Page 33 of Old Fashioned
“Simple syrup and some bitters?” I chuckled, retrieving two glass tumblers from the cabinet next. I shoved the cork back into the bottle of wine I’d just opened as best I could. “I knew I liked you for a reason. Two old fashioneds coming right up.”
His mouth dropped. “I was totally kidding. You really have everything to make one?”
“It’s one of my dad’s favorite drinks, too,” I explained with a shrug. “I don’t know when I started doing it, but I always have the ingredients on hand — just in case.”
Jordan watched me silently as I made our drinks, and when the final garnish of the cherries were dropped into the glasses, I handed one to him and held the other up in a toast.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I said with a sigh. “But, to football.”
“To football,” Jordan echoed, holding up his own glass. “And to you — may God give you the strength to keep up with that little girl in there.”
“And send me a few angels to help, too.”
We clinked our glasses together with soft laughter, each of us making our own noises of appreciation after the first sip.
A moment of silence fell between us after that, and I kept my eyes on my glass, but could feel Jordan watching me.
“You really are a great mom, you know,” he said. “I should know. I have a great mom, too.”
I smiled. “I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”
“Do you feel a little better about her playing football after today?”
“No,” I answered quickly and honestly on a laugh. My eyes found his, then. “I mean, I guess I feelmarginallybetter, because I know she has you to help, and I feel like she at least understands what she’s getting into. But… I don’t think she’llreallyunderstand until she’s in it. You know?”
Jordan nodded.
“I mean… I don’t have to explain this to you. But, it’s already going to be tough for her in ways that aren’t fair or reasonable. She has hair that doesn’t straighten and skin that’s too dark to be white but too light to be black.” I swallowed, picking at what was left of the polish Paige had painted on my nails. “In this town, and sadly, in alotof towns, that’s something that will create hurdles for her.”
Jordan let out a long exhale, his eyebrows pinched together as he chewed on what I’d said. “I understand what you’re saying. Trust me, I grew up in an all-white family in practically an all-white town. I get it.” He stood a little straighter, tilting his head before his eyes found mine. “But, she will persevere through any challenges she faces. And I do meananyof them. I know that just after spending one afternoon with her, and I’d wager you know it, too.”
Warmth spread through my chest like a spring on a summer day. “I will never understand how she got so tough.”
Jordan scoffed. “That one’s easy. You’re her mother.” We shared a smile. “So, since we’re on the topic, what exactlyisyour nationality?”
I chuckled, because it was a question I got with everyone’s eyes when they first saw me. They didn’t understand the color of my skin or the shape of my eyes and most of all, how they existed in the same human.
I nodded to the dining room table behind Jordan, where we both took a seat before I answered. “Well, my mother is Filipino,” I started. “My father is a Neopolitan ice cream cone, as he always liked to put it. His father is African American, his mother is a Caucasian woman from many different descendants.” I shrugged. “So, I’m somewhere between all of that. What about you?”
Jordan was smiling as he listened, but the curve faded when I asked him to tell me his background. He scratched his neck, looking out the sliding glass door at the dark backyard. “I wish I knew.”
A long, quiet moment stretched between us, and I glanced at where his hands rested on the table — one wrapped around his drink, the other beside it with nothing to hold. I debated reaching out to let him know I was there, but thought better of it, standing to make my way over to the Bluetooth speaker in my living room, instead. I put on a mellow playlist before rejoining him at the table.
“How old were you when the Beckers adopted you?”
“I was a baby,” he answered quickly, and I noted the way his shoulders relaxed now that the conversation was on the family he’d been with all his life instead of the one that created him. “I don’t remember anything before I was with them. Honestly, I didn’t really understand that Iwasn’ttruly their son — not until we went to the lake for the first time.”
I tilted my head, confused.
“I was five. It was the summer before kindergarten. I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember that Noah was only a baby, one or so, and we went out to the lake with Mom and Dad. I was swimming with some other kids, and one of them pushed me into the water and was making fun of me. He asked me where my parents were so I could run and cry to them, and I pointed to where Mom and Dad were on the shore with Noah, and the kids all laughed. They said, ‘That can’t be your parents. They’re white!’”
My stomach knotted so tightly I placed a hand over my gut to soothe it.
Jordan just shrugged, wiping the sweat from his glass before he took a sip. “So, on the ride home, I asked Mom why I looked so different from her and Dad and Noah. And I’ll never forget that look they shared, the one that told me I’d missed something, that there was something being hidden from me.”
Jordan paused for a moment, and I took a sip of my old fashioned, waiting.
“They told me everything that night, and from that moment on, I understood. And it didn’t make me feel like any less a part of the family,” he clarified, but then his eyes found mine, the gray-ish blue that surrounded his brown iris glowing in the low light of my kitchen. “But, it did open a new door in my mind, one I didn’t even know existed. I realized I was theirs, but not reallytheirs.They were my mom and dad, but I hadanothermom and dad, too.”
