Page 8 of Limbo

The music cuts off inside. I close my eyes and enjoy the calm until the bass beat resumes. I jump when the door swings open and bangs against the side of the house. A blur of a person dashes down the steps. He stops at the end of the sidewalk, hands on the back of his head, and searches up and down the street. He curses and drops his arms to his sides as he turns around.

Jordan Waters. Impossible to avoid.

Head hung, he trudges his way up the sidewalk. But then he pauses on the step, and his mouth turns up when he sees me. “Callie Henders.”

“Too many clothes on to enjoy a run?” I ask.

He strolls over. “Actually, I spotted a red coat leaving and hoped to catch it.”

“No redcoats, but Paul Revere rode through a few minutes ago.”

“Clever girl.”

His T-shirt stretches tight over his arms and chest as he hops up on the banister next to me. I should move away, but a spicy-woodsy scent hits me, and he smells really fucking good. So, I stay with the warmth of his leg on my arm.

“Shouldn’t you match the rest of your band with a pink hat?”

“I’ve experienced the real thing,” he says. “A cheap replica will never do it for me now.”

“I told you to keep it.” I offer him the hat from my pocket. “It’s the least I can do, considering the picture.”

As he jumps down, he pulls it on. “I think you owe me something else, too.”

Curious where he’s headed, I wait.

“Which do you prefer, dogs or cats?”

The innocent question surprises me. “I’m also more of a dog person, but I like some cats.”

“Music preference?”

A musician asking sounds like a trick question. “General or specific?”

“The more specific, the better,” he says.

“Eighties hair bands, nineties grunge, late-nineties alt-rock.” I almost leave it out but decide to own it and add, “With a guilty pleasure of anything two-thousands pop.”

The way Jordan looks at me changes, his eyes smoldering. “Where have you been all my life?”

And there it is—the arrogant execution of a well-rehearsed line. I take it as my cue and plaster on a small smile, walking away from him.

“Hold on, we’re not going back to this.” He places himself in front of me, determined. “The polite-smile-and-not-talking thing. I’ve invested too much time to go back to that.”

I laugh at his assertion. “Too much time? We’ve had maybe seven minutes of interaction.”

His eyes narrow as if my statement is equally unfounded. “Interaction, yes. But I spent time yesterday morning tracking you down at the coffee shop. I spaced out through classes both yesterday and today, trying to figure out why you wouldn’t talk to me.” He counts the examples on his fingers. “I scoured social media last night, trying to track you down. A complete failure, by the way. And since you walked in tonight, I’ve been practicing talking to you in my head.”

I study him, unsure of whether to believe him. If true, he’s put forth a legitimate effort, and I misjudged him. Not something that often happens when it comes to guys. Before I decide one way or the other, the door behind him opens, and who I believe to be a shirtless Johnny exits.

“Ready, Jordan?”

“Really not a good time, John,” he says, not taking his eyes off me.

“Yeah, we don’t care. Oh…” Johnny’s expression brightens when he sees me. “Hey, Callie.” He says my name as if we are old friends and waves before going inside.

Surprised, I look back to Jordan. “You told your friend my name?”

“No.” But he says it too fast. He rubs his forehead. “Can I borrow your scarf?”

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