Page 14 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
When I open the door, I find Jordan waiting for me with one dark eyebrow raised. Still waiting for an explanation, I suppose. It’s too bad I don’t have one to give, but I distinctly remember thinking about calling him Daniel at one point to see if it would bother him. I never did—thanks, cowardice—and I wish I could read his expression right now. He’s either confused or angry. Maybe just curious?
“I guess I picked it up at school or something,” I say.
He smiles. “And you never used it against me?”
“Would it have worked? Daniel isn’t a weird name.”
“No,” he agrees, “but it’s my dad’s name, so I’m Jordan to everyone except my family.” He holds out his arms, and I hope he’s asking if I want him to carry me again because I lean right into his hold until he picks me up. “Couch or bed?” he asks.
Now that I know I have a soda waiting for me, I’m far less inclined to take a nap than I was after he left. Or maybe it’s just because I feel weird sleeping when he’s in my house. “Couch,” I say as definitively as I can. I have a feeling he would question me again if I didn’t sound confident.
“Couch it is.”
For the next five minutes, we both get ourselves settled on either end of the couch, me with the TV and him with a laptop. It makes me glad that I didn’t skimp on my thrift store buy and get a loveseat instead of a full couch, even if it would have fit better in my small space. This way, I can keep some distance between us until I can process how weird it is that I’m hanging out with my brother’s annoying best friend after ten years of knowing nothing about where he is or what he’s doing. Not that I ever really thought about him. Though he was always around, it wasn’t like I devoted a lot of brain power to thinking about Jordan Torres outside of sometimes watching him play as catcher on the high school team or wondering what girls saw in him when they swooned over him in the hallways. (Okay, that’s a lie. I thought about him a lot, but not because I was interested. Because we were at war. It’s a long story.) Jordan was always that guy who was friends with everyone and constantly going out with all the girls, and I never knew how everyone could overlook his sheer extra-ness.
Jordan never did anything small.
As he busies himself with whatever he’s doing on his computer, I grab my phone and resume my outline of what I’m going to do the next time I see Mark. Jay texted me soon after Jordan left, asking if I was still interested in Mark—obviously—and then demanding a game plan, and I know better than to ignore her. She’s heard enough of my moaning and swooning to let this go now that Mark has made the first move. I think she’s mostly just hoping something will happen so I’ll stop complaining to her that nothing has happened.
Me: I think I have a plan.
Jaydin: Do you now?
Me: The next time he talks to me, I’m going to give him the works. Full smile, eye contact, mention something about math. It’s guaranteed to make him fall in love with me.
“You’re going to make me fall in love with you?”
I jump at the sound of Jordan’s voice and throw my phone at him out of reflex. Thankfully he catches it before it hits him in the face, though a part of me wishes ithadhit him in the face because then I wouldn’t have to see his amused grin.
Feeling my own face light on fire, I swallow and almost don’t want to ask. “Did I just textyou?”
He purses his lips, which does nothing to hold back his smile. “Sure did, Queens. I’m guessing I was not the intended recipient.”
“That was supposed to go to my coworker!”
“So, you’re going to make your coworker fall in love with you?”
“No!” I groan. “I mean, yes. Not the one I was trying to text, but the male one. The math one. The…” I should probably just curl up in a ball and die now. “The Mark one,” I finish lamely. It can’t get much worse than it already is. I’m just glad I don’t have Mark’s phone number for some reason, or my phone probably would have decided to send that text to him instead of Jordan.
I can’t imagine the torture of Mark learning about my ridiculous crush in the worst possible way.
Jordan closes his laptop, brown eyes bright with interest. “Math teacher?” he guesses.
“We really don’t have to have this conversation,” I reply. “I’m positive this is not how you want to spend your Friday afternoon.”
“That’s a pretty bold assertion, Queens. Though, now I’m curious.” He moves his computer to the floor and turns to face me. “How doyouusually spend your Friday afternoons? Have I deprived you of a thrilling evening spent cutting coupons and knitting scarves?”
I roll my eyes. “No, I usually go clubbing.”
Of course he only laughs at that, not for a second considering I might be telling the truth. I probably haven’t changed much since high school, and he’s going to use that to his advantage. It isn’t fair, considering there seems to be quite a bit about him that is unfamiliar after our time apart. He may still have that mischief in his eyes, but he’s already proven more than once that he isn’t the same obnoxious teenage boy I knew. Not all the time, anyway.
“I bet you’re always the first and last on the dance floor,” he says, “showing off your moves all night.”
Has Jordan ever seen me dance? I hope not. Yeah, okay, we had to slow dance together once, but that doesn’t count. Anyone can sway back and forth. But other dancing? I’ll don paintball gear every summer or go to a shooting range with my brother Chad each Valentine’s day, but ask me to be graceful and lithe…good luck. I was raised by manly men, and it shows. My stepsisters always cluck their tongues behind my back, not-so-secretly discussing what a shame it is that I’m so beautiful but so not in touch with my femininity.
“You dance, right?” For a second, I wonder who said that until my concussed brain catches up to itself and I realize the question came from my own mouth. But where in the world did it come from? It’s not even an actual question.
Jordan cocks his head, eyebrows twisting together as he watches me. “Why do you say that?”
