide how this will play out.

To my surprise, she jolts forward and wraps me in a fierce hug, strong enough to rival even those of Deanne. Shocked, I don’t even have time to lift my arms to hug her back before she releases me. Tears glisten in her eyes as well, and I have to check myself to keep my jaw from dropping open. Not once, in all my memories of her, do I remember seeing even a hint of tears from her. Not once.

She clutches her hands in front of her, her posture stiff and uncomfortable. “Dyson,” she begins, clearing her throat when her voice comes out thick and unclear, “I know we haven’t been the…best of parents. But I want to make sure you know that we support you.” She swallows hard. “We’re proud of you.”

It’s all I can do to keep from breaking down into weepy sobs in the middle of the airport. Her affirmations are few and far between, and rarely so direct. I can’t open my mouth to explain how much I appreciate hearing that, nor do I think she’d want to exacerbate and dwell on it, so I let it go, simply giving her a firm nod. I stuff my hands in my pockets and turn, but I pause, turning back toward them before I’m fully turned around.

“I love you guys,” I say, clearly and firmly.

“We love you, too,” they respond, not quite in unison, but close.

I give them a small smile before making my way toward Jordan, who is still being passed around by his own family and has almost made his way back into Deanne’s arms. She snags me first, though, and my back pops when she wraps her arms around me.

Either she doesn’t hear it or chooses to ignore it, because she keeps me locked in her embrace. “Oh, Dyce, you boys are leaving,” she sniffles. “You have to make sure you come back and visit. I’ll pay for your tickets. And Shay’s and the baby’s, I want to meet them, too. Or we’ll come out to you. Whatever is easiest on you guys.”

I roll my eyes and smile at her ramblings. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure to keep you in the loop. We’ll video chat every week.”

She pulls back and gives me a confused look. “What?”

I laugh, patting her on the back. “We’ll get you set up and explain it later, I promise.”

She waves the idea away, swooping in for one last, fierce hug before releasing me and turning back to her own son. She loops her arms around his neck and, instead of just dealing with the hug as usual, Jordan wraps his own arms around his mom and holds her tightly, burying his head in her neck. The sight warms my heart.

Soon though, it’s time for Jordan and me to get moving. Our bags are already checked, and all that’s left for us to do is get through security. We wave a final goodbye to our families as we head toward the security line. Jordan reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. I lean my head on his shoulder, unable to help the grin that spreads across my face. He kisses the top of my head, and we move through the line without talking.

***

Within a week, Jordan and I are settled in our empty apartment. We have a mattress, a few cushions, dishes, and a shower curtain. Aside from that, the apartment is bare. We and Shay are on the hunt for more furniture, but for now, this will do. Jordan starts work at a real estate company on Monday—as little more than a lackey, but he doesn’t mind—and I start as a bank teller the week after. For now, we have everything settled and worked out that we can. We sit on our mattress, which is situated on the floor, leaning against the wall. We’re sitting arm to arm, both of just scrolling aimlessly through the internet, when there’s a knock on the door. Jordan hauls himself up while I stay seated. I hear the door open, a quick and hushed exchange of words, and the door is closed again. The entire conversation took less than thirty seconds. I glance up as he comes back into the room, a question in my eyes.

Instead of answering that question, he simply tosses – softly – a box at me. It lands on the mattress next to me with a soft thud. I pick it up, curious, and see that it’s a set of oil pastels. Still confused, I look up at him.

“What are these for?”

“They’re Shay’s,” he answers, flopping back onto the mattress. “She stopped by to drop them off for you.”

My confusion only deepens. “That’s nice of her, but I didn’t ask her for them.”

“I know,” he replies smugly. “I did.”

I raise my eyebrows, but he just sits there smirking at me, enjoying the game. I give in. “Do I want to know why?”

“Probably. But you don’t get to know until tomorrow.”

I roll my eyes, setting the pastels gently next to the bed. I don’t argue with him or try to pry it out of him; I don’t feel like working myself up over it, but mostly I just want to let him try and surprise me with something. Most likely, it’ll be nice. A memory of the last time he tried to “surprise” me flashes through my mind—it ended in egg yolks squishing through my hair. I shudder, but push the memory aside. His intentions had been good, and I’m sure they were this time as well. The pastels calm me a bit; whatever it is, it can’t be too wild, or else he wouldn’t have bothered with the pastels. He knows how much I revere my art supplies. He wouldn’t risk hurting them.

He pulls his phone back out and starts playing a racing game on it. “Oh, by the way. You’ll want to be ready to be in the car for a while tomorrow. Just a heads up,” he mumbles absentmindedly, though I see the ghost of a grin tugging at the edges of his lips.

I suppress a groan. I’m sick of traveling, particularly in the car. But I don’t say anything, thinking that, whatever it is, it must be important for Jordan to want to get back in the car, too.

***

The view knocks the breath from my lungs. The hues of orange, reds, yellows, blues, and browns alone are enough to stop me cold, let alone the astounding geographical markings. The river, thousands of feet below us, seems to be completely immobile, though I know it has to be at least meandering along. I spy in the distance a group of people making the trek down to the bottom of the canyon, hugging the rugged wall and sticking to the thin jutting of a trail.

Jordan comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. I smile, putting my hands atop of his. “Pretty awesome, right?” he says.

“Pretty fucking awesome,” I affirm, again astounded by the sheer vastness of this place. I take my eyes off the view for a moment to glance back at Jordan. “Why’d you decide to bring me here?”

He shrugs, nuzzling his face closer to mine. “It’s where I said I wanted to go when we first left New York. I figured, since I told you this is where we were going, I should probably make the trek out here with you. Besides,” he says, jerking his chin toward our bags, “I wanted you to be able to sketch this place.”

I lift one of his hands from my waist and kiss it, extricating myself from his embrace as I reach down and rummage through my bag. I pull out my sketchbook and the pastels, settling myself on a rock close by.

“I’m going to go walk around,” he announces as I start to draw my outlines. Jordan pulls out his earbuds and bends down toward me, placing his hands on either side of my face. He kisses me softly, lingering for a moment before pulling away. He gives me a lopsided grin, turning on his heel and heading off toward a trail.

I smile, touching my lips with my fingertips. Turning back to my sketchbook, I get to work, deciding to change the perspective a bit. Instead of sketching exactly what I see, I pull the frame back a little bit, drawing two people standing side-by-side as they look out into the canyon, their fingers laced together and their heads leaned against one another.

*fin*

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