Page 110 of Last First Kiss

His traitorous brain does the same thing it’s done for the last three days: rewinds to Piedmont Park. To them walking under American beech trees. Jordan asking about Sloane. Jamie swearing they’d only hung out a couple of times. It’s not a relationship.

Fast-forward to Jamie smiling at him while they danced to Bruno Mars. King of Pops and watching dogs play. Their moonlit bodies pressed together as Jamie kissed him.

Sloane tucked against Jamie in the bridal shop…

“It’s not nothing,” he tells the doughnut.

The problem—besides that he’s talking to an inanimate object—is that he has absolutely no ideawhatit is.

He thinks about how sincere Jamie’s been. So attentive during their talks. The small touches and vulnerable smiles and how comfortable he’s made Jordan.That’sreal. But so are Jamie’s deflections whenever the topic turns to parts of himself that he’s never shared with Jordan.

Three versions of Jamie live rent-free in Jordan’s head:

The carefree Jamie from their teens, who was kind and an awful influence.

The spontaneous Jamie from the park, who was bold and gentle.

The guarded Jamie he sees with Sloane. Closed-off. Strange.

Then, Jordan remembers the Jamie heknows. Who loves love. Who’s dedicated and monogamous in his relationships, no matter how short they are. Who wouldn’t disrespect a partner like that. Who wouldn’t intentionally hurt Jordan either.

If he was serious about Sloane—if they were in a relationship—Jamie wouldn’t have kissed Jordan.

It’s all so confusing. Like his life. Like how he feels about Jamie in the first place.

“What should I do?” Jordan says to the doughnut.

He supposes he should ask Jamie that.

No, Jamie needs to come tohim. Explain himself. Until then, Jordan gets back to work.

After he devours his unresponsive doughnut, of course.

Jordan’s shoved half of it in his mouth when his phone vibrates. He considers not answering. It’s probably an email. Maybe a text from his mom about another blind date. It could be Jamie, which makes Jordan’s heart speed up like he’s just mainlined a case of Red Bull.

It’s none of the above.

Instead, it’s a FaceTime call. Jordan props his phone against the jade plant on his desk. He answers.

Nic’s face appears. She stares at him, an eyebrow arched high. “What’s that white stuff around your mouth?”

Jordan chokes. “Excuse me?”

She circles her index finger around her own mouth.

Finally, Jordan looks to his video square at the bottom corner. Remnants of cream cheese frosting are smudged around his lips. He quickly wipes it away.

“It’s frosting!”

“Oh…” Nic hiccups a laugh. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Jordan narrows his eyes with indignation. “It’s not—what do you know about that, anyway? You’re, like, barely out of high school.”

Nic’s eyebrows wiggle in a way they shouldn’t.

“Never mind,” Jordan huffs, flustered. “Why are you FaceTiming me?”

“Becauseyouare supposed to be down here.”