So, let me give you a little background here.

My name is Jillian Jordan and I’ve been disdainfully dubbed a free spirit by my parents.

Hi, Jillian.

I’ve always felt it necessary to link that description to some kind of twelve-step group, maybe Clutterers Anonymous—yes, there is such a group—because growing up, I found that people in my parents’ world didn’t understand free spiritedness, otherwise known as nefarious nonconformity, all that well. To my parents, there was a right way to do things…then there was the Jillian way.

Let me give you an idea of what I’m talking about.

At thirteen, I was banished from sleepovers, Constance Kensington’s at her family’s lush estate in the Hamptons being my last because my ghost stories had scared the bajeebus out of all the girls; subsequently, over the next six months, their parents had had to hire nannies to sleep in their rooms at night. Whoops.

I also had different ideas of fun than the average teenage girl. I hated shopping, the movie theater was a no-go unless it was the Film Forum that only showed classic, indie and foreign films, and the club scene was ridiculous. While my friends were coaxing me to do these things with them, I’d beg off to stay home and read, enter into a good debate online, binge watch episodes of I Love Lucy, Scandal or The Tudors, or be out picketing for a good cause. So, yeah, I wasn’t that far out, but I wasn’t what my parents and definitely my older sister Laurel called a “normal” teen.

I didn’t become this way on purpose. Believe me, it would’ve been so much easier to be like Laurel or the giddy, boy-crazy girls with whom I’d attended private schools my whole life. But that just wasn’t me. I mean, unlike Laurel, if I liked a boy, it wasn’t because of the size of his trust fund. It was the size of his intelligence, how interesting he was and if he could challenge me to think.

Another major thing that differed between Laurel and me was that any time she had a boyfriend, she’d change to suit him, and that scared me. I didn’t want to be that way. I knew there was compromising in any relationship, but I’d had one serious boyfriend my junior year in high school and when I’d felt as if he’d tried making me change—you know, little gradual things like only going to movies he wanted to see, or wanting me to show up at all his extracurricular school events when he only came to a few of mine, or telling me that if we got married, I wouldn’t work but stay home and take care of the kids like his mom did—I was outta there like a flash. Since him, I’d only dated casually, not wanting to get to that point again. Ever.

At fifteen, I had a goldfish named Leonardo DiCaprio—Leo’s an environmentalist, folks, the man not the goldfish—a cactus named Winston Churchill, I liked Adam Sandler movies and I thought brussels sprouts were the bomb.

To wrap up this all-about-me jam session (and prove once again that I was an outcast in my parents’ world), I found absolutely no fun or excitement in sitting still for hours at a time while an artist painted our family portrait (take a picture and paint it from that, jeez), attending charm school classes (a real lady will cross her legs at the ankles and sit up straight at all times!) or coming out at a debutante ball, all to the disappointment and vexation of my family.

My mom—disapprovingly—has always said that I dance to my own tune and have done so starting with being born a month early. She’s stated to her friends—disdainfully—that I hit the ground running from the moment I took my first breath, and with no regard to proper etiquette, never looked back.

Clearly, my parents and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on very many things. So needing the freedom to become who I truly was (and get away from the etiquette coach Mom had hired full-time in a last-ditch attempt to Eliza Doolittle me), after high school, I’d packed up my Prius, Leonardo DiCaprio (who’d sadly died en route) and all my belongings and moved clear across the country to attend the University of Washington in Seattle, getting as far away from the penthouse apartment in New York City where I’d grown up. And although I used the money my parents had put aside for me to attend college (as Laurel had), I didn’t feel as if it spoiled my quest to make it on my own since I meant to pay them back every penny someday. I worked at Vinyl Impressions, a vintage record store, shared an apartment with two guys, one of whom was my second cousin, one time removed, and was basically on my own.

And I loved it.

I still phoned my parents monthly and usually visited over the holidays, but when they’d start in on why couldn’t I be more like my sister and move back home and date So-and-So-Uppity-Surname-the-Third who, according to them, had just been hired by his father’s firm and would remain exceedingly rich forever and ever and who was fabulous fiancé material, and if I only married him, I wouldn’t have to work another day for the rest of my life because no Jordan should be living the indigent life I was because I deserved to have all the amenities that came with being wealthy—deeeeep breath—I’d find an excuse to hang up or fly back to Seattle and resume what I thought was not in any way a destitute life at all.

I thought it was a good damned thing I’d watched Lorelai Gilmore handle her parents or I might have caved to their demands. Riiiiight.

And that all was pretty much me in a nutshell. Moving on.

The next time I saw Zane Powers happened to be my senior year in college where I was living in squalor (eye roll).

It was a Friday evening in December and Izzy and I sat on the ground, our backs against an old oak tree where we were not only chained but handcuffed—you know, go big or go home and all—in protest of the tree being cut down to make way for a strip mall that was to be built on the property. There’d been about thirty of us to start, signs and all—"Why don’t you make like a tree and get out of here?” being my personal favorite…jussst kidding—but since it was an unusually cold night, all the other picketers had wussed out and gone home.

Izzy and I were the only ones left.

And we were dumbasses.

We would’ve gone home too but we couldn’t, seeing as we were cuffed to a chain that was wrapped around the tree. Go us!

“W-we’re s-saved, J-Jilly B-Bean,” I heard Izzy whisper through chattering teeth.

“W-we are? H-how? D-id Ch-Chet c-come b-back?” I stuttered, kind of seeing my breath in front of me in puffs of white, my normally fashionable cat-eye glasses having fogged over so I couldn’t see a damned thing.

“It’s the p-police.”

“Um. Y-yay?”

I assumed the officers got out of the cruiser since I heard car doors shut, and as they walked toward us, one shined his flashlight in my face making me wince and turn away.

“Ladies. Great night for a sit-in, isn’t it?” Cop One quipped as he approached.

As the blob of a cop—I couldn’t see!—stood in front of us, his light still annoyingly in my face, the stubborn side of me came out and I muttered, “At l-least it’s n-not s-snowing.”

And right on cue, it started snowing.

Great.

I heard him snort before telling his partner to use his keys to unlock us.

“Can you turn a little?” Cop Two asked somewhat shyly, his demeanor telling me right away he had to be a rookie.

I turned to give him access to my wrists behind me pondering the predicament Izzy and I were in.

Stupid Chet. He was my roommate and cousin and the organizer of the protest, he was of most of them, actually, but he had a reason behind his actions. His dad had been a logger and while felling a tree one day, a limb had been dislodged from above and fallen on him, striking his head and killing him instantly. Chet had only been a month old at the time. But according to my mom, Chet’s love of protests was idiotic—she was slyly speaking about me too, I knew—because first of all, she said he was basically a bastard since he was the product of a one-night stand his mother had had during her “wild period.” Secondly, Mom said the father had never seen Chet, that they didn’t even know if it’d actually been the logger (paternity was up for grabs among a total of five men), so she didn’t understand Chet’s passion for the environment.  Anyway, however it came about, I didn’t care; I wanted to save the earth, and having Chet organize everything gave me an “in” as to when and where I could show my support for the environment, which was a plus.

So back to how stupid Chet was. He’d thrown a chain around the tree asking—ever so enthusiastically—who wanted to prove their loyalty to the cause. Izzy and I had eagerly volunteered, pushing our way through the crowd to plop right down on the ground in front of the oak. Chet had then made a pass with the heavy chain once more around the tree and across our stomachs before instructing us to put our hands behind our backs where he locked our wrists in cuffs that’d been linked through the chain, all to the cheers of the crowd, which had felt awesome.

Then the crowd had become not so crowd-y as a few here and there took off, shooting us apologetic looks as they walked away, hands cupped to their mouths as they blew hot air inside them. When Chet was the last one standing, he suddenly remembered he had a meeting but told us, fist in the air, to “Represent the Cause!” and he left.

We’d yelled, “Hell yes!” with neither Izzy nor I having thought far enough ahead to ascertain the fact that we couldn’t reach our phones in our pockets to call someone for help if need be.

Again, go us!

Okay, I can chalk up our unforeseen predicament to the fact that we’d both had six beers along with two tequila shots in the hour and a half we’d spent at O’Leary’s Sports Bar and Grill across the street—we’d been celebrating our semester finals being finished—before heading here to protest. And as the others left, we’d still been full of drunken bravado telling the crowd we’d stay until the mall construction crew showed up, by golly!

Even though we later realized it was Friday.

And the crew probably wouldn’t be there until Monday.

Unless it snowed.

Then it might be Tuesday.

Or whichever day the snow started clearing up.

Great thought-out plan, eh?

And who could’ve predicted that everyone would leave and we’d be stranded.

Or that alcohol does not ward off the cold.

Or make you smart.

Jeez.

“Ow!” I cried out since Rookie Cop was having trouble trying to release me and was pushing my body all cattywampus to get to the cuffs making it feel like he was going to pop my shoulder out of socket.

Cop One moved to the side and directed his flashlight behind me for his partner to see.

“How’d you f-find us?” I asked.

Cop One possibly looked down at me and answered, “Gotta call from O’Leary’s saying a couple of idiots were chained to a tree across the street.”

Well then. I gave him my best insolent look to let him know I was annoyed, which only got me a snort because I was sure I looked ridiculous. When my hands were finally free, I turned my head and stated to the rookie cop, “Th-thank you,” pulling my hands in front of me and shrugging my shoulders to get some blood running through them as I massaged my wrists with my gloved fingers before removing my glasses to wipe them clear.

Rookie Cop immediately narrowed his eyes looking all suspicious at me and I frowned.

“What?” I asked, putting my glasses back on.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked, and I instinctively clamped my mouth shut.

“L-little h-help here,” Izzy called, still chained and cuffed.

I couldn’t really see Rookie’s face too clearly through my now-smudged specs, but I was pretty sure he was giving me a scowly glare before he moved to unlock Izzy.

While he worked at freeing her, he turned back to me, his demeanor suddenly changing from Rookie Cop to Robocop, upholder of all laws, great and small. “I’ll ask again. Have you been drinking?”

I looked up at Cop One, who I thought seemed amused by what was going on, and replied, shivering, “Well, yeah. We were at O’Leary’s and had a couple beers before coming here.” So I somewhat fudged the truth. Whatever. I mean, we weren’t drunk anymore anyway because I was sure the alcohol had frozen in our veins. Robocop had by then freed Izzy and stood so she and I did the same, letting the chain drop to the ground at our feet with a loud clank. Seeing how Izzy was now pre-law and had told me some things, of course, I just couldn’t let it go. “It’s not illegal to be drunk in Washington unless you’re on public transportation or causing problems.”

Jerking back his head, Robocop replied mockingly, “Is that so? Well, I’d say being on private property is causing a problem. So how about we call the owner to see if he wants to press trespassing charges?”

“JB!” Izzy hissed and I shut up.

“You have a vehicle nearby?” Cop One asked.

“Yes,” I stated but Izzy spoke at the same time, “No! We’re going to call some friends to pick us up.”

Ah. Smart girl. Cop One, who I noticed was very tall and very in shape, was trying to get us for driving drunk.

“Yeah. We’re calling friends,” I seconded what Izzy had said.

“Don’t let us catch you out here again,” Robocop warned.

Thank God they were letting us go. As my parents somehow knew everything that went on with me—I suspected Chet had something to do with this although he’d sworn he didn’t—it meant I wouldn’t be getting a reprimanding phone call which was a huge plus.

“We won’t, Officer?” Izzy asked Robo.

“Pope,” he answered.

She then looked at Cop One. “And?”

“Powers.”

Ever breathed in so sharply you started choking? That was me right then. Izzy popped me on the back a couple times with her palm to help me out as I looked up at the policeman. Surely, he wasn’t Zane Powers. Not my Zane Powers.

“Zane?” Izzy asked.

“That’d be me,” he responded and I sucked in another breath, almost strangling myself again.

Okay, look. Although I’d forgotten about him, I still remembered what we’d done because, damn. When you’ve had the best sex of your life that you tend to compare all other sexual encounters to, well, if you run into that person again, you’re bound to be a little out of sorts, right? Therefore, I was definitely, to say the least, thrown off.

“I’m Isabel, Izzy, Smith! I dated Kaleb Harris!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah? I think I remember you,” he stated, looking as if he were trying to recall her.

As they talked, I took off my glasses and cleaned them with a cocktail napkin I remembered I’d stuck in my coat pocket. Then putting them back on, I looked up and saw it was him. And he was even more handsome than I remembered. And in a uniform. Wow. Then I realized they’d stopped talking and were both looking at me.

“What?” I asked looking from Izzy to him then back.

“You’re Jillian,” he said, voice low, making me turn to look up at him.

He shot the flashlight at my face again making me hold my hand up to shield it as I squinted my eyes.

“Uh, yeah. I am. Could you, um, move the light, please?”

He moved it down and I watched his face go hard, even cold, as he stared at me. This went on for what seemed like forever and I shifted on my feet uncomfortably, guessing his memory of our encounter wasn’t quite as fond as mine was.

To break the lull, I shared, “Did you know that the British call flashlights torches?” More silence. “And, really, in most English-speaking countries other than the U.S. it’s called a torch.” I nodded slowly not knowing what else to add.

Thankfully, “Attention all units, possible one-twenty-five on Ninety Blanchard street,” came from somewhere.

His eyes on mine the whole time, I watched Zane lean his head to the left where a walkie-talkie mic was attached at his shoulder on which he pushed a button and answered, “Dispatch, Unit Nine responding.”

“Be advised suspect is armed and on foot.”

“Copy that.” He finally looked away from me and jerked his head in the direction of their vehicle at his partner.

“Don’t let us catch you out here again, ladies,” Robo warned before turning to go.

I rolled my eyes because, darn, I really wanted to do it all over, especially now that it was beyond freezing cold and I could watch it snow. I turned to Izzy and caught her rolling hers too before I looked back at Zane whose dark look was on me once again as he got into the patrol car. Then lights flashing, they drove away.

“I can’t believe it was him,” I mumbled.

“You should totally hit that again,” she said with a giggle. “If I wasn’t with Corey, I would.”

The pang of jealousy I felt at thinking of her with him took me totally by surprise. To show my emotions who was boss here, I concurred, “Go for it,” before I started walking back to O’Leary’s to get my car.