CHAPTER 16
ALEXA
The nightclub we picked, Sidetrack, thrums with low music and conversation, the kind of atmosphere I haven’t experienced in years. I smooth down my blue dress, the tight one that hits just above my knees that I bought two years ago while shopping with Esme, thinking I’d wear it somewhere special. This is the first time it’s seen the light of day, and I try to remember the last time I felt this dressed up.
“You look amazing,” Esme says, sliding back into our booth with two Old Fashioneds. “Like, seriously amazing. I forgot you owned clothes that weren’t jeans and T-shirts.”
“Thanks.” I laugh, accepting the drink gratefully. “I think. This feels so weird, being out without Ash. I keep wanting to check my phone to make sure he’s okay.”
“He’s fine. He’s with Jordan, who clearly adores him, and they’re probably having the time of their lives eating pizza and talking about superheroes.” She settles into her seat and raises her glass. “To adult time.”
“To adult time,” I repeat, clinking my glass against hers.
The Old Fashioned is stronger than I expected, and I feel the warmth spread through my chest almost immediately. The jazz trio on stage plays something I don’t recognize but find oddly familiar, the melody weaving through the room in a way that makes me want to close my eyes and just listen. I’ve never been to a jazz club before, and I’m grateful Esme suggested it. There’s something sophisticated about the atmosphere that makes me feel like I’m stepping into a different version of myself.
“So,” Esme says, leaning forward with the expression I recognize as her interrogation face. “Tell me more about this mysterious situation with Jordan and the baby.”
I take another sip of my drink, buying time. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Alexa. You’ve been working for him for almost two weeks, and youstilldon’t know where the baby’s mother is? That’s not like you. You usually figure people out pretty quickly.”
She’s right. I am usually good at reading situations, at piecing together the details people don’t say out loud. But with Jordan, I keep hitting walls.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” I admit. “And I’m starting to worry that something’s really wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
I stare into my drink, voicing the fear that’s been growing in the back of my mind. “What if Henry’s mom is an addict? What if she’s in rehab, or worse?”
The words hang heavy between us. Esme’s expression grows serious.
“What makes you think that?”
“Jordan never talks about her. He never mentions when she’s coming back, or where she is, or why she left her six-month-old baby with someone who clearly had no experience with children.” I list the red flags I’ve been cataloging. “He disappears for hours every day without explanation. He gets phone calls that make him look devastated. And the other day, when I asked him about dating, he said, ‘The risk feels too high.’ What does that even mean?”
“It could mean a lot of things.”
“Or it could mean he’s watched his sister destroy her life with drugs, and he’s scared of getting close to anyone because he’s learned that people leave.” The theory feels more solid the more I voice it. “Just like my parents did.”
Esme reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Alexa, you don’t know that’s what’s happening.”
“But what if it is?” My voice catches slightly. “That poor baby. And Jordan, trying to hold everything together. No wonder he seems so stressed all the time.”
“Even if thatiswhat’s happening,” she says gently, “Henry has an awesome uncle who’s learning to take care of him. And he has you, helping them both figure it out. That’s not nothing.”
She’s right, but the thought of Henry growing up without his mother, of Jordan carrying that burden alone, makes my chest ache.
“I wish I could help more. But I don’t think Jordan wants me to really know him.”
“Maybe he’s not ready to let anyone help beyond what you’re already doing. Maybe he’s still figuring out how to ask for it.”
The music shifts to something more upbeat, and I try to shake off the heavy mood. This is supposed to be my night off, my chance to be an adult without responsibilities weighing on my shoulders.
“Enough about my complicated work situation,” I say, forcing a smile. “Though I should mention I’m still applying for marketing jobs. Haven’t gotten any bites yet.”
“Any prospects?”
“A few interviews here and there, but nothing concrete.” I don’t mention that part of me doesn’t want any of those jobs to pan out. Working for Jordan means I get to stay right next door, I get to spend my days with Henry, I can bring Ash with me when needed, and I get to see Jordan every day. The thought of going back to a sterile office environment, dealing with demanding clients and corporate politics, feels less appealing than it used to.
