We were walking down the row of stores when my mom saw a handsome forty-something man.
“Hi, Jordan!”
They greeted each other like old friends, and I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.
Now, where did this come from?
“This is my daughter.”
“Hi, June! It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jordan.” The man shook my hand firmly.
I gazed at him for a few seconds, just enough time to notice his height and well-built physique.
He was athletic with blond hair streaked with some gray and broad shoulders accentuated by his freshly pressed shirt. I said hi back and then went back to check out the window displays while they discussed paintings.
I often wondered why I found art to be such a boring form of self-expression. The paintings my mom loved so much in the galleries she dragged me to never did anything for me. Maybe I didn’t have the right eye for it, or maybe people could say the same about my passion for TV. I loved to write, too, but nothing compared to binge-watchingEuphoriaandGossip Girlreruns. I felt like I was born to do that. Suddenly my mom’s shrill voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
“See you at dinner next week. Talk to you soon, Jordan.”
They didn’t touch each other, but they gave each other a smile that was more than telling.
“Is he the guy who asked you out on a date?”
My mom wrinkled her nose before fixing her long blond hair. She’d gone out after an intense day in her studio, and it showed. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and she was less put together than usual, but she still looked beautiful. She shot an inquisitive look at the window displays, as if she was trying to see her reflection. She was dying to know what she’d looked like in front of that guy.
“I told you, it’s not a date. He wants to see my work.” Her work. Sure. So that’s what forty-somethings were calling it now.
She started speed walking toward the exit, and I dawdled behind her.
“Can’t he come to our house? Can’t he visit you in your studio? Do you guys have to go to dinner?”
“June, I understand that you’re not an expert in this area, but the exhibit definitely won’t be in a house. It’ll take place at a major art gallery.”
“They always take place there,” I argued.
“That’s why we want to meet in person to discuss the details. I want to show him a few digital examples of my work, and—”
“Sure, of course. And tell me, is this dinner you scheduled candlelit? In that case, am I gonna be the only third wheel?”
“Try not to be a smart aleck, we’re not gonna be alone. He has a son. Actually, he’s got two. That’s why I want you to come. It won’t be romantic at all.”
“No chance.”
My mom shook her head in disappointment. She was used to “my teenage moodiness.”
“The more you grow up, the more you whine.”
We were walking through the mall’s sliding door to the dark parking lot when two familiar figures caught my eye. I recognized one of them by his tall, athletic frame. He was wearing a red letterman’s jacket with a large logo on the back. It was the same jacket that I’d seen Jackson wear. I tried to avert my gaze, but my curiosity got the best of me. Jackson was hugging another guy. Up to this point, that was nothing out of the ordinary. But what caught my eye was the way they were clinging to one another. My mom was already in the car and looking at me impatiently. I lingered with the car door open. The second guy was smaller, and his face seemed to be buried in the blond’s chest. I didn’t recognize him. I could only make out one detail: a gray wool cap.
No. It couldn’t be Blaze.
8
June
It was Amelia. As it so often happened, that Saturday I was about to pass out on top of my physics books. It wasn’t because I was tired; the subject just bored me to death. Suddenly, I pulled my nose out of the pages and saw my phone screen light up.
Amelia:Are you going to the game tonight?
