What it is, is shitty. I understand what it’s like to feel like an outcast. Ignored and ridiculed. Chase may deserve Jordan’s ire, but not the hatred of an entire town. Chase sleeping with my sister has nothing to do with them. He didn’t hurt them with what he did. People really do need to learn to mind their own damn business.
We pause at a pedestrian crosswalk and wait for a truck to pass.
“Oh, I do have some good news I haven’t told you. You’re looking at the new bartender at Mickey’s. Were you able to find a temp?”
“Congratulations, and yes, I did. Speaking of Mickey’s, the day before I ran into you at the gas station, I’d actually dropped by there to talk to Mike.”
We cross the street, heading toward the small park in the town square. There is a scattering of parents with their kids running around or kicking a ball. One dad is trying valiantly to run as fast as he can to get a kite up in the air while his son holds the string attached to it. When he lets go, the boy is so excited to see the kite fly that he forgets to hold on to the tether. The red kite hovers for a second, gliding on an updraft of wind, before it takes a nosedive to the ground.
“How did that go?”
“He listened to what I had to say, so I call it a win. I had hoped he would reach out or something, maybe want to talk more.”
Finding a park bench, we sit down. He opens the paper bag and hands me my muffin and a napkin. I set my coffee on the ground at my feet, so that I can use two hands to eat. The Java Bean does not skimp when it comes to portion sizes; the muffin is huge.
Picking at it, I inquire, “Are you going to try and talk to Jordan?”
Chase takes a bite of his croissant. “I was, but he found me first.”
I look over at him. “He did?”
Jordan hasn’t said anything, but then again, why would he? We’re not a couple. We’re not even really friends—are we? I honestly don’t know. The situation with Jordan is confusing.
Chase sighs. “Look, I don’t want to cause any more problems. Fuck knows, I’ve caused enough already with him. But I don’t want our friendship to start off with me keeping secrets from you. I have a feeling that you won’t give me a third chance if I screw up.”
He’s right. I was reluctant to even give him a second chance.
Chase’s whiskey-brown eyes meet mine. “Jordan came by the office. At first, I thought he was there because Mike told him about our talk. He looks exactly the same as he did five years ago. God, it was good seeing him again,” Chase digresses, and I hear the emotion in the inflection of his voice. He really does miss Jordan.
I’d feel the same way if I ever lost Harper or Mason. Like a vital limb was missing.
I shoo at a bee when it gets too close to my muffin. “So why did he come see you?”
“To warn me to stay away from you. I told him no.”
What the hell, Jordan?
Part of me is fuming mad that Jordan would do such a thing. He has no right to dictate who I spend time with. Then there’s another part… the primal part that really likes hearing that Jordan threatened another man over me. The part that really likes that he was jealous.
A wayward soccer ball comes rolling our way, and luckily, I’m quick to rescue my coffee from the ground before it gets knocked over.
“Sorry!” a young boy shouts, running toward us, his father waiting several feet behind him, a smile on his face as he watches his son.
Chase picks the ball up and hands it back to the boy. “Nice kick. Better than Christiano Ronaldo.”
I have no clue who Christiano Ronaldo is, but apparently hearing Chase’s praise splits the boy’s face with the biggest, toothiest smile I have ever seen. He hollers a happy thanks as he takes the ball from Chase, then runs off to continue his game with his dad.
One day, I hope to have that. Kids to love and cherish. A family of my own. And a husband who looks at me like I hung the moon.
Chase looks on at the boy and his father with something like longing.
“Do you mind if I ask you something about Amelia?”
Just hearing her name makes the cuts on my arm sting.
Even though my yellow cardigan covers where her nails split my skin open, I still tug at the sleeve until it reaches mid-hand.
“Go for it.”
