For the first few minutes, there's no sound except the clink of silverware against ceramic and the soft scrape of serving spoons as we pass dishes.
Mom fills the silence with nervous chatter. “It’s been so hot lately, hasn’t it? I heard Vegas hit 110 degrees last week. Can you imagine? Though I suppose you’re used to it, coming from there—or, well, not from there originally. Where are you from, dear?”
“I mostly grew up in New York,” Jordan says, reaching for the mashed potatoes.
Mom perks up. “Mostly?”
He pauses, his smile polite. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid. My dad’s work had us bouncing from city to city—Houston, Tulsa, even a few months in Calgary once. We always circled back to New York, though. That was my home base.”
Mom tilts her head, clearly filing away every word. “That must’ve been hard. What about school?”
Across the table, I bite my lip, already knowing what he’s about to say.
“I moved schools every term for a while,” Jordan replies, his tone easy, like he’s reciting a weather report. “Sometimes I was homeschooled. Depends on where we were and how long we’d be there.”
“Oh, goodness,” Mom says, shaking her head. “That sounds... chaotic.”
Jordan shrugs. “I didn’t know any different at the time.”
“But what about your mother?” she asks gently, her brows knitting. “Surely she didn’t pack up and go with you everywhere.”
He leans back slightly. “No, she wasn’t one for moving around much. My sister was a baby back then, so she stayed in New York with her.”
“Oh, Jordan,” Mom murmurs, her voice softening. “That must’ve been so isolating. No stable home, no friends your age, no mother nearby…”
“I had my dad,” Jordan says. “And a lot of his friends. Executives, mostly. I spent a lot of time in boardrooms, tagging along to meetings.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “That’s no place for a child.”
“Mommy,” I chide gently.
Jordan smiles. “It’s okay, Bree.” He turns back to my mother. “You’re right. It wasn’t ideal. But I made the most of it. Learned early how to sit still and listen, how to read a room, how to make grown men laugh.” His voice softens. “Most of those men…they’re still in my life. Some of them feel more like family than my own blood.”
There’s a quiet moment, the air around the table shifting slightly. Mom watches him with new eyes now, like she’s seeing the boy he used to be, not just the man sitting in front of her.
By the way, Mrs. Wells," Jordan says warmly. "This is the best roast chicken I've had in years."
"Oh, it's just a family recipe," Mom demurs, but she's glowing.
"Well, it's incredible!" Jordan flashes her a grin.
Mom laughs at that, clearly charmed.
Dad, however, isn’t laughing. He hasn't spoken since we sat down, instead cuts another piece of chicken, chews slowly, then sets down his fork with a loud clink.
“So,” he says, in that deceptively mild tone I’ve come to dread, “how’s the weather up in the clouds where rich people live?”
I nearly choke on my water.
“Bobby!” Mom hisses, scandalized.
Jordan doesn’t flinch. He just smiles at my father like he’d been expecting this exact punch all night.
“Pretty similar to down here, sir. Just with more paperwork.”
I press my lips together to hide my smile.
Dad narrows his eyes. “Speaking of paperwork. What exactly do you do at the plant? Beyond meeting with the unionists and the big wigs. I’ve never seen you on the floor.”
