Page 22 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Hou: How are you feeling?
I glance over at Jordan, who hums something as he rummages through my cupboards, as if he might have the answer to that question. If I had been on my own, I probably would have lied and told Houston I was fine, but I have a feeling Jordan is going to be giving my brother updates just as much as I am.
Sighing, I tell him that I still have a bit of a headache and probably won’t be able to walk for a day or two. He’s not going to like that, and I wait for him to tell me that I need to get myself to a hospital so I can get my foot checked out.
“Why is Houston telling me to take you to the hospital, Queens?” Jordan asks. He’s frowning down at his phone, but when he meets my eyes, a shiver runs through me because he looks fiercely worried. I didn’t even know that was a thing.
“Because he’s overreacting,” I say, doing my best to sound confident. “I’m fine.”
“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”
I don’t feel like I can say yes to that, so I keep my mouth shut.
He narrows his eyes. “Should I be taking you to a hospital?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. I appreciate that he’s asking, rather than making the decision for me, though I don’t know how long that will last.
While I try to match his expression, I feel like I’m squinting more than glaring. “I’m fine,” I say as sharply as I can. Being forceful isn’t usually in my wheelhouse, but I do my best.
Jordan folds his arms. “Prove it.”
How in the world am I supposed to do that? I’m pretty much stuck on this couch until my ankle shrinks back to its usual size. Still, I push myself up off the couch and balance on one foot, glad that my remaining headache is duller than my migraines tend to be.
“Is this proof enough for you?”
It might have been if I’d been able to keep my balance, but my attempt at standing confidently tips me sideways, and I let out a shriek as I go tumbling toward the coffee table.
A pair of arms wrap around me, tugging me into Jordan’s strong chest only a moment before disaster. Thank goodness my apartment is so tiny, or he might not have made it to me in time.
“Sorry,” he says, the word more of a breath than anything. “I shouldn’t have challenged you. You okay, Queens?”
Nope. Mostly because this is the second time he’s held me like this, and I’m enjoying it even more than the first time. The way Jordan holds me feels like he’s holding my whole life together, which makes absolutely no sense. He’s supposed to be the guy who unravels all of my strings because that’s what he does. He pokes and pulls until something comes loose.
We were nothing but reluctant acquaintances for all of high school, forced together by our mutual love of Houston, and now we’re basically strangers. I have no reason to feel like this man could be good for me somehow. Especially when Mark has finally started talking to me.
“Baseball!” I blurt.Nice one. Clearing my throat, I peel myself out of his hold and slump back onto the couch. “Will you tell me how the World Series works? I want to practice having a conversation about something I don’t know much about.”
Though he stands there looking mildly lost, he recovers quickly and heads back to the kitchen, returning a moment later with two sandwiches that I’m convinced he materialized out of nowhere because they look way too good to have come from my kitchen. “Does Mike like sports?”
“I don’t know. Thank you, by the way.” I hold up the sandwich, but I also mean thank you for saving me from further injury. I never would have considered myself clumsy before this weekend. “Where did you learn to cook?”
He snickers. “Are we talking about sports or cooking? Because those are two very different things and one has nothing to do with me.”
“You used to play baseball,” I argue. “So you’re not completely unfamiliar with that topic.”
“I haven’t played since Houston got drafted.”
“You played catcher, right?”
His lips twist to one side, as if he can’t decide if he likes the direction I’m taking this conversation. Honestly, none of this will be helpful when it comes to Mark, but I feel like I need to know more about Jordan if I’m going to let him teach me to flirt. I never paid enough attention in high school to really get to know him—in fact, I actively avoided him as much as I could—but he seems to know so much about me. Either I haven’t changed much since high school (probably true) or Houston talks about me more than I realize (also likely true).
“Yeah, I played catcher,” he says eventually. “It’s part of the reason Hou and I became friends since we had to work together so much at practice. But I quit the team after he left UCSB to join the Red-tails so I could focus on school.”
“What did you study?”
“I thought we were talking about sports.”
I narrow my eyes. Hopefully it’s less squinty this time. “Is it a difficult question?”
“Just trying to figure out how this information is relevant to the conversation.”
