Chapter Twelve - Jordan
“What’s the deal with you two, anyway?”
I’m sitting with Chella at the courthouse coffee shop, grabbing a coffee because she just happened to be here at eight-thirty AM and I had no good excuse to blow her off since I don’t need to be in court for another thirty minutes.
I take a sip of my coffee, all casual and shit, and reply, “What’s the deal with you and your mom?”
Chella’s reaction and recovery happen almost simultaneously, but she manages to keep that smile on her face. “She’s dead. You know that.”
“Yeah, and you know that whatever the deal is with Ix and me, it’s none of your business.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I asked Smith about you.”
“Smith doesn’t even know me.”
“Bric does.”
“Bric knows me now. But what you’re asking is who was I back then? And Bric didn’t know me then either. Don’t bother with Quin. He’s got no clue.”
“So you’re proud of this secret past you’re keeping from me?”
“It’s not a fucking secret, Chella. It’s just none of your business. Don’t you have to be at work or something?”
“You had sex with him, didn’t you?”
I sigh. Roll my eyes.
“Oh, my God,” she says, lowering her voice. “Wow. He’s fucking hot, Jordan. I salute you.”
“Shut up. It wasn’t even like that. It was like… the stuff I did with Bric. Or Quin. Club stuff.”
“OK,” Chella says. “So who was the girl?”
“Why do you care?”
Chella shrugs. “I just… I just think he looks sad, don’t you? I mean, I’ve seen it before. Sadness and I are well acquainted and he definitely looks sad. Is that why you’re helping him?”
“I’m not helping him. I’m not doing anything. He’s just a fucking guy who can run some fucking cameras.”
“And keep his mouth shut.”
I glare at her.
“What? It’s obvious that whatever you’re doing with Lucinda is on the down low, right?” The ding of Chella’s phone saves me from answering. “That’s Smith,” she says, checking her text. “He’s done with his little permit thing.”
I scoff. “So you really were here for business.”
“I told you I was, Mr. Wells,” she says, standing up. “Come to my tea party next month. It’s on Valentine’s Day. Ixion’s coming.”
“He is not.”
“I invited him. So he’s coming.” Chella is the only woman I know who seems to think she controls the universe. Like she has it on a leash. Like her request is a done deal.
And it’s kinda true. Chella is pure. Sweet, considerate, loyal, and honest. I’m sure she has vices, but I’ve never seen them. So it’s like… everyone goes out of their way to make her happy. If she invites you to something, you go. Because it makes her happy. If she asks for something, you give it to her. Just to make her happy.
Chella deserves happiness and the whole world knows this.
She leans down to kiss me on the cheek, and in doing so, whispers, “I just worry about you, Jordan. You’re adrift. Don’t float too far away from us.”
I stare at her as she straightens up. Exhale. Loudly.
“So Valentine’s Day?” she says, hiking her purse strap onto her shoulder.
“No,” I say, holding fast.
“Three o’clock. Don’t be late. Ixion can be your date.”
She leaves before I can say anything to that last remark.
But in her wake she leaves something behind too. An air thick with the memories of past regrets. And yes, sadness.
It’s not like we planned it. Not at all. What happened… just happened. It was almost a natural progression of things. An inevitable conclusion.
“Shall we go up to my place?”
Her question lingers in my head like the terror you feel waking up from a too-real nightmare. Her voice is clear, like she’s standing here next to me, her intent obvious. The promise of something coming evident.
I should’ve said no.
None of this would’ve happened if I had just said no.
But Augustine had me from the first time Ixion introduced her. “My Augustine,” he joked.
His.
His Augustine.
And where is she now?
God, that’s the problem, isn’t it?
And I’m sick. Fucking stuck on a girl who walked out seven years ago. And she didn’t just walk out. She stormed out. Like a raging fucking wind. Upending lives in the process. Friendships severed. Love lost.
And then that was it.
I didn’t plan what happened. And I didn’t ask Ix for the favor.
Which is the part that makes me feel so shitty. I didn’t need to ask. He gave, just like Chella. He knew what I wanted, what needed to happen, and he gave it to me like a gift. With no expectations of receiving something in return. And I was selfish, because I accepted his gift and gave nothing back in return.
I should’ve said no. At least I wouldn’t have lost both of them. Augustine was already on her way out. Ixion was never leaving.
At least, not until I fucked everything up. We’d still be friends today if I had just owned up to what I did. If I hadn’t let him take the fall for me instead. If I hadn’t ruined his life, and his family, and his future.
Ixion picks up on the third ring, just before it goes to voicemail. “What?” he asks, irritated. Like he’s a mind-reader and he knows what I was just thinking about.
“You know, I meant it when I said I was sorry.”
“When did you say you were sorry?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“No, I’m really asking.”
“Couple weeks ago, asshole. When you were in my office.”
“Oh, that?” Ix laughs. “That’s your idea of an apology?”
“Why are you here?”
“You called me here, remember?”
“But why did you come?”
“You know why,” he says.
“Because—”
“What the fuck do you want from me now, Jordan? Huh? What more do I need to give you that I haven’t already?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You know—”
“I don’t know shit. I don’t know you, I don’t know her, and I don’t care, either.”
“Liar,” I say. “Liar.”
“Is this girl a gift or something?”
“What?” His question is so inappropriate, so unexpected, I am at a loss for words.
“This job, Jordan. Is this some kind of gift?”
“No,” I say. “No, it’s just a fucking job.”
“And you couldn’t find another guy to sit in this stupid room and watch her? It just had to be me, right? Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
“It’s just a job,” I say again.
“Is that why I’m here on the anniversary?”
“What?”
“The night you—”
“Stop it,” I say. “That’s not why. I didn’t choose this timing. I’m just a guy who fulfills a need. That’s all.”
“Yeah. Sounds familiar.”
“Ix.” I sigh.
“Coincidence, then. That seven years ago tomorrow is the day you fucked up and ruined my life.”
“I didn’t—” I pinch the space between my eyes, a headache throbbing into existence. “Why are you here?” I ask again.
He takes a breath. Like he’s about to talk. But the moments drag on in silence.
“Ix?” I say.
“For you, asshole. Why the fuck do you think I’m here?”
And then he hangs up on me.