Page 2 of Jealous Guy

I lose my train of thought briefly but quickly recover.

His chest rises and falls with thinly veiled exasperation. “It’s been six years, Orion.”

“Huh?”

Some of his cockiness dissolves, stretching the curve of his smile into a long line, though enough remains for his expression to stay perfectly on brand. Cocky and smug enough that it makes it almost impossible for me not to smile too.

“We were fourteen when we met, and we’re twenty now. It’s been six years.” The pointed finger is aimed at me again. “And don’t you go forgetting shit like that.”

The doorbell rings before I have time to reply, and Jordan heads down the hall to answer it. I scoop up my phone and laptop, scoffing quietly to myself at the irony of how wildly impossible it would be for me to forget meeting him.

2

Orion

The day I met Jordan was one of those sweaty-palmed, knee-knocking days most people erase from their memories, subconsciously rewriting them into something that doesn’t make them seem as pathetic.

The metallic wail of a school bell echoed through a long hallway, rattling my brain hard enough that serious injury felt likely. Instinct screamed at me to turn and run in the other direction. I managed not to, but the version of me that existed that day was nothing more than a gulpy, quivery mess dressed as a boy who was trying hard to look cool. I’d moved schools a bunch by then, so one might think I’d gotten used to being new, but that’s not how anxiety works. At least, it’s not how mine works.

The teacher guiding me to my new homeroom was an unsmiling man by the name of Mr. Whitfield. He looked about as happy as I was to be there, possibly a little less. He nudged my shoulder when I froze in the doorway.

I took a couple of steps into the classroom and stopped again. This time, no subtle nudge could get me moving.

A dusty-blond boy filled my field of vision completely and seeped over the edges. Instead of sitting like everyone else in the class, he stood on top of his desk, legs in a wide stance, knees slightly bowed. His hips were thrusting forward obscenely. It was one of those rare situations where I noticed several things individually before they all converged into a single, powerful image.

My top lip flared and my jaw dropped.

I turned to Mr. Whitfield, whose expression closely matched my own.

The boy on the desk was muscular and significantly less gawky than the average fourteen-year-old. His shoulders were broad and his hair was swooped off his face in a way that I couldn’t make happen, even with extensive use of overpriced hair products. His face was striking. A strong brow and a straight nose, gallingly clear skin, and a jawline so sharp and stubborn that I found myself wondering whether he could, or should, be held responsible for his behavior when it was so obviously a product of his genetics more than his choice.

What was even more noteworthy than his face or shoulders was that he was holding his water bottle in both hands directly in front of his groin, squeezing it in time with the rampant thrust of his hips.

Every eye in the class was on him. Kids around him were either screeching with laughter or ducking for cover as he liberally sprayed thin streams of water all over the room.

As far as first impressions go, it was definitely memorable.

Beside me, Mr. Whitfield’s displeasure rippled through the classroom like an icy blast with a catastrophic epicenter. Smiling mouths snapped shut, eyes widened, and everyone went deathly quiet. Everyone, that is, except for Jordan. His eyes were closed, and he was so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t hear us come in. He was still on the desk, his face scrunched into a grimace, as he fully committed to performing his impression of what I could only assume was a life-altering orgasm.

“Jordan Slater!” Mr. Whitfield’s displeasure seeped into the floor and rushed up the walls.

Everyone sat up a little straighter.

I didn’t know Mr. Whitfield well. I’d only met him a few minutes before, but even so, I could tell exactly how he felt about the unfolding scene by how blotchy his face went. He was properly angry.

Jordan sensed the danger he was in. He must have because his hips came to a stop mid-gyration and the stream of water he’d already squeezed from the bottle before Mr. Whitfield spoke dribbled weakly onto his desk. Mr. Whitfield balled his hands into fists at his sides and poked his chin in Jordan’s direction, a threatening gesture that didn’t seem to affect Jordan in the slightest. Or if it did, he didn’t show it. He didn’t smile or look pleased with himself, but he didn’t look concerned about what was happening either. He simply stood calmly on his desk and waited to see what his fate held.

“Get down from there immediately!” Mr. Whitfield boomed, sending spittle flying.

I surreptitiously stepped to the side to avoid the blast. Jordan hopped off the desk, landing in the puddle of water he’d created with a splash. I couldn’t tell whether he did it to rile Mr. Whitfield up more, or if it was a happy accident.

Mr. Whitfield seemed convinced it was the former. His nostrils widened in disdain and his hands flapped at the mess on the floor. “And clean all this up at once!”

A girl sitting nearby quietly handed Jordan a pack of tissues from her bag. Despite the obvious scrutiny he was under, his cheek dipped into a smile and he leaned down so he was eye-to-eye with her.

“Thanks, Mandy,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

I didn’t realize it then, but the way she smiled back at him was a foretelling. A glimpse at the effect he’d one day have on women. At the time, I had no idea what that effect was. Or how it would affect me.