He just watches me in that infuriatingly Jordan Tuttle way of his. Where I’m supposed to be able to figure out his moods and what he wants from me. I thought I was the only one who really knew him, yet I’ve wondered over the years if I only knew the person he presented to me. Did I ever really understand him, ever?
I’m not sure.
“Do you—want me to make the first move?” I am an idiot for asking. What if this is his one shot to turn me down? Humiliate me on the spot? He could’ve been wanting revenge for years, and now he’s finally going to get it.
My heart is whoosh-whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to say something. Anything. It’s almost painful, how long he takes to speak. My breath keeps getting caught in my throat and I wonder if I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.
“What do you think?” He sounds stubborn as hell. Defiant, even.
“I think that technically you made the first move by inviting me to your game tonight,” I say tentatively.
“And I think you technically made the very first move by following me on Instagram and sending me a message.” He sounds pleased that I did that.
“You’re the one who said on national television that you missed the one who got away,” I point out.
“Are you assuming you’re the one who got away?” He raises a brow.
My heart stops. I’m gaping at him, closing and opening my mouth like a dying fish.
He actually laughs for all of two seconds before he turns into serious mode once again. “Of course I was talking about you.”
My heart resumes beating, only now it’s doing double time. “You’re mean.”
“So are you.”
“How am I mean?” I rest my hand on my chest, then drop it. I don’t want him staring at my braless breasts.
“You’re the one who broke up with me all those years ago.”
I say nothing. I don’t know how to argue that point.
“Did you actually want to break up with me?” He peers in close, his face completely filling my phone screen. “Or did someone make you?”
“Who would make me?” I ask incredulously. No one forced my hand. I made that stupid decision all on my own.
“I don’t know. Your parents. A new boyfriend.” He leans back and I see those broad shoulders shrug.
“I didn’t have someone waiting in the wings when we broke up, Jordan,” I say irritably. “There was no backup plan.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I thought it was the right thing to do!” I cannot believe we’re having this discussion over FaceTime. So embarrassing. “You were so busy, off living your life in college, and there were so many opportunities being thrown at you. I didn’t want to hold you back.”
He’s looking at me like I’m crazy. Or like there are horns sprouting from my head. “Are you serious? Did you really believe you held me back?”
“I don’t know! I was so confused and worried and sad all the time. I couldn’t take it anymore.” I throw my hands up in the air, feeling stupid. Hating that we’re confronting each other with all this old bullshit. Can’t we just pretend it never happened?
Not that forgetting our past is the right thing to do. I guess we need to confront our mistakes if we want to—oh my God—make another attempt?
Is that what we’re doing?
No way do I want to get my hopes up. I’m not even sure if that’s what I really want. Do I want another chance with Jordan? Sometimes, I think yes.
And other times, I think…
No. Absolutely not.
“Why were you sad?” he asks, his voice gentle.