Not After Everything (15 page)

As soon as I'm settled in at work the following Saturday, Jordyn saunters over and tosses a book on the counter in front of me.

Or Not to Be: A Collection of Suicide Notes
by Marc Etkind.

“Thanks?” I say.

“I'm just saying . . . they're not all gems. It's kind of fascinating.” She shifts her feet like she does when she's nervous. “Forget it. It's messed up.” She reaches for the book, but I hang on.

We both hold the book and also intense eye contact. I think she might be waiting for me to kiss her, but if I'm wrong . . . Or she might just be trying to read me, trying to figure out if I'm actually offended that she bought me a book of suicide notes.

She bought me a book of suicide notes! I feel a smile creep onto my lips. I wonder if this is what Dr. Dave meant by feelings. Because I kind of love that she bought me a book of suicide notes. Who does that thinking it's thoughtful? And it
is
thoughtful. And she's so beautiful—she's got these dark brown, cat-like eyes with little flecks of gold, and this thick, glossy black hair that falls over her shoulder, just reaching the top of her breast. And the fullness of her bottom lip . . . it's the kind of lip you want to take between your teeth.

I'm not sure how long we've been holding on to the book. I've completely lost track of time. I brush my finger across the book until it meets hers. If she doesn't move her finger or let go, I'll take that as a sign.

She does move her finger, but only to brush my finger back. My breathing speeds up. That tiny little touch is enough to make my entire body throb with electricity. I pull on the book, drawing her closer, looking from her eyes to her lips and back again. She licks her bottom lip. I lean in slightly. My stomach feels like I've swallowed a hurricane.

I stare at her lips until I'm close enough to feel her breath against my face. I shut my eyes wanting to memorize every sensation. Our noses touch and my heart speeds up. I hear her lips part and I feel her tip her head up so her lips come closer to mine.

And then the phone rings. We jump apart like a couple of kids caught playing doctor. And it's damn good timing too. Just as Jordyn returns to her chair to answer the phone, Henry bounds in, whistling what sounds like that one song from the musical
Cats
.

Jordyn and I don't so much as acknowledge the almost kiss. We simply go about business as usual. But damn if I don't think about how much I want to try again every second of the rest of the day.

• • •

Henry's first in on Sunday, much to my disappointment. I was hoping for a replay of yesterday morning. And he keeps me busy helping him all day. I don't get a chance to even see Jordyn until after the final client leaves and the three of us sit at the counter, sighing.

“Welp, that was a day,” Henry says, kicking his feet up on the counter.

Jordyn and I just nod, occasionally exchanging glances.

“Can you believe it's Thanksgiving already? What are your plans for the big day, Tyler?”

“I'll probably just hang out at home.”

“No family close by?”

“No. And that's fine. My dad and I . . . we're not really Thanksgiving people.”

Henry looks like he might faint. “That won't do. You'll come to our house.” And that's that.

Jordyn smiles and I smile back.

Unfortunately, the three of us walk to our cars together. It's that weird Colorado kind of cold that's more refreshing than freezing. And it's started to snow. The first real snow of the year is always kind of magical. Jordyn smiles up at the sky, allowing flakes to melt on her face. I wish Henry would leave. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted to kiss anyone in my life.

I wonder if Henry knows my plan and that's why he's not leaving, but then I realize his car isn't here.

“At least let me in the car while you frolic in the snow like a crazy person,” Henry grunts at Jordyn.

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” She shrugs at me as if to say, “Sorry, I wanted it as much as you did.” Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

• • •

At school the next day, I'm nervous. How will Jordyn react? Will we pick up where we left off? Do I really want to make out with her at school? But I don't see her until after lunch when I'm on my way to Mrs. Hickenlooper's class. She's walking with that guy from my chem class and they're both holding cups from Burger King. I didn't realize they were actually friends; I just thought they were in a class together or something. Plus she always implies she doesn't have any friends. She doesn't even glance at me today. Ouch. And she's back to wearing that shit on her face.

I'm utterly confused.

I don't bother looking for her at lunch the next day. Or the day after.

• • •

Thanksgiving. I arrive at Henry's house at noon as instructed. I feel underdressed in jeans and a sweater, which is dumb, seeing as I know Henry will most likely be wearing his uniform of flannel and denim.

I stand there. Do I knock on the giant glass doors? Fortunately, Henry spots me from the back of the house.

“Come in,” he bellows as he bounds toward me. “Where's your dad?”

“He, uh, had a work thing.”

“Oh. Well, more for us, right?”

“Right.” This house looks like the result of a castle and a log cabin gettin' it on. It's . . .
manly
is the only word I can come up with. I'm surprised there aren't mounted heads and rifles on every wall. The floors are dark distressed wood. Stone, slate, and dark wood paneling cover every other available surface. After passing an office that I can't imagine Henry using because it's far too organized, and a staircase that resembles a multi-story library with a twenty-foot window flanked by bookcases all the way up to the ceiling, we enter the great room. This is the family room/kitchen/dining room, and it's the size of a church, with ceilings almost as high.

In the kitchen at the far end of the enormous room, there's a huge granite counter with high-backed stools surrounding it. There's also a table in the center of the room that seats at least ten, and a smaller table off to the back that seats six in front of a door that leads to the back deck, where there is yet another table. Three people live in this house. How many places to eat do they need? And one of them only lives here part of the time. I can't even begin to imagine waking up in a place like this every day.

The side of the room that isn't designated for eating is dominated by a gargantuan slate fireplace. The thing is almost as wide as the whole room, and it runs all the way up the tall wall. A giant, three-sided leather sofa that could easily fit twenty people, I kid you not, faces the fire and a screen that rolls out from some kind of secret compartment. This is their TV. Jordyn's dad, I assume, as he is an appropriately aged man of Chinese-Malaysian descent, is alone on the sofa, and he's too busy shoveling pretzels and dip into his mouth while watching football to notice me gaping at the immensity of, well, everything. I only ever saw him in photographs when we were kids—he was always traveling. I know his name is Aslan—like the lion from Narnia. I remember thinking this was cool. I also remember Jordyn telling me how her grandfather changed their last name to Smith because Ng was impossible for anyone to figure out how to pronounce. It's pronounced
ing
, by the way.

Jordyn's in the kitchen with her mom, Henry, and another woman I think must be her stepmom. And they're all laughing and playing and teasing each other. I feel the sudden heat of jealousy pressing down on me, matched only by an oppressive sense that I shouldn't be in a place like this. On the big screen, some running back completes a fantastic play, scoring a touchdown. My stomach clenches. Aslan jumps up and whoops. And it's Thanksgiving and Mom's not here and all of a sudden I really want to go home.

I consider slinking back toward the door, but Jordyn finally notices me and waves me over. She's smiling like everything's back to normal. Like the almost kiss never happened. Like she didn't tactfully avoid me for the last three days. I've never been more confused in my life, and the part of me wanting to leave is losing a battle with the part of me that wants to stay just to figure out where the two of us stand.

She's completely makeup-free and has her hair in a ponytail, revealing a small streak of hair dyed fire engine red at the nape of her neck. I never noticed that before. She's also wearing something I didn't even know she owned . . . color: a burnt-orange thermal shirt with buttons halfway down the front. It's deliciously snug.

I realize I'm staring at her chest about halfway to the kitchen and correct myself, guiltily glancing around.

Jordyn shoves a plate of hors d'oeuvres at me, most of which are so fancy-looking, I can't even begin to imagine what they are. I don't want to be rude, so I take one that sort of looks like a mini pizza and search for a plate or napkin.

“Over there.” Jordyn points to the other end of the counter without looking. She's at the sink doing something and I am now privy to a view of her ass in some tight-fitting jeans. All her shirts and flowy skirts usually cover it up, and for the life of me I can't understand why.

What the hell am I doing? Three of her parents are standing right there. I snap out of my perversion and head toward the little plates shaped like turkeys. The pizza thing is actually really good. I take another.

“You like the quiche, I see,” says Jordyn's mom. This is when I realize I've not been properly introduced to everyone. Jordyn seems to realize it at the same time and jumps in.

“Mom, you remember Tyler Blackwell?”

Jordyn's mom wipes her hands on her green apron. She has long, silky brown hair and light brown eyes. She doesn't wear any makeup, but then she really doesn't need it. She's very pretty. Her smile is almost exactly the same as Jordyn's. Actually, Jordyn resembles her quite a bit, seeing them side by side. She reaches out her hand for me to shake. “Of course I do, but this is not Tyler Blackwell. Because if it is, then I must be a hundred and ten, and I'm not even in my thirties yet.”

“God, Mom, that's just . . . lame,” Jordyn says.

“My daughter may call me lame, but you may call me Kelly.”

This is when a woman who looks very much like Kelly, only blond and a bit plastic, turns her attention from the stove. “Jordyn! Now, this is the kind of boy you need to bring around the house,” the blonde says, eyeing me like I'm the turkey. “Not that strange little Jeffrey kid. Patricia Henderson-Smith.” She wipes her hand on her aggressively tight jeans and extends it to me like I'm supposed to kiss it. Unsure what to do, I awkwardly shake it.

“Mrs. Henderson-Smith,” I say.

“Call me Patricia,” she says with a wink, and then she turns back to the stove. This lady is what Sheila will grow up to be. The second wife. The wife that almost lives up to the first one who didn't want to keep the guy around and he never got over it. The one he screws while pretending she's the other.

“Dad!” Jordyn yells across the room. “You're being rude. We have a guest.”

Her dad mutters something and pauses the game, walking over to gawk at me with the rest of the room.

“What's the score?” Henry asks him.

“Seventeen to twelve,” he says, like he's just sure the team with the lower score can easily beat the team with the higher score.

“Who's playin'?” Henry asks, then he starts laughing just before Jordyn's dad opens his mouth. “You know I don't give a shit who's playin'. I'm just messin' with ya.”

“This guy!” Jordyn's dad grabs the back of Henry's neck, which he has to reach up pretty high to accomplish, and mock-punches Henry in the arm while making gruff manly noises.

“All right, all right.” Henry shrugs him off with a chuckle. “Tyler, this ol' coot here is Aslan Smith.”

“Mr. Smith.” I extend my hand.

“Nah, bro. We do this.” He holds his fist out. I look at Jordyn as I go to fist bump her father, and she closes her eyes like she's about to die of embarrassment. “Yeah, man. That's the shit! And seriously, call me Aslan. I hate all that formal ass-kissery unless I'm at work.”

Is this guy for real? He's like a Ken Jeong character.

“So, Tyler, you play ball?” Aslan asks, looking me over.

“Not really,” I say.

Jordyn gives me a look that clearly says “Good call.”

“Seriously, bro? You look like you could throw a ball around. What's your sport?”

“Um, I like to run,” I say.

Aslan places both hands on my biceps and begins to squeeze like there's nothing weird about this at all. I look to Jordyn, but she's doubled over, shaking violently until she finally snorts. When the others turn to see, they all start laughing too.

Patricia comes running over. “Oh, are we fondling the merchandise?” She ducks under Aslan's arms so she's between us and places her hands just beneath her husband's hands.

Holy shit. What did I get myself into?

“All right, all right. Enough o' that. Don't scare off my second-best employee.” Henry pats Aslan on the back. Aslan releases his grip on my arms, but Patricia does not. Then she makes insane eye contact until Jordyn, still laughing, grabs my wrist and pulls me away.

“I'm going to show Tyler the rest of the house.”

“I might need to start with the shower,” I say under my breath. She starts laughing again. The sound of it makes my urge to escape evaporate.

Jordyn starts the tour with her parents' room, which is on the first floor on the other side of the giant fireplace, and then she shows me the spare rooms upstairs, and finally takes me down to the basement, where her room is. I guess we're just pretending the last few days never happened.

“A fellow basement dweller,” I say, and then I see that her basement is more like a large luxury apartment. There's a full kitchen/bar, an overstuffed sofa facing a fireplace with a giant TV mounted above it, and there's a lounge area with a pool table and a dartboard next to the doors leading out back. “Um, never mind. This is nothing like any basement I've ever seen.”