Page 11 of Jealous Guy

I’d lie in bed at night, trying to work out why my well-being was so important to him. I’d cook up all sorts of reasons for it. Some were plausible, sensible reasons I felt comfortable thinking about during the day. Others weren’t.

My curiosity got the better of me, and one day, a few weeks after our first Christmas in Maine, I cracked and asked Jordan why he’d become friends with me. We were hanging out at my house, but my mom wasn’t home. We’d ordered pizza and were kicking back on the couch in the den, watching a highlight reel of a recent Blades game. Jordan was yelling advice at the team with extreme gusto, despite knowing full well they’d lost the game.

He looked slightly confused by my question, a tiny line forming quickly between his brows. I was embarrassed and immediately regretted asking. It wasn’t the sort of thing boys talked about.

“It’s because I said I was a nervous pooper, isn’t it?” I said to make light of things.

He laughed almost the same way he had the first time I’d said it, except this time, in addition to the warmth that cascaded down my body when he did it, I noticed something new in his eyes. Genuine fondness. A warmth that made his eyes bluer and the yellow ring around his pupils more vibrant than usual. A softness to his features that made his smile look almost sleepy.

“Nah, it’s not that.” Jordan had a habit of tilting his head back when he said nah. It made his voice so throaty and thick that it took a while for the sound to travel from him to me. “It’s because you were so anxious standing in front of Whitfield’s class. You were bricking it, but you didn’t try to hide it. Everyone else is so full of bullshit, O. Constantly hiding how they feel and trying to act like someone they’re not. But not you.”

It was staggering how wrong he was about me. “I was literally using every ounce of my strength trying to look cool,” I informed him.

“I know,” he replied with a languid, lighter-held-near-parchment grin. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him smiling like that, but it was the first time it made my dick twitch so hard I had to grab a throw pillow and hold it over my lap for a while. “But you’re so bad at it that it doesn’t count when you do it.”

When it was time for him to leave later, I walked him to the door. Our hallway wasn’t especially big. It was a small space that felt crowded when Jordan and I were in it together. It took a little more concentration than usual to work out how to unlock the door without touching him, but I managed.

“Hey, Orion,” he said when the front door was open and the cold air from outside was rushing in, “I don’t know exactly what it was that I liked about you. I’m not sure. I don’t know if it was one thing. It might have been lots of little things that gave me a good feeling about you.”

He reached up and took my face in his hand, his thumb and forefinger digging into my cheeks on either side of my mouth. He squeezed hard enough that my lips puckered. I looked like an idiot, and I knew it. He knew it too, but like lots of things, he found it amusing. Before I was able to twist out of his grip, he raised his other hand and tapped me twice on my right cheek. Lightly. Not a slap exactly, more like a firm pat. Parchment caught alight, rippling as a slow chuckle rolled through him.

“Then again, maybe I just liked your face.”

Heat swam through my veins as I watched him go. His strides were long and laid-back, one hand buried in his pocket, the other swinging in an arc at his side.

My cheeks glowed brightly as he walked, as though I’d been slapped hard.

6

Orion

Damn. The gym is kicking my ass this afternoon.

Most days I hate thinking about going to the gym. I hate stopping what I’m doing to come here. I hate finding a parking space and getting out of my car. I always choose the closest parking spot possible, but the short walk from my car to the door is always enough time for me to think of at least a million things I’d rather be doing. Once inside, I hate making small talk with the person at reception, and I’m not a fan of the locker room either.

I hate the first ten or fifteen minutes real fucking hard, but usually something clicks after that, and I get into it.

It’s the endorphins, I guess.

Or it’s the man sweat that clings to the walls in places like this.

Or the little groans shredded guys make when they lift.

It could be the way Jordan lifts his top to wipe the sweat from his brow after a set. He uses both hands to do it, lifting the hem of his T-shirt and burying his entire face for a few seconds. A few seconds when his eyes are completely covered and he can’t see me looking. When his abs are exposed and he’s breathing hard. A few seconds when—

Look, it’s not important what makes it click. That’s not the point I’m making. The point is that usually, once I’ve been at the gym for a while, I get into my workout and stop hating it.

Not today though. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’ve felt off all day. A bit removed from reality. Feels like I’m moving slowly, and things are coming at me fast. There’s been a dull pressure at the base of my skull since this morning, and since getting here, it’s started to spread up the back of my head.

Maybe I’m dehydrated.

I lift my water bottle to my lips and glug several large gulps before switching places with Jordan. I lie back on the flat bench, my head spinning unpleasantly from the change in altitude, and Jordan gets into position to spot me.

“You’ve got this, bud,” he says for the second time this session.

I circle my fingers around the barbell, just outside shoulder width, before adjusting my grip and taking a deep breath. “Factually untrue. I don’t got shit, and you know it.”

I clench my shoulder blades together and drive them into the bench as Jordan helps me lift off. I let the weight settle, but damn, it feels like a block of concrete today. I unlock my elbows and the bar descends slowly until it almost touches my chest. I exhale and start pushing, only to discover that I’m in a battle against gravity—and I’m losing.