"Do you think you'll ever go back and visit them?"
He nods. "I'm planning a trip there next spring. I'll probably hit up France and Morocco again when I go."
"Wow, you really do travel a lot."
Ian smiles at me. "I hope to travel all my life. Live in different countries. Learn more languages. Someday, I want to bring my family to all the places I've been." He squints up at the sun before digging into his pack for a pair of sunglasses.
For a moment, I allow myself to daydream what it would be like to have a future with Ian, living in all these places with our kids. It seems romantic and exciting, igniting a spark within me. I want to see what Ian has seen. I want to experience different cultures and people.
But when I imagine myself with kids in all these places, I see a little boy with Jordan's golden-brown eyes and a girl with Jordan's wavy blond hair. Then Ian vanishes from my daydream, leaving Jordan in his place, and we are not someplace exotic and new. We're in his mom's backyard, and the happiness that fills me in this one simple moment is more powerful than the idea of visiting the farthest reaches of the earth. In that vision, I’m happy where I am, right beside Jordan.
I snap myself out of my fictional future and, instead, focus my thoughts back on Ian. He's intelligent, thoughtful, and well-traveled. He's the whole package. I just need to readjust my expectations. We do this in advertising all the time. We dream big, but in the end, we always go with something more toned down. Realistic. And guess what? We still create amazing campaigns even if the end result is different from the original idea.
I'm in the middle of reimagining a future with Ian when two hikers join us on the large rocky summit. They laugh, capturing my attention. The couple crouches down to take a kissing selfie, but when their lips meet, they end up shocking each other and pulling away.
I chuckle softly as an idea forms. "If there was a perfect song for that couple right now, what would it be?"
Ian follows my gaze to the couple as they readjust for another goofy kissing picture. He shrugs. "I don't know." He blows out his cheeks and furrows his eyebrows in thought. "‘Kiss Me’?"
"By Sixpence None the Richer?"
"Uh, I think," Ian says.
I pull out my phone, scroll through my downloaded music, and find the song "Kiss Me." I turn the volume up, and though it isn't very loud when you add in the wind and chirping birds, it will do. A wave of excitement bursts through me as I watch the couple to see their reaction.
"What are you doing?" Ian stares at me, a look of horror in his eyes. "They'll hear."
"Maybe they'd love it," I say, thinking of the many times Jordan and I have done this and witnessed sweet moments. I smile, feeling a surge of spontaneity rise within me, but when I glance at Ian again, the look in his eyes is unmistakable. He's embarrassed.
"They probably won't even know it's for them," I say, trying to backtrack, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I tap on my phone, stopping the music.
Ian's shoulders instantly relax. "I just don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable."
I feel like a little girl who's been scolded by her teacher.
Ian must notice because he reaches out and puts a hand on my knee. "I'll tell you what. How about I come over to your house next week, and I'll bring my guitar? I can play you some of the songs I learned overseas."
"That sounds great,” I say before angling my head toward the wind, trying to stave off the red splotching my cheeks.
We both glance around awkwardly until we settle on the view. Eventually, Ian's shoe taps against mine, and he smiles at me. "Do you remember when we found that old tire swing by the library? I wonder if it's still there."
I do remember that swing. After we found it, we went to that swing every time we visited the library, and Ian would push me on it as I read my newest book. But instead of wistful feelings or a wave of nostalgia, I feel something more dense inside as I piece together a new pattern of Ian's. Every time something between us falls flat—a conversation, a joke, a gesture—he brings up memories of our past relationship as if that shared history is a local anesthetic that can dull the differences that seven years apart have created.
It makes me wonder if he's holding onto the hope of the old us as much as I am.
Chapter 18
JORDAN
I’m standing on Paige’s porch with a honey blaze nectarine in my hand. The same nectarine I found rolling around loose in my car after our grocery run two nights ago. It’s been almost two weeks since the rafting trip, and since then, I’ve seen Paige a total of two times—once last Tuesday when our friend group got together for a Fourth of July barbeque and once this Tuesday for a grocery run. I can feel the distance between us stretching like a rubber band that’s about to snap. I need to see her. So here I am with a nectarine as an excuse.
I put my car keys in my gray shorts and am lifting my hand to knock on the door when I hear the strums of a guitar float through the open porch window. Dipping my head, I peerthrough the window screen, curious to see who’s playing, only to find Ian bent over a guitar as Paige sits across from him on the couch. I slide away from the window and contemplate leaving.
Moments later, I back off the porch, knowing I had promised Paige space with Ian. I barely reach the bottom step when the door swings open and Ji pops out.
“Oh, it’s just Jordan,” Ji calls inside.
Yep, that’s me, ladies and gentlemen, Just Jordan.
