Page 96 of Limbo

Of all the things I never thought Jordan Waters would say to me, “I want you to meet my parents,” ranks high up there. Yet here I am, in a dress with my hair up, walking a stone pathway and preparing to do just that.

His grip on my hand tightens the closer we come to the large double doorway, and he rubs his forehead, more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. He glances over, and I smile, trying to put him at ease.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” he asks.

“Because they’re just parents.”

“You should freak out.”

I adjust the collar of his shirt. “I’ll get right on that.”

But, really, I’m already battling nerves. I just hide them better.

In the few weeks since Pete’s birthday, everything between Jordan and me has been incredible. In my experience, nothing stays this good for long, and tonight feels like the perfect setup for something to go wrong.

I gravitate toward people with shitty family situations. Not on purpose, just likeness seeking out the like, I guess. Trey’s mother skipped out when he was six, and Kevin is … well, Kevin. Pete never met his father, and his alcoholic mother regularly beat the shit out of him until his grandparents took custody when he was ten. Brock’s parents rarely acknowledged his existence. Shayna’s parents divorced, and both started new families. And Tony’s were never around for various reasons, including a lengthy jail sentence.

Jordan describes his parents as overbearing and impossible to please. Far from what I know. As much as he wants me to believe their opinion won’t matter, a nagging part of me says it will on some level. His escalating panic doesn’t lessen the concern.

“Maybe we should reschedule,” he says. “I mean, with the income tax deadline looming and all.”

He’s fidgeting more than usual, and I put my hand on his arm.

“Jordan, breathe.”

His gaze drops to where we touch and flits back to mine, a heat in his eyes. He cups my cheeks and kisses me. I think it will be short and sweet, but his tongue slips into my mouth, then he groans and backs me up until I’m pressed between him and a column. By the time he wrenches his mouth away from mine, I’m out of breath, and he’s more worked up than before.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing the doorbell.

The door creaks open, a short woman with dark hair pulled into a tight braid on the other side. Her eyes dart between us a few times. A tentative smile slowly spreads.

“Good evening, Mr. Waters,” she says, stepping out of the way.

“Hey, Greta,” he says, guiding me in.

Jordan and I come from different worlds. That has been clear from the beginning. But it wasn’t until we passed the fountain in the circular drive large enough to park eight cars that I started to understandhowdifferent. The realization continues when we step into an entryway the size of Graham’s kitchen and living room combined. Marble floor, a gold-adorned mirror on the wall above a table with fresh flowers, and ceiling so high that I tip my chin up to see the molding.

I amsoout of my element.

Jordan helps me out of my coat and hands it to Greta along with his.

“Your parents are in the sitting room with Dustin.” She drapes the coats over her arm and looks between us again. “Would you and Jess like a glass of wine?”

My eyes widen. Not so much at being called the wrong name, but more at it being my suitemate’s, who is borderline obsessed with my boyfriend.

Jordan chokes back a laugh and quickly says, “Greta, this is my girlfriend, Callie. Why my mother would tell you her name was Jess, I have no idea.”

She gives a shaky smile. “I’m sure I misheard her. Two glasses of wine?” She hurries down the hall, her steps echoing as she escapes an uncomfortable situation.

I cross my arms, already glaring, and he holds out his hands in defense.

“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for Greta thinking Jess is my girlfriend.”

“Oh jeez, do tell,” I say, stare holding firm.

“When my family stopped by the day after my birthday, Jess was still at the house from her hook-up with Johnny. My mother decided she was my girlfriend.”

“And rather than correct her…”

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