Page 66 of Limbo

I’ve barely nodded when the locks engage—in case I change my mind, I guess. He speeds away from the gas pump, and the tires squeal, pulling onto the highway.

“And I thought Jordan was the dramatic one,” I mumble.

He shrugs. “The guy rubs off on you. Consider this your warning.”

I pull out my phone to text him but stop, inspired with a Jordan-worthy plan. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know anywhere that screen-prints T-shirts, would you?”

“Calico,” Benji says, “I’m the lead singer for a fucking band. What do you think?”

He glances over and winks, and Mission Tell Jordan Sorry commences.

In the morning, I meet the entire ensemble of Beta Void minus their lead guitarist at the T-shirt shop. Since Benji needs to leave for Vermont before Jordan’s finished with his last midterm, he volunteers Johnny and Gavin to help. It takes all of two minutes to regret involving them, but it’s too late because we’re already synchronizing the watches none of us wear.

After the unnecessarily elaborate planning session, I return to an empty dorm suite and pack for the weekend. According to a text from Lauren, Tyler called her in the wee hours of the morning with last-minute spring break plans for them. The chances of him making said plans after our little encounter are near a thousand fucking percent. Regardless, anything improving the odds of not seeing him earns my approval.

I change into my new T-shirt and check the mirror one last time. I’ve never been one for nerves, but they kick in as I realize what I’m about to do.

No backing out now, Henders.

The second I park in front of Jordan’s house, Gavin texts.

Upstairs window.

When I look up, he gives me hand signals. Except we never agreed on any, so he very well might be telling me to steal home. While I appreciate the enthusiasm, it’s a little much. I wiggle my hands around in response before I flip him off. He grins and disappears behind a curtain.

I grab the box from the backseat and button up my coat on my way to the front door. The thought of abandoning the plan altogether enters my mind at least a thousand times even though I’m the one who came up with the damn thing. I knock, and my throat tightens, and my brain goes to mush when he answers.

Jordan and I stare at each other. Him on one side of the threshold with his sexy hair and confused green eyes, me on the other with my little cardboard box and my heart hammering the hell out of my rib cage. On the floor next to him sits his luggage for the airport. In about an hour, he will be leaving on his brother Dustin’s Spring Break Extravaganza—a week of Tijuana, booze, and girls. All the more reason to hurry. Well, that and we’re approaching the minute mark of neither of us speaking.

“Hey,” I say.

His chin lifts. Barely. Nothing else.

I almost smile, witnessing him speechless for the first time. “I didn’t think you’d be here. Your Jeep’s gone, and Benji said you had a midterm.”

He takes a deep breath, and the surprise from seeing me fades. “Sorry to disappoint—again,” he says, his tone clipped.

Well-deserved but freaking ouch all the same. I thought he would ask why I showed up on his doorstep, but he wants to go in a different direction apparently.

I roll my eyes. “Nothing can ever be easy with you.” I shove the box at him and leave him in the doorway.

He hasn’t moved by the time I back out of the driveway. The rest of the plan hinges on him opening the box and caring enough to chase after me one more time. Given the unreadable expression on his face, I worry he doesn’t, and he won’t.

I park out of sight of the house and reluctantly answer a video call from Gavin. “I thought I said we weren’t doing this.”

He ignores me, his face flashing in and out of view. “He’s on the move.”

The camera flips to show him opening his bedroom door. I toss my coat in the back and snag the coffee from the cupholder. On my trek over to the house, I watch Gavin descend the stairs to their living room, and then Jordan comes into view, pacing, staring at the box.

“What’s in the box?” Gavin asks, centering on Jordan picking it up and shaking it around.

I climb the steps to the deck outside their back door as Jordan resumes walking back and forth on the screen in my hand. All the while, he stares at the box once again on the coffee table.

Suddenly, he stops and looks straight at the camera. “Are you recording my misery?” he asks.

I tried to warn the guys a video call would tip him off, but why would a group of self-proclaimed Jordan experts ever listen to me?

“You’re acting insane,” Gavin says, recovering. “This is documentation in case we need to have you committed.”

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