Page 24 of Five Things I See in You

On Sunday, at noon, Jordan comes up to my apartment for the first time, for lunch. Outside it’s raining nonstop. She shows up with a small potted plant in her hands, wrapped in newspaper.

“It’s a cutting from one of my plants, it’s very easy to take care of, don’t worry,” she says, I guess because of the horrified look on my face. “Besides, no offense, but your apartment needs something alive.”

I look at the gray furniture the club bought to furnish it and the painting of the wave that doesn’t mean anything, and I think maybe she’s right, although I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I show her my favorite thing about this apartment: if you press up against the glass, in the right-hand corner, you can see a piece of the bay.

We eat at the kitchen counter. Jordan laughs at my attempt at pasta, which I overcooked a little. And after clearing the plates, we go to the living room and I tell her what Tessa said before I left, because I can’t take it anymore.

Jordan listens with her hands resting on her knees.

“She’s right,” she admits.

“Seriously?” I protest, getting up from the couch because I need to move. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding things in locker rooms. The panic attacks. My father’s criticism. My whole life. And now that I finally have something good, we have to hide it too?”

“I didn’t say we have to hide it, just that I agree with Tessa about what can be done inside the team facilities. Those are two different things. At least until the season is over, we should set some limits. Nothing at the complex; I don’t even set foot in it. At the stadium, I’m in the stands, like any other fan: no locker room tunnel, no mixed zone. We arrive separately at club events, if I even get invited to any. Until the season is over,” she repeats, pausing. “Outside of that, you tell whoever you want. It’s no secret.”

“Until the season is over,” I murmur. “Not one day more.”

Before we keep talking, I pick up my phone and open a conversation with Callum. For years we’ve never talked about anything that isn’t soccer or my father.

Me: I’ve met someone.

Callum: Does Dad know?

Me: No.

Callum: If you get distracted and your performance drops, he’s going to kill you.

“This is an example of the kind of conversations we have in my family,” I say, showing Jordan the screen.

She doesn’t make any comment, just pats the couch so I’ll sit next to her. Then we put on a documentary about a murder in some small town. At minute ten, I point at the next-door neighbor as the culprit.

“It’s him. It’s always the neighbor,” I say, pointing with my index finger.

At some point we stop watching the screen. It starts as a kiss and soon turns into something else.

I run my lips along her neck, feeling her swallow. I slide my fingers under her blouse and she gets goosebumps. And while I listen to her ragged breathing next to my ear, I think that taking it slow is the worst idea we’ve ever had.

I have three buttons of her blouse undone, her breasts practically bare and my lips on her collarbone when the documentary narrator announces in a solemn voice that the DNA evidence leaves no doubt the killer was the next-door neighbor.

“See? I told you, I was sure of it,” I murmur, trying not to laugh.

“I’m going to kill you,” Jordan growls.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Next time, we’re turning off the TV.”

She shakes her head and narrows her eyes. She pulls away; it takes her some effort, but she does it. Then she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead.

“Come over for dinner tomorrow. Maybe you could stay the night. We’ll see how it goes. No TV, fair warning,” she jokes.

“Do you want me to bring anything?”

“An appetite.”

Chapter 15

Jordan

The next day, Noa comes to my place for the first time. She stands in the doorway longer than necessary, looking at the hallway, then at my shoes by the door, then back at me, like she’s waiting for permission.