Page 7 of One Little Chance
“It was time to come home,” I said. I’d known I’d probably wind up talking to Jordan eventually, but it still felt so surreal to feel his focus on me again.
“This week just keeps…” His voice trailed off. “You…”
“I…”Do I apologize for ghosting him after all this time? Do I make a joke?Do I ask him to go grab a coffee and catch up?Do I ask what else happened this week?
I couldn’t shake the image of his swollen eyes on Christmas Eve from my mind, and now, his remark about this week.
“Are you okay?” I asked like a reflex.
He laughed humorlessly, kicking a shoe against the crunchy leaves scattered at our feet. “Not really.”
I stepped closer, wanting to find some way to comfort him. “I don’t want to add to anything?—”
He shook his head, quieting me. “Sophia.” His voice saying my name took the air out of my lungs. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. You being back home is…surprisingis all. We can be friends, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I should’ve felt relief at his words, but instead, it felt like someone snuffing out something I hadn’t realized was still burning in my chest.
He opened his driver-side door, then called out, “Welcome back, by the way!”
That night, I tossed and turned, tangled up in my sheets. I hadn’t anticipated the memories and feelings talking to Jordan would rustle up. His presence was still a force around me, affecting my gravity. I thought those feelings had been giddy teenage things. Maybe Jordan made me feel like a teenager again at twenty-six? Maybe how Jordan could take up residence in my mind was another one of those things that wouldn’t ever change.
I still went back to that October night I broke it off all the time, like tracing an old scar with my fingertips.
While the two of us were on his front porch, Jordan’s eyes wrinkled in concern when he answered the door to me and saw my tear-stained cheeks. I was supposed to be hours away at school.
I’d driven all day across the state to talk to him.
He’d consistently been there for me the past few weeks after my parents’ divorce, even as I ignored his calls and pulled away. Now, I was here beside him but as far away as could be.
“Sophie,” he breathed out after I ended things. The two of us held ourselves against the crisp October air. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this.” He knew I was spinning out of control after the wrecking ball of news about my parents. About my dad and a stranger.
I was desperate to somehow scrape together some new life that didn’t hurt so much. Like I could tape something new up over all the pain.
I drove home sobbing with the icy realization that the person I wanted to call right then to comfort me was Jordan. The person I wanted to hold me until I stopped crying was Jordan. The person who knew me well enough to love me through this was Jordan. I’d cut ties with my boyfriend and the best friend I’d ever had in one fell swoop.
But Jordan loved a different me. A me who was dreamy-eyed and hopeful, who thought she’d marry her high school sweetheart.
Two peas in a pod, his mom used to say about us.
Even if he could love this other version of me, and I knew he’d try—Jordan meant trips back home. And home hurt. I didn’t think I could handle it.
Classic Sophia, always racing toward the goal, the prize, even when everything screamed to slow down. Always pushing harder and asking for more, even when the prize at the end of the race was a broken heart.
It took a few years for everything I’d taped up over my hurt to fall apart.
My new boyfriend, Tyler, was the perfect distraction. His life as a musician was all-consuming for the both of us. He dropped out of school to pursue his career. Our relationship together consisted mostly of me meeting him on tour stops and in recording studios in between classes. I was more than happy to let both our lives revolve around him. It felt easier than actually dealing with my own needs and wants.
It was strange to go from a relationship where Jordan’s love felt so specific to who I was and who he was with me to a relationship where I felt like a supporting role. It felt easier. I could hide away my hurt. I could lick my wounds and cope in whatever unhealthy ways I wanted, and it went unnoticed and unchallenged.
Jordan would’ve pushed me to call my mom. To check on Orlando. He would’ve noticed that I cried every time my dad’s favorite singer, Thomas Rhett, came on, and he definitely would have asked why I kept playing his songs anyway.
Tyler seemed to think I’d never been close to my family, and I let him believe it. I shared the story of my parents’ divorce sparingly like hazardous, dangerous materials.
Our relationship was about him and his music, his family, his fans, his dreams, and I could just float in and out as we pleased. I invested little, barely even my feelings, but reaped affection and distraction.
After college graduation, he asked me to marry him on stage at one of his shows, and it was so loud with the crowd chanting for me to “Say yes, say yes, say yes!”
I said, “Yes,” but I wasn’t sure he even heard me. He turned to the crowd with a triumphant fist in the air after he slipped the ring on my finger. The applause rang in my ears long after I left the stage.
