Page 42 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Stiffening, I grab a pillow so I can clench my fingers around it before I strangle something else. Why do I get so violent around this woman? “Mark was nominated too?”
“He’s a really great teacher, Jordan.”
“So are you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I know you.”
Her eyebrows pull low, which makes me wonder what she’s thinking. Of course I know her. I spent so much time around her back when we were teens—albeit it was reluctantly on her part—and I’ve seen enough signs of high school Brooklyn to know she’s still in there somewhere. I know her, and I’ve admired her since the day I met her.
“We should finish making dinner,” she mumbles, refusing to look at me now.
As much as I want to keep having this conversation, I get to my feet and accept it when she doesn’t give any signs of coming with me to the kitchen. “I’m going to help you, Queens,” I say as I flip the stove back on. “I’m going to help you build up your confidence again and show you that you’re worth more than you feel right now.”
She takes a long time to answer, though I don’t let my eyes stray in her direction. I need her to really process what I’m telling her so she knows exactly what I’m saying. This is more than helping her get a date with her crush. More than silly lessons in art galleries.
“How are you going to do that?” she asks eventually.
I finally look over, watching her expression shift from irritation to interest to fear and back again. I wish I could read her thoughts as well as I can read her face. I wish I could go all in with this and help her the way I want to help her, but there are too many risk factors. I need to make sure the chances of casualties are as small as possible. “I’m going to help you get yourself a man who actually deserves you. If that’s Mark, then great.”
“You’re already teaching me how to flirt,” she says slowly.
I let my lips curl up in a smile I don’t feel. “Flirting is important. But let me teach you how to beloved.”
Her blush starts at her collarbone and works its way up until her whole face is bright red. To her credit, she doesn’t break eye contact, but I know she’s terrified. Terrified and intrigued.
This might be the worst idea I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.
Chapter Fourteen
Brooklyn
October 13
Well, last night took adark turn. What was supposed to be a fun and flirty dinner prep started with an argument about onions and ended with me spilling my guts about a guy I’ve been doing my best to forget. I have no idea what Jordan is thinking about all of it, but he’s been quiet ever since. Thank goodness I didn’t give him the full story, or he might have gone all John Wick on James.
Jordan finished making the breakfast tacos, which were delicious, and then he sat with me and watchedNorth and South. It’s the stillest and quietest I’ve ever seen Jordan in all the years I’ve known him, which probably means there’s a lot going on in his head. Most likely about me.
Not sure how I feel about that.
When I started falling asleep, Jordan picked up on it immediately and offered to carry me to my bed before I could ask for his help. Part of me wanted to try to fall asleep on the couch with him, just to see what he would do, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.
Let me teach you how to be loved.
I’ve had boyfriends tell me they love me, and I believed them. But seeing the way Jordan looked at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’ve been wrong all this time about what love actually looks like. It’s not like I’m thinking Jordan loves me by any means, but I do think he understands what love is.
I wish I knew what that means for me.
I’ve spent too long in my bed this morning, but I haven’t been brave enough to get up and face Jordan after my confession last night. He was so quiet about it after his offer, but I don’t know if he will still be that way today.
The sound of a leaf blower or something similar finally perks me up, and I sit up quickly, gaze jumping to the window. I can’t see much from here, but a shadow crosses the window as someone passes by.
Suddenly I remember that Jordan said he was going to work on the yard today—that’s why he was here in the first place—and I have never wanted to see anything more in my life.
Grabbing my phone, I scramble out of bed and remember too late that my ankle is currently a ball of fluid. By some miracle—that miracle’s name is Jordan Torres—it almost holds my weight, which makes it possible for me to hobble to the bathroom and make myself presentable. Do I put on a little makeup? Yes. Has Jordan been around me for the last two days when I’ve looked completely awful? Also yes. But that doesn’t stop me from putting in a little effort.
Logic tells me there’s no point in trying with Jordan. He’s the guy who drove me crazy in high school, my brother’s used-to-be-a-player best friend, a compulsive flirt who knows all the moves to make a girl fall in love with him and has successfully used them to get himself awife. These are all things I know.
