Chapter Three

PAIGE

FIVE YEARS AGO

I just graduated. I just graduated! I’m a Tilt-a-Whirl of emotions today, spinning high one moment as I step across the stage to grab my diploma and low the next as I take pictures sandwiched between my parents in my cap and gown, realizing that in one week, I’ll be at UC Berkeley without them.

I look out the Millers’ kitchen window to the backyard and spot Jordan and our parents setting up tables of snacks and drinks for our combined graduation party. Jordan makes my mom laugh, and a new feeling propels me on another emotional high. I might be leaving my parents, but Jordan will be at Stanford, just a little over one hour from my college campus. And if he’s there, then I’ll always have a piece of home nearby.

I tug on my lavender wrap dress—which is actually doing something for my nonexistent curves—and straighten it before I grab a bowl of fruit salad from the fridge and head outside, joining Jordan under the pergola next to the pool. Lights are strung everywhere, and even though the sky is still bright blue, I can feel the magic each shining bulb brings. Which is perfect because I’m pretty sure tonight will be the most magical night of my life. At least, I hope it will be.

I hold the bowl of fruit closer, hoping it will somehow stop the flood of nerves pooling in my chest. Tonight, I am going to tell Jordan how I feel about him.

Taking a deep breath, I release my death grip on the fruit salad, placing it next to the large cake with “Congrats Grads!” scrawled across the top in red frosting.

“What’s that?” Jordan rounds the snack table until he stands next to me. “Oh, gross.”

I laugh. Jordan hates fruit salad. He doesn’t like mushy food or food that touches other food, so it’s practically Jordan repellant. I pick up a sliced banana that’s dyed red from a neighboring raspberry and thrust it toward his mouth.

“Ugh.” He darts his head back as if I’m holding a cockroach, but I push the banana closer. “Paige, that’s revolting.”

Suddenly, Jordan has both my wrists in his hands, and he forces the banana slice into my mouth, getting mushy bits on my chin.

Rolling my eyes back in exaggerated bliss, I chew and swallow the banana. “Mmm. So good.”

Jordan makes a disgusted face. I tug at my wrists to break free, but before I know it, he’s clamped both my wrists in one of his hands while the other swipes at the bottom of the cake, getting a fingerful of frosting.

“Jordan, don’t!” I squeal and break away just in time for him to grasp me around my waist and smear frosting all over my cheek.

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 taking a 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 the passenger 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.

The oxygen in my lungs has vanished. When I weighed the pros and cons of telling Jordan how I felt, I thought I had run through all the worst possible outcomes. His reaction has far surpassed any of those.

As the night goes on, my brain does a good job of keeping me delusional, filling itself with reassurances. Jordan really does love me but can’t admit it. After my confession, he was so overwhelmed with love for me that he couldn’t respond. He ate something foul beforehand and wanted to brush his teeth before he did anything romantic. He made a pact with the boys to stay single before college.

I’m grasping at straws, imagining everything short of He must have lost my number.

Those thin excuses get me through an hour of small talk and polite smiles, plus the weird shuffle dance I attempt when I hit the impromptu dance floor in the basement along with my best girlfriends, Ji and Missy, and what feels like half our senior class. Jordan and I didn’t hold back on the invites.

Missy grabs my wrist and uses my clenched fist as a microphone. She “ooo”s into it and sings ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” in her thick Southern accent along with Ji and the other bobbing seniors. While most everyone has abandoned their shoes in their efforts to let loose on the makeshift dance floor, Missy’s still wearing her sparkly heels, making her lean figure and perfectly coiffed blond hair a centerpiece of the room, though her flawless looks do a pretty good job of that on their own.

Missy points my own fist back to me as if it’s my turn to sing wildly into my hand-turned-microphone. I mumble something I hope sounds like the lyrics to the song, but my heart’s not in it. Missy turns toward Ji, and they both do a little side-step-shake to the music.

I take that moment to scan the crowd like I have been all night, hoping I’ll find Jordan among the dancers, but I don’t see him. I haven’t seen him since Colton and Miles arrived. The fear of not knowing what Jordan is thinking makes my feet antsy and my stomach churn. I’m suddenly grateful to be on the dance floor, where I can bounce out my nerves without drawing attention to myself.

Someone bumps into my back, and I can tell by Missy’s look of disgust that Colton is behind me.

“Sorry, Paige,” Colton says as his tall, dark, and handsome form steps out from behind me.

I look up at Colton just as Missy’s acrylic nails go machete on me, slicing into my arm.

I gasp. “Ow.”

Colton looks down at Missy’s glittering shoes before meeting her gaze. “Couldn’t ditch the heels for one night, Barbie?”

Missy scowls. “If I ditched the heels, I wouldn’t have this perfect view of your unibrow.” She points to the patch of skin between his brows, and Colton swats her hand away.

“Before you two start sticking your tongues out at each other,” I say, stepping between them, then I turn to Colton. “Have you seen Jordan lately?”

Colton finally tears his eyes from Missy, and the hard set of his jaw softens. “No, I haven’t seen him since I first came in.”

Ji steps next to Colton, gently swaying to the music. “Colton, your valedictorian speech was awesome. I’ll make sure to give you speaking time at our five-year reunion.”

Ji's our class president and looks every inch the boss lady with her crisply pressed power suit and jet-black hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

“Thanks,” Colton says. “Could you tell my dad that? He’s under the impression I wrote the speech last night.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Missy mumbles.

Ji elbows her, but Missy just rolls her eyes.

“Hey, Paige,” Colton says, grabbing all our attention. “There he is. Jordan’s right…” The words die on his lips as we all look to where Jordan is exiting a closet with April Barker, a pretty girl with cherry-red lips, raven-black hair, and dainty hands that are wrapped around Jordan’s bicep possessively. Jordan smiles at her, his eyes twinkling.

For the first time in my medical history, I think I’m going to faint.

Colton, Missy, and Ji look back at me with an equal mix of pity and sympathy. Missy and Ji have known about my feelings for Jordan for a while, but the look on Colton’s face takes me by surprise. Do all my friends know how I really feel about Jordan?

I watch Jordan disappear up the stairs with April, and the rejection permeates every part of my body. The backs of my eyes burn, and I rush out of the basement doors and out into the backyard to get fresh air, unable to stop myself.

The twinkling lights mock me from above. Their magic is just plastic and wires now. I was a fool for thinking they were anything more.

“Paige?” I hear Ji's voice first then the click of Missy’s heels on the patio. They stand in front of me, walling me off from the small group of people munching next to the snack table and look at me with all the concern and kindness in the world. My emotional dam bursts.

As tears flow freely down my cheeks, Missy tugs softly on my arm, pulling me toward a small alcove near the side of the house.

“You told him?” Ji asks.

“He doesn’t…” My chin quivers. “He doesn’t love me back.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” Missy pulls me into a hug, and my tears smear all over her shimmery white dress.

Ji rubs my arm. “Should we key his car? Slash his tires?”

“Ooo, yeah, let’s go all Carrie Underwood on him,” Missy says.

I gurgle out a pitiful laugh. “No, I just want to go home.”

They embrace me on both sides, and we put our heads together in the center, scrunching into our usual triangle hug. Minutes later, we’re in Ji's car, backing out of Jordan’s driveway. For a moment, I think I see Jordan through the partially open blinds of his bedroom, but the ache in my chest is so awful that I don’t dare look up again. If I see his face, I’m afraid my heart will tear in two.

Jordan gave me his answer loud and clear tonight, and all I can hope is that time really does heal all wounds.

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