You Should See Me in a Crown(47)
“Me too,” I say. And it almost doesn’t feel like a lie.
Standing outside Jordan’s house reminds me that Indiana rich is a different kind of rich. It’s not like New York wealth with fancy penthouses on Park Avenue, or LA rich with garages full of luxury SUVs and sprawling ranch houses in Hollywood Hills. Indiana rich is a little quieter but no less impressive to me.
“Just how much money do retired NFL players bring in these days?” I mumble and pull at the hem of the little black dress that Gabi masterfully outfitted me in this evening. She designed it herself and has been waiting for an opportunity to get me to model it. It’s a simple A-line with pockets, a deep V, and a red-and-black faux flannel at the waist. Unlike the clothes she practically banned me from wearing to school, it turns out something I’d actually want to wear is, for once, prom-queen worthy. “I mean honestly. Is this Campbell County or Keeping Up with the Kardashians?”
Jordan’s front porch is massive, and his front door is flanked by two large white pillars. They don’t even have neighbors directly on either side of them; the neighborhood is designed to give everyone plenty of space and privacy between their lots.
“Stop pulling at your clothes!” Gabi swats my hand away and ignores my comments about the house. “You look great. I’ve done some of my best work on you.”
She rings the doorbell and shakes her hair so it falls perfectly even on both sides of her black off-the-shoulder blouse. Her outfit and the way her hair is parted straight down the middle make her look like a ’70s French movie star. She straightens her spine and pushes a hand against my shoulder to get me to do the same.
“And walk tall. We need people to think you’re queen material, remember?” She smacks her lips together once to make sure her bright red Fenty lip paint is evenly distributed.
I roll my eyes but decide to follow her instructions. I pull my shoulders back so I stand at my full height and run a hand through my hair to shake out my curls a little. I never wear it down, but after a lot of cajoling from G and a frankly ungodly amount of water, leave-in conditioner, Eco Styler gel, and Cantu curl-defining cream, here I am. And to my surprise, it doesn’t look half bad. It’s full, with all my natural curls on display, but it still looks styled instead of like I lost control of it. It’s … nice.
“I can’t believe you seriously haven’t considered a future in politics.”
“I’ve considered everything.” She smiles. “Don’t count it out as a possibility: The first White House chief of staff with her own haute couture collection at fashion week? Sounds totally doable.”
I’m still laughing as Jordan opens the door. He’s beaming, and little beads of sweat are dotting his forehead.
“Welcome, ladies!”
I blink when I realize he’s completely shirtless. And honestly? Forget laughing. I can barely remember how to breathe. I mean, seriously. How is it fair that God gave one person that many freaking abs?
“Jordan.” Gabi hikes her purse up on her shoulder and feigns complete disinterest in the guy in front of her. But I know it’s totally fake when her voice sort of hitches as she says his name. Like I said, he’s unfairly attractive. “Are you going to let us in or are you planning on doing a striptease in the doorway all night?”
He smiles even wider and steps aside, motioning us in. “Well, by all means, please enter my humble abode.”
I know he’s being ironic by calling the place humble, because Jordan’s house is anything but. It seriously looks like royalty lives here. And I guess that’s because it’s not entirely untrue—royalty sort of does live here.
As soon as we step into the foyer, there’s an enormous spiral staircase that leads to the second floor. And on the wall directly to our left, there’s a huge painting of the entire Jennings family. His mom and her long, platinum blond hair. His dad, the only black guy besides his oldest son to ever win prom king in Campbell, whose huge linebacker form is just as impressive now as it was when he played in the Super Bowl. And Jordan beside his older brother, Jalen, back when their dark curls were grown out long. It’s the picture of a flaw-free family.
When we step into the kitchen, Jordan grabs me a bottle of water off the cluttered center island and shoves it into my hand. When I hold it up in question, he shrugs.
“You’re not getting all loosey-goosey on my watch, Lighty. Consider this my expert advice to you: Keep your head clear at the pre-prom party. I’ve seen many lose their dignity and shame at this yearly bash.”
I laugh, and G sighs like she’s fed up with Jordan already.
“Oh!” Gabi spots Britt and Stone in the backyard and waves at them before turning back to me. She lowers her voice so Jordan can’t hear. “Don’t mess this up, Liz. Remember what I said about strategy.” She jerks her head at Jordan before disappearing to catch up with our other friends.
“What was that about?” he asks, his eyes following Gabi out onto the lanai. (I barely even know that word but there’s no other way to describe the massively beautiful situation Jordan’s family has in lieu of a regular backyard and porch.)
I change the subject. “What’s the shirtless thing about? You don’t have to convince us you’re training to be the light-skin Idris Elba. We believe you.”