Squeaking in protest, I wiggle and stretch my arm toward the cake. I’m just seconds away from giving Jordan his very own frosting makeover when I hear my mom call to us.
“Hey, kids,” she says, “let’s get a picture of just the two of you before everyone arrives.”
“Sure,” I say before twisting back toward Jordan and smearing my frosting-covered cheek on his dark-blue button-down shirt. Then I smile innocently up at him. “Now we match.”
A familiar twinkle lights his eyes, and I know we’re about to embark on a frosting war to end all frosting wars when his mom asks, “Will you two ceasefire long enough to smile?”
Jordan laughs and spins me around by the shoulders to face our moms, who are poised with their phones. Unexpectedly, he wraps both his arms around my middle, resting his chin on my shoulder.
Our parents snap pictures, and I don’t think my smile could be any wider. My mom looks over at Mrs. Miller, and they exchange a loaded look. A this-will-be-in-their-wedding-slideshow look.
My stomach erupts into butterflies. That knowing look, combined with the way Jordan’s arms stay wrapped snugly around my waist even after the posing is over, gives me renewed confidence that he’s feeling what I feel.
The two of us hug occasionally. We fist-bump, we high-five, and I slap his shoulder when he’s being naughty. But that’s it. However, today, his physical affection seems on a different level. It’s as if he needs something stable, and I’m the only thing grounding him. So I let the moment take hold of me and place my hands over his where they are clasped around my stomach. He doesn’t pull away, and my whole body lights on fire. I let it fuel me for the moment I know is coming.
“You want to hammock?” he asks, letting go of my waist and tugging gently on one of my dark-brown curls. I hum my assent and follow him farther into his backyard, where a hammock is wedged in a semi-secluded patch of trees. We collapse into it sideways, letting our legs dangle off the edge. The hammock’s gravity pulls us together until our arms and legs are flush against each other.
Have I mentioned how much I love hammocks?
Jordan turns his head to look at me, our faces just inches apart, and he sighs. “We did it.”
I nod. “We did it.”
“What was that, Devons?”
“We did it!” I say louder.
“Who did what?”
“We graduated!” I yell, raising my hands above my head. A new buzz of excitement fills my body, the kind I always get around Jordan.
“One more week, Paige. Then it’s miles and miles of beach,” he says.
Kicking my legs out, I make the hammock bounce. I’ve imagined many things about college in California, but nothing more so than the beach. I’ve never been to the beach. Okay, I’ve been to the beach before—once, when I was four. I think the only reason I remember that trip is because my parents got it on film, and my subconscious has absorbed that as actual memory. But now, I’ll be able to feel my feet sinking into sand, watch the sunset cast a painting’s worth of pastels across the waves, and tan this glow-in-the-dark-pale skin of mine. And best of all, Jordan’s going to teach me how to surf.
Yeah, I’ve daydreamed that experience a hundred different times, and all of them end in pure bliss.
“So, I looked at your class schedule, and two-thirty on Tuesday afternoon is basically your only free slot,” he says. “You’re takinga ton of classes, Paige. But you have a stretching class. I’m pretty jealous about that. And pottery. I thought you gave up on pottery after Mrs. Truman marked your teacup down for looking like an ashtray?”
I scrunch my eyebrows. It’s not like Jordan to ramble. “Okay, we’ll call each other every Tuesday at two-thirty. Wait, does that work with your class schedule? Where is it, by the way? You still haven’t given it to me yet.” I eye him. We still have to figure out who’s driving to whose college campus on what weekends.
He ignores my questions. “Tuesdays at two-thirty are mine, Paige. Don’t let anyone take them.” His smile is soft, and his eyes are pleading, and then his hand finds mine, and he squeezes it as if that touch could convey a thousand words.
The adrenaline of having his hand folded around mine shifts my brain into high gear, and before I know it, I’m spewing the words that have taken me almost two years to say. “I love you, Jordan.”
He smiles. “I love you, too.” He says it too casually, and I know I have no choice but to clarify. I’ve come this far.
“No. I mean… I’ve fallen in love with you.”
In a moment that feels like two seconds and two years simultaneously, Jordan releases my hand. His eyes flash with so many emotions that I think the Buckingham Palace guards might be easier to read.
He gets up, leaving me rocking on the hammock. My heart pounds.
His hands fidget, touching his collar, his sleeve, his hair, as he avoids my gaze entirely.
I wait through the agonizing moments, thinking that he’s going to open his mouth any second and end my misery when our friends Colton and Miles pull into Jordan’s driveway. Colton parks the car, and Miles is hanging out of the window on thepassenger side, pumping his fist to the music blaring from the car speakers.
Jordan looks at them, then he finally meets my eyes. “I’ve… I’ve gotta go.” His expression is grim as he backs away, heading out of the cluster of trees, then jogs to the driveway. Miles and Colton pummel Jordan in bro hugs, and then the three of them disappear into the house.
