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I struggle for air and sweat breaks out on my neck. What the fuck?
She may not seem young, but she is. She’s a kid. What the hell am I doing?
She sits backs down, and I tip up my bottle, taking another swig to cover my nerves.
“Not really,” she answers.
What did I ask her again? Oh, right. Traveling.
“I went to New Orleans with my sister when I was fifteen, and I won a scholarship to a summer camp in Virginia when I was twelve,” she tells me. “That’s about it.”
“New Orleans at fifteen?” I joke. Must’ve been interesting.
A thoughtful smile crosses her face, but it falls quickly. “That’s where my mom lives,” she says.
Oh, yeah, that’s right. Her dad is Chip Hadley. I don’t pay much attention to gossip, but I know he’s been married a couple times.
Jordan clears her throat, sitting up. “She left when I was four.”
Four? What kind of person would leave her like that?
She sits quietly, looking like she’s thinking, and an urge comes over me to have her in my arms.
Right now.
“When my sister graduated from high school, we tracked her down,” she explains, “and we took a road trip that summer to visit her.”
“How did it go?”
She shrugs a little. “Fine, I guess. She was waitressing, had a little apartment, and was living her life. She was pleased to see us. Now that we’re grown and don’t need a lot of care, I suppose,” she adds.
She finally looks over at me, quirking a sad smile.
“Did you ask her why she left?” I inquire.
But she just shakes her head. “No, I used to want to know, but then when I met her, I didn’t really care anymore.” She pauses and then adds, “I didn’t like her.”
I watch her, remaining quiet. Does Cole have those thoughts about me?
“So, have you ever been married?” Her voice is light, and I can tell she’s trying to change the subject.
I sit up, taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes at myself. . “Cole’s mom and I didn’t last long after he was born,” I tell her, “and I don’t know… I got caught up in trying to build a livelihood—a future. Got used to being alone.”
I run my fingers over my scalp, finally resting my head on my hand and looking over at her. But she looks skeptical, studying me with something cautious in her eyes. Like she doesn’t believe that’s why I’m still single.
“There were chances to get married,” I say, assuring her, “but
I guess even in high school I never wanted to be one of the numbers and do what I was supposed to do, you know? Graduate, get a job, get married, have kids...die.”
I breathe out a laugh, but surprisingly, the words are coming easy now.
“My grandfather, the one who also smoked cigars,” I clarify, “passed away when I was nine, but I still remember this house party my parents had when my dad finished college. He was in his thirties, the first one in the family to get a college education, so it was a big deal.”
She sits back in the seat, holding the bottle with both hands and listening.
“I think I was like six years old at the time,” I tell her. “My grandparents were there, and everyone was talking and laughing, but what I remember most is my grandfather, in his sixties, six-foot-four and two-hundred-fifty pounds shaking the foundations of the house, because he was dancing around to Jump by the Pointer Sisters.”
She breaks into a smile. Yeah, you can just picture it.
