Page 7 of The Boy

When he begins slicing the tomatoes, his arm flexes, and my eyes zero in on the corded forearms. With how vain he is, I don’t doubt he goes to the gym. He doesn’t look buff, but he’s lean and muscled, like a runner’s body.

The realization hits me like a freight train.

Jordan looks like that, and I look like me—frumpy, boring, and unremarkable. The only time I’ll ever run is at PE … and in the event of a zombie apocalypse where my life and brain are at stake.

My insecurities rush to the surface, and I stop staring at him.

“I saw you looking at the dress,” he calls over his shoulder.

I bury my face in my hands, my skin warming from embarrassment. “Oh, yeah?”

“You like those dresses?”

“No.” The lie comes easy enough. I stand and walk to the square dining table, sliding into one of the seats.

“I’ll give you another chance to change your answer.”

He has his back on me, and the desire to pour my heart out is overwhelming. I don’t talk to anyone like this. Both my parents are in my hometown, and they call me maybe once a month to check whether I’m still alive. I have a couple of friends from high school, but we lost touch after college. At university, I have a few nodding acquaintances, but that’s the extent of my socializing.

“Yes,” I finally blurt out. I don’t know why I’m telling him. All I know is I need this out of my chest.

“So why don’t you ever wear them?”

He turns and leans his back against the counter, looking at me. The attention is too much, so I busy myself with the dried water spots on the table. “Because the last time I did, I glanced at someone for all of one second, and he thought it was an invitation to follow me home.”

I get the courage to look up, only to find him gripping the edge of the counter, his nostrils flaring. “That fucker. Did he hurt you?”

“No, because I went straight to the police station.”

His face softens. “Shit, I’m sorry, Jordyn.”

“Not your fault a lot of men act like animals.”

He lifts both palms. “No argument from me on that.”

He serves me chicken pesto wraps and offers me an unopened Snapple with a post-it note that says, “Toby’s. Do not touch this, fucker.”

“Toby will be so mad when he gets home,” I tell him.

Jordan lifts one shoulder. “I’ll buy him a new one. He always takes my groceries, anyway.”

The food is delicious, and I’m torn between praising him, which will only feed his ego, and acting nonchalant. But one thing about Jordan is that he’s so damned observant and in tune with me. Eerily so.

“You like it?”

I sigh. “I do. It’s delicious. Don’t let that get to your head.”

“Too late.” He chuckles, his eyes glowing. “What’s your favorite food? So I’ll know what to make next time.”

“You think there will be a next time?”

His eyes darken, and he sweeps his tongue along his bottom lip, making me perk up in my seat and rub my thighs together. “I’d like to think so. After all, you did come home with me.” He drops his gaze to my mouth. “And I don’t think it’s because you really did believe I’m a fantastic cook.”

I’m someone who’s comfortable with silence, and I can hold it longer than anyone I know. I can go for hours sitting beside someone and not talking, filling the space where words are unnecessary.

With Jordan, it’s different.

The silence hums, charged with unspoken thoughts floating around us, charged with something heavy, pulsing, alive. My fingers twitch against my knee, and with our gazes locked, I catch myself holding my breath, the pounding in my temples getting louder every second.

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