Or maybe just tired acceptance.
A woman in loose, swishy pants comes barreling toward us, a clipboard hugged to her chest like body armor. When her eyes land on Jordan’s speaker badge, she lights up in relief.
“Oh my god, we’re so glad you made it! We were getting worried.” She gives Jordan a once-over, taking in the severe, elegant black dress. A world away from the patchouli haze and yoga pants everywhere else. “Are you nervous? First time at a big conference? Do you need to change?”
“No.” Jordan doesn’t elaborate. Just offers a straightforward, unapologetic answer without any attempt to explain or reassure.
The woman blinks, thrown off for a beat by the lack of nerves, but she rallies fast. “Okay! Follow me. You’re in 3A.” She spins, slicing her way through the crowd without looking back.
We follow a few paces behind. As we walk, I glance at Jordan’s profile. The length of her neck, the perfect line of her jaw. Every stride has a kind of careful balance, old-school refinement under calm confidence. It’s like she was trained to walk, step by step, until the movements lodged deep in her bones.
These are ingrained manners, passed down to her from childhood.
They clash with the bohemian wild-child persona she presents online.
Part of me starts to wonder when the swap happened.
“You’re really not nervous?” I keep my voice low. No sense in making it easy for eavesdroppers. “Not even a little?”
She moves forward, smooth and centered, her eyes locked ahead.
“I lived under a bridge when I was sixteen.” Nothing melodramatic. Just facts. “Learned the bakery on Mill Street dumps the day-old bagels on top of the garbage heap and that superglue will keep some wounds closed. You would not believe the things I’ve seen.”
My own stride falters.
I never saw that in any of my files on her. Nothing about living rough or under a bridge.
After her father died, I assumed she lived with her mother.
Not sleeping under concrete, scavenging bagels, and bleeding alone with only glue for medical care.
She glances back at me, her gaze calm and unguarded. No mysticism, no show, just the hard clarity of someone who’s endured worse than this. “So yeah, maybe I’m always running on grapefruit and stubborn hope, but I don’t scare easy.” Her iron-steady eyes lock on mine. “Except with you.”
I’m not sure she meant to say that out loud.
Before I can really register the confession, though, she lets a small smile slip. Crooked, sly, and dipping deep enough to emphasize a dimple I’d never noticed before.
Not a happy smile.
That’s the expression of a survivor who’s stared into the dark and learned not to blink.
I can’t stop staring.
The woman in front of me—the dress, the smile, the persona—is fucking beautiful.
The reality of her past collides with my first impression of her. As well as my second impression of her hiding in the park and escaping in a cab without calling the cops. Add in this dimple, and I can’t help but wonder…
Who is Jordan Thorne?
What did she survive to become this?
I’ve been using her as a means to an end. Viewing her as a problem to solve.
But I’ve never gotten to know her. Not really.
An ache deeper than pain twists my gut. Guilt, probably.
I’ve never experienced this before.
