Page 69 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
As soon as I’m safely tucked away in my car after school, I text Jordan.
Me: Made it through the day without incident.
I am genuinely amazed at how much easier it is to text when I can delete typos without the risk of accidentally sending a message, though I know it won’t rescue me from my curse entirely. Anything is an improvement, and I have Jordan to thank.
He texts back after a long minute of waiting.
Jordan: Glad to hear it.
That’s it? I expected more from him, like a tease or a comment on my luck. Maybe a part of me hoped he would offer to cook me dinner or watch a movie. No, not just a part of me. All of me. I’ve spent the last five nights with Jordan in my house, and the thought of going home to an empty basement makes it harder to be brave when it comes to dealing with Mark.
I type out three different texts to Jordan but delete them all. Mostly delete. I somehow manage to send a part of the last one, so he gets a text that says “Can” which hopefully means nothing to him. Knowing my luck, he’ll infer the rest of the message and realize I almost asked him if we could talk about what happened last night before Mark showed up.
That should probably happen, but maybe not yet. Not until I get on top of the Mark debacle.
With nothing else to say to Jordan, I type out a text to Houston.
Me: When will you be back in Sun City?
He doesn’t respond until I’m home and in pajamas, even though it’s only four in the afternoon.
Hou: Hoping for Friday, as long as Roundy doesn’t set me up with more interviews.
Houston’s agent, Alan Roundy, always likes to get Houston in front of as many cameras as possible, even though Houston doesn’t like doing interviews. He used to like them more, when he was young and cocky, but the older we get, the more he likes to fly under the radar.
Hou: Wanna do a movie night next week? I miss you, Blondie.
A warmth flickers to life in my chest. I hadn’t fully realized how much I was missing my twin until he said that. Yeah, he can be annoying, and he’s got an ego the size of a baseball stadium sometimes, but he’s a good brother.
Me: As long as I get to pick the movie.
Hou: No way! You always pick those boring historical movies.
Me: And you always pick a predictable sports movie. Spoiler: the underdogs win.
Hou: We’ll pillow fight for it.
Me: You don’t want to go there. You ended up with a black eye the last time we had a fight.
Hou: That’s because you cheated!
I snicker, though this would be more fun if he were here and I could threaten him with a pillow. Houston learned pretty quickly when we were kids that it was a bad idea to challenge me to a pillow fight unless he was prepared to lose. I may not be good at a lot of things, but I’m good at that. Houston made the mistake of turning his back on me before we’d called truce, and I ended up knocking him into a doorknob.
Me: You can’t chat in a pillow fight.
Me: I mean cheat.
Me: But neither can you chat, I guess.
Hou: YOU can cheat. And you do.
Hou: Hey, I have an interview with Sports Illustrated to do. Let me know what day you want to lose that pillow fight. *winky face*
I roll my eyes, but this conversation, short as it was, has helped me relax for the first time since this morning.
That’s when I notice the flowers in a vase on my coffee table. The daisies weren’t there this morning, and my heart beats a little stronger at the sight of them. How did Jordan know they were my favorite?
Chapter Twenty-Two
