Chapter Two

PAIGE

Ugh. Why does he say things like that? I simultaneously want to throttle him and pull his lips to mine.

I finish fiddling with my already tied shoelace, letting the flush in my cheeks fade from what I know is an unbecoming shade of pink. Then I straighten in my seat, and Jordan hands his phone to me. I absentmindedly pull up his music app just as we enter Trello Park. It takes all I have not to blast Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly with His Song” for all the world to hear—that’s my mood right now. But I won’t do that because I’m a dignified lady who’s got my life together. Insert crying-uncontrollably GIF.

“Where to?” Jordan taps his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as we stop at a fork in the road just past the park’s entrance. He looks as eager as I am to start our little game.

Even at night, Trello Park is alive with people, lights, and parties. It’s the park that never sleeps, and my chest buzzes with excitement. Old-fashioned streetlamps line the road every twenty feet, giving the park a cozy feel despite its miles of acreage.

I look both ways then settle on the path where a flag football game is being played under bright stadium lighting. I point in the direction, and Jordan lifts a brow.

I shrug. I want a challenge tonight.

We park right in front of the field full of guys who look to be in their early twenties. Jordan parks so close that I feel like if the players wick away their sweat, it will land on our windshield.

Suddenly I want to chicken out.

“What’ll it be, Devons?” he asks as if he’s got me cornered.

Here’s the thing. Jordan believes that music can enhance any moment, and if you play your cards right, a well-timed song will inevitably elicit a reaction from people, giving them the courage to do something they wouldn’t normally do without said music. We’ve been putting that theory to the test ever since Jordan moved to Pine Lakes during my junior year of high school almost seven years ago—and since then, we’ve witnessed the sweetest moments, from a first kiss to a toddler rocking out on his third birthday.

It’s my turn to start the game. I look out at the football players in front of me and try to pin down a song that feels just right for one of the guys in this group.

After I scroll through Jordan’s Spotify for several minutes, he starts humming the Jeopardy song.

“Stop,” I complain. “They keep moving around the field. It’s hard to figure out the mood of just one of them.” Just then, lightning strikes, and I know exactly what song I’m choosing.

Jordan rolls down the windows and turns the volume all the way up. Moments later, OneRepublic’s “I Ain’t Worried” blasts through the car speakers.

A couple of players stop to look at us, but a few seconds later, smiles break out across the team, and the men start pulling their T-shirts over their heads and tossing them to the sidelines.

“What is happening?” Jordan asks, staring at the sudden outbreak of shirtlessness on the field.

“I told you, you should have seen Top Gun: Maverick. If you did, you’d know this is the Miles Teller ab-shake song.”

I can tell by his disgusted face that the pieces are connecting for him.

“No man can resist showing off his muscles when this song is on.” I lean forward and cross my arms on the dash, making a show of admiring the scene before me.

Jordan slaps his hand over my eyes. “Paige, don’t look. It’s a flab show out there.”

I smile and claw at his hand. “I created this ab show. Let me see.”

Jordan and I laugh as he reverses the car and pulls out of the parking lot, rolling up the windows.

I point at him. “Admit it—I totally nailed that one.”

“I can’t believe you, Paige.” He shakes his head. “The things you’ll do.”

“Hardly. Good luck topping that.” I pass his phone back.

Jordan drives around, eventually parking in a spot where we usually find couples. And tonight, a couple is definitely there. Everyone within a five-mile radius can probably hear them—they’re in a full-blown argument.

Jordan grabs the phone too quickly, an unmistakable glint in his eye.

“Jordan, don’t do it,” I say, but his smile only grows.

The windows go down again, and Jordan fast-forwards his song to a prime location for this moment and this couple. Jordin Sparks’s song “Battlefield” blares into the night—the lyrics emphasizing over and over again why love is like a war zone.

The two stop arguing long enough to glare at Jordan with the ire of a thousand angry bees, apparently realizing the song is referring to them. The girl pulls the guy by the hand, and they trudge away as if to finish whatever heated conversation they were having in a more private place.

Jordan swipes furiously at his screen now, chuckling to himself. Seconds later, the chorus of Player’s “Baby Come Back” blares at full volume.

I sink down in my seat. “You are poking the bear, Jordan.”

The girl turns around long enough to shout a few choice words our way, but the music is so loud that we can’t hear it.

Yeah, did I mention that not everyone loves our game?

She turns around, and the couple starts running toward a nearby pavilion like they expect another snarky song to rain down on them at any moment. I wouldn’t put it past Jordan, but he’s laughing so hard he’s got tears in his eyes.

“Paige,” he manages, “please tell me that makes top ten.”

I give up on fighting my smile because as much as I hate making people angry, Jordan’s song choices were on point. I roll my eyes and laugh. “Fine, top ten.”

Jordan does a nerdy little fist pump that would’ve made anyone else look ridiculous, but of course, he just makes it look cool. Then again, when you’ve got a tall, athletic build with toned arms, a firm jawline, and a knockout smile to match, looking cool isn’t difficult.

“Lookout Point?” he asks, wiping his tears away.

“Mmm, yes, please.”

Jordan starts driving toward our favorite spot in Trello Park. We’ve passed some baseball fields and pavilions and started the incline toward Lookout Point when Jordan’s phone alarm buzzes. It must be nine o’clock—the time every night when he checks in on his mom.

Just after our senior year of high school, Jordan’s mom, Sandy—or Mrs. Miller, as I will forever call her—was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was a long, difficult battle for both Jordan and his mom, but the process brought them closer than ever. Jordan’s dad died in a small-plane crash when Jordan was three years old, and since Jordan is an only child and there was no other family nearby, he dropped everything for his mom when he found out about her diagnosis. He withdrew from Stanford to go to community college, living at home until he had the financial means to move to his own place several houses down from his mom.

Mrs. Miller is okay now—her cancer is in remission—but she’s one of the unlucky few who struggles with chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy years after treatment, which means she often experiences some form of pain in her arms or legs.

Jordan calls his mom on the car’s speaker phone, but it goes to his mom’s voicemail. He hangs up and calls again.

This time, Mrs. Miller answers. “Can’t a woman ignore a phone call every once in a while?”

“Hey, Mom. Did you take your meds tonight?”

“You mean that plastic container with cute little candies inside? I handed them out to the Girl Scouts earlier today,” she says.

Jordan’s mom is the most sarcastic person on the planet, and I love her.

“Well, did you at least get a box of Thin Mints?” Jordan asks.

“Nope, just some Caramel Delights for Paige.”

“Hi, Mrs. Miller,” I practically sing as I lean closer to the speaker.

“Hi, sweetie,” she coos.

Jordan just shakes his head.

While I hope Jordan never thinks of me as a sister, I love that his mom accepts me as a pseudo-daughter, especially since my parents no longer live in Colorado, having moved to Nevada while I was attending college in California. Mrs. Miller is my mom away from mom. Jordan always says she loves me most, but there is no way that’s true. Jordan is like the poster child for saintly sons. I’ve only seen him miss a phone call from his mom once, and if he’s not checking in on her at her house every day, he makes sure to call at night and often sends one of their neighbors over to make sure she’s okay.

“Did Candice stop by tonight?” Jordan asks.

“No,” Mrs. Miller says. “I passed her on the street earlier today and told her I didn’t need a babysitter.”

“Mom,” Jordan grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

This is about the time when I want to jump in and tell Jordan that his mom’s a grown woman and she can manage herself, but we’ve started that conversation too many times to count, and it always ends with a swift topic change or Jordan shutting down.

Even though it’s been years since Mrs. Miller’s struggle with cancer, Jordan still treats his mom like a porcelain doll, but she is one of the strongest women I know. While most people would shatter under her life experiences, she stands as tall and put-together as always. But despite her resilience, Jordan is bent on coddling her like a child. But who am I to judge when I have no idea what it feels like to watch a parent fight for their life?

I wasn’t even there. Though I kept tabs on Mrs. Miller through phone calls and texts during her treatment, I didn’t call Jordan. Not once. For four and a half years.

Yep. I, his so-called best friend, didn’t call Jordan during the most crucial time of his life. We say we’ve been best friends for nearly seven years, but for more than half of those years, I was nursing my pride away in college as he endured his greatest struggle alone. It wasn’t until I returned home six months ago that we started talking again. But despite my neglect through those years, Jordan’s never once resented me for not being there for him. He’s forgiving and gracious, and I don’t deserve his friendship, but he gives it to me regardless. The least I can give him is respect and space when it comes to his relationship with his mom.

“I was in the zone working on a new sewing project tonight,” Mrs. Miller says. “I probably wouldn’t have heard the doorbell even if Candice did come by.”

Jordan blows out a long breath, and his light mood from earlier dissipates. “How are your hands feeling today?”

“Hands, are you okay?” she asks dryly. After a pause, she says, “Yes, they say they’re okay. They love you, too, Jordan. Now stop worrying about them. Goodnight.”

Jordan parks the car. “Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Miller!” I chime in.

“See you soon, sweetie,” she says before ending the call.

Jordan leans his head against the headrest, and a bit of dark-blond hair falls onto his forehead. I want to brush it away, squeeze his hand, lean over and embrace him, but I don’t. We’re not like that. So I try the next best thing, asking, “You want to get some air?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

We get out of the car and start walking up the sidewalk until we’re at Lookout Point, a spot where the trees open and all of Pine Lakes is on display. Streetlights twinkle below us like constellations, mirroring the star-filled sky above, and the majestic mountains that surround Pine Lakes are but a shadow against the dark night.

We find a park bench and sit, taking in the view we know so well. I hold the silence in place, giving Jordan the time he needs to process, but when his shoulders relax and his legs straighten out and cross in front of him, I know he’s back.

I flick the collar of his dress shirt. “Which client meeting did I interrupt tonight?”

Jordan smiles. “Zero Gravity.”

“The trampoline park?” I look at Jordan with wide eyes. This is big news. When Jordan was in community college, he filmed and directed a commercial for our local recreation center for one of his student projects, and it went viral. After that, he got dozens of requests to create TV spots and social media advertisements, and eventually he turned it into a business that has been exploding ever since—but Zero Gravity is his biggest opportunity yet.

“Yeah. They want us to film several of their West Coast locations for their ads,” he says casually.

I turn to him, tucking one foot under my knee. “Jordan, are you kidding me? That’s amazing. Zero Gravity is a huge client. You saved this tidbit of info until now?”

Jordan lays one arm on the back of the bench, nearly brushing my shoulder, and my heart is far too aware of its proximity. An arm. It’s just an arm, Paige. I try to remind myself how uninteresting an arm is with no luck. Jordan’s well-defined forearm might as well be a giant bounce house for all the room it occupies in my mind.

I find a new focal point in a nearby lamp and watch some bugs swarm to the light, knocking themselves into the lantern’s glass over and over again. I can’t help but feel something in common with those bugs.

“I don’t think we’ll take it,” Jordan says, his voice cool, like we’re discussing choosing an appetizer at dinner instead of making a deal with a major franchise.

“What? Why not?” I say.

“Because it would require us to go out of state for a week or more.”

Oh, this is about Mrs. Miller. He would never leave his mom for more than a day. “What does Rob think?” Rob is Jordan’s video editor and second-in-command.

Jordan leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and looks out over the city. “Rob thinks we should take the job and expand the business to the West Coast.”

My mind flashes back to our senior year, when Jordan and I talked nonstop about life after high school. He was like a bungee jumper, ready to fling himself into the unknown and enjoy every breath-stealing adrenaline-inducing moment. That was always Jordan, ready to fly when the rest of us were content to walk. There wasn’t an event he didn’t want to attend or a place he didn’t want to visit—but all of that changed after his mom’s illness. The light that propels him forward is only a fraction now of what it once was.

But for a moment, I see that old adventurous light flicker in Jordan’s eyes when he mentions expanding his business, those dreams of flying emerging from the dust. But it fades faster than it appeared.

“We have plenty to keep us busy here. We don’t need to expand.” He flicks something invisible from his shirt sleeve.

My heart plummets for him because I know it’s there, that desire to leave, to innovate, to be more. It crushes me to see him denying himself so that he can stay in this town, trapping himself within the invisible lines he’s drawn in the name of his mom’s health.

I nearly ask him why he does it to himself, but he changes the topic.

“I think we need one more music spot tonight.” He points to a couple in matching tan shorts and blue polo shirts. They look like they’re in their sixties, sporting gray hair and holding hands. They stop to cuddle on a bench several yards from us.

Jordan hands me his phone, and I find a song that’s sweet and full of all the love I see in this couple. When I press Play, Chicago’s “Colour My World” trills into the warm summer night. Jordan eyes me softly, curiously, as if surprised by my song choice.

Only a few moments later, the man stands and offers his hand to his sweetheart. He pulls her up and gathers her in, holding her like he’s got the world in his arms. Jordan and I watch the couple spin round and round as they slowly dance to the tune.

I let the soft, rhythmic beat pull me in as the lyrics speak of a love that has the power to transform someone’s world. Chicago’s words are like a branding iron searing my skin and igniting an intense desire to experience the kind of love this couple has. A love that’s sweet, lasting, and mutual.

A tear seeps out onto my eyelashes, then Jordan does something rare. He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.

If ever there was a moment to tell him how I feel, this would be it. But I’ve already told him how I felt once before, and I vowed I would never do it again.

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