1
XIA
I am officially pathetic. It’s sad, really. I’ve only known the guy for my entire life, yet every time he touches me a thrill of something new and undiscovered races down my spine.
“Do you think it will be okay? It won't look like I'm trying too hard, will it?” Jordan leans back against his spot at our booth, removing the arm he had casually draped around my shoulder. I’m trying to seem unaffected but I can’t ignore the sense of emptiness that grows in my chest when he slips away. See? Told you I was pathetic. We aren’t in a romantic setting; we are at a bustling coffee shop at nine a.m. I’m not on a date. I’m having coffee with my best friend.
Jordan and I are ten miles outside of town. We stumbled on this little gem of a café on the way back home this morning. He and his dad are rehabbing an old lake house that Lisa, his mother, bought before she died. They’ve been looking for good deals to keep the cost low and lucked out with a seller a town over who had a large selection of granite floor tiles they plan to use in the master bathroom. Jordan’s dad had to work, so when he asked me if I wanted to ride with him, I said yes. Because of course I did. It’s not often I pass up on alone time with him.
God, it shouldn’t be this hard. We’ve been best friends since we were old enough to walk. I can’t recall one big event in my life that Jordan wasn’t there for and I don’t know when my feelings changed for him—well, I take that back. There was never anything to change. I’ve always adored him. If anything, my adoration has just intensified the older we’ve gotten.
“No.” I clear my throat, then take a sip from my cup, anything to cure the dryness. “I think the more letters of recommendation you have, the better.” His big interview with Professor Satchi is on Friday morning and I’m really happy for him. His whole reason for enrolling at Chrome Hills University was to obtain a degree in engineering and get closer to this professor. Satchi is the mastermind behind Crill Enterprises. The company is pretty innovative. Most of their products revolve around using various types of robotics to solve everyday problems for office workers, and interestingly enough, their stuff makes a ton of money. But Jordan geeks out over it.
Jordan Black. Star football player. Total heart throb. And complete robotics nerd. Not many people understand his love of robotics, but I've always found it adorable. When we were kids, he’d run around most days with the guys, talking to girls, playing flag football in the yard, just, typical boy stuff. But at night, he was almost always in his parents’ garage fiddling away at something he was either taking apart or putting back together.
I’ll never forget the year he destroyed my Easy-Bake Oven. I loved the darn thing, but he convinced me he could make it work faster, and at nine years old the fifteen-minute wait on my quarter-size cookies felt like an eternity. I happily agreed and lugged it across the street. By the time he was done with it, my cookie sheets were shooting out of the thing like a missile. I was so pissed. But, yep, he's a total closet nerd.
He's followed Satchi’s company since its inception back when he was a high school freshman and vowed to land a job there once he graduated college. The second he learned about the opening for a teacher’s assistant, he jumped on it, and I really hope he gets it. But I’d be lying if I said it won’t feel odd for Jordan to be the TA for my new professor. I’ll have Satchi’s class, Engineering 251, next fall. I just declared my major as Fine Arts but I was short a science credit and his class was the only one left. So, I guess I’ll be a robotics nerd too for a semester. I want to be a graphic designer. I find my peace in taking already beautiful photography and manipulating it to its fullest potential, and I plan to make a career out of it. Fingers crossed.
“Okay. Well, I’m ready then. I’ll give this shit all I’ve got and hope for the best,” Jordan says as he pinches a bite-sized piece of the blueberry muffin he's been eating between his fingers before popping it into his mouth.
“This job is yours. Professor Satchi loves you. He’d be lucky to have you as his assistant.” His eyes go soft around the edges before he smiles.
We linger there for a bit, and a warmth fills his gaze that causes my heart to swell. The longer he stares at me the more intensely the butterflies begin to flop around in my stomach. This is stupid and it’s only getting worse. I started recognizing my feelings for him back when we were still in high school. At first I wrote off my jealousy toward his girlfriends as me just feeling territorial over my best friend. It wasn’t until senior prom, when he showed up at my door dressed to the nines and whisked Felica Santeria away in a stretch limo that I realized what was really happening. They had been dating for a few months, so I’d seen them together many times, but there was just something about that night. That was four years ago.
I haven’t said anything because, well, I really don’t think he feels the same way. He treats me like one of the guys, but it’s a friendship I truly cherish, and I think I’d prefer not embarrassing myself by putting that at risk. Having him in this way is better than not at all. I've spent the last four years trying to turn these feeling off. Telling myself that it will never work. We are too ingrained in each other's lives. Our fathers are best friends, our friendship is closer than most siblings. There's a comfort there that I wouldn't trade for anything. Just like today. We have always been there for each other no matter what life threw at us or how pissed we might get. Our friendship has been indestructible. I can't—no, I won't—ruin it. No matter how desperately I crave more of him.
“Seriously, it’s going to go great, stop worrying,” I add, attempting to lighten up the moment.
Everything about his posture is relaxed—well, you’d think that if you didn’t know Jordan. He’s sitting with his elbow on the table, picking at a pastry that he normally would have decimated seconds after he got it. Plus, he keeps tapping his fingers on the table. He only fidgets when he’s nervous.
“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Xia.”
We go back to quietly sipping our coffee as I look over a small group of people entering the cafe. A young woman carrying a baby comes in first, followed by a man pushing an empty stroller. The barista greets them cheerfully as she makes googly eyes at the infant. The door hangs open, as if someone was holding it for them, and just as I'm about to look away the man who walks in next catches my eye. It's my father.
Immediately, I smile, and I’m about to jump from my seat and run over to hug my dad when the door closes behind him and I stop. I remember our last conversation. We were at dinner and my mother was annoyed to find out about Dad’s sudden work trip after she had spent the month planning a getaway for the three of us. It was a beach trip for the week after this semester ends. My father is the head of the science department at Chrome Hills University, where Jordan and I go to school. With eyes downcast, he apologized to us over his plate of spaghetti, pushing it around with his fork as he insisted there was nothing he could do to get out of the conference.
“I thought he was still in Tulsa,” I mutter, calculating how long it’s been since he left Friday night.
“What?” Jordan asks. I didn’t even realize I’d said it out loud.