The Row(63)

Jordan studies me and then asks a question I don’t expect. “What do you need?”

I look up at him. The table separates us, but he’s only a couple of feet away and somehow it feels like a massive chasm compared to when he held me earlier. What I want, more than anything else in this moment, is to be closer to him, but I’m obviously not going to say that. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” he responds immediately, and his eyes feel like they’re staring a hole right through me.

I put my hands on the back of the chair in front of me, staring down at the worn wood. “No, I don’t.”

He takes a step closer and his voice drops lower. “Riley, what do you need?”

Something about the way he’s talking and moving and looking at me ignites a spark that only makes my desire to be close to him a million times stronger. In contrast, the fact that he seems to know exactly what he’s doing makes me feel like I’m being manipulated, and it kind of ticks me off.

Moving around the chair, I inch up so close to him that he fills my senses with everything that is Jordan to me. I’m not sure if it’s his cologne or what, but it smells warm and spicy. It’s the kind of scent that I wish could be made into a large, soft blanket that I could wrap myself up in. When I’m just as close to him as I can handle without touching him, I look up into his face and ask, “You want to know what I need?”

He nods, and from this vantage point I see the muscles on his throat constrict as he swallows. I hope it’s a sign that maybe I have as much of an effect on him as he has on me.

“I need answers, Jordan.” I watch his eyes and carefully judge his reactions to my wording.

“To what questions?” He doesn’t move or change his position, but his attention is fully on what I’m saying now.

“I heard what my mom said, about the fallout when your dad finds out you’ve been spending time with me.”

He recoils like I’ve punched him in the gut, taking a step backward. “I thought you overheard, but I wasn’t sure.”

“I’ve mostly tried to stay out of your issues with him.” I consider explaining why I’ve changed my mind, but instead just finish with “I’m sorry for eavesdropping.”

“No, it’s only fair. God knows I’m neck deep in your family problems at this point. It would be hypocritical of me to refuse to talk about mine.” He leans against the edge of the table. “It’s been really hard … since Mom died,” he continues, his face looking haggard. Jordan wears his emotions well, but at the mere mention of his mother, he instantly goes from normal to beaten down.

“I noticed that the pictures of her are gone from your house…,” I start, hoping that giving him a place to begin might help.

“My father can’t handle even looking at her.” He slides down into the chair with that sentence. “He says he deals with death all day long and he doesn’t want to face it when he gets home.”

I wince, knowing exactly how much that hurts. I slip into the chair closest to him, but I don’t speak for fear that it might slow him down.

“But I miss her. Matthew misses her. My brother is so young that I really need to make sure he doesn’t—I can’t let him—forget her.” He folds his arms across the table and rests his chin on top of them. In that pose, he suddenly looks just like a bigger version of Matthew.

“That makes sense.” I wish I had some way to comfort him.

“So I keep talking about her. I keep finding the hidden pictures and hanging them back up.” Jordan turns his eyes on the table. He traces one swirl in the wood with his thumbnail when he goes on. He’s visibly steady, but his voice wobbles, betraying the emotion below the surface. “Did you know … did you know she was killed by a drunk driver? He drove straight into her. They both died on impact.”

My heart hurts for him as I watch the muscles in his neck and jaw clench and relax again and again as he fights for composure. So many things about Jordan make more sense when I understand this pain that pulses just below the surface. My entire being fills with sadness for him and for Matthew. What an awful thing to have happen. My fingers ache to reach out and soothe him, but I know there is nothing I can do to take away that kind of pain. No matter how much I may want to.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling useless. “How long has it been again?”

Jordan raises his eyes to look at me for the first time since we started this conversation. “Five months and twenty-four days.”

He’s still counting, just like I am. He counts up from the night his whole world changed. I count down to the day that the same thing will happen to me.

His voice drops so low I can barely hear it. “My dad was the first officer on the scene. And he couldn’t do anything to save her.”

My throat closes up. For the first time ever, I’m flooded with intense sympathy for Chief Vega.

“This is just one reason I feel like I need to be able to help you.” His voice is even lower than normal. It sounds rough and it takes me a minute to understand his words. “Ever since my mom—ever since we lost her, Dad and I can’t stop fighting. But I know—I know without question that she’d be furious at us for that. I feel so guilty knowing she’d be mad, but I just can’t let our family forget her.”