Jordyn’s in the kitchen with her mom, Henry, and another woman I think must be her stepmom. And they’re all laughing and playing and teasing each other. I feel the sudden heat of jealousy pressing down on me, matched only by an oppressive sense that I shouldn’t be in a place like this. On the big screen, some running back completes a fantastic play, scoring a touchdown. My stomach clenches. Aslan jumps up and whoops. And it’s Thanksgiving and Mom’s not here and all of a sudden I really want to go home.
I consider slinking back toward the door, but Jordyn finally notices me and waves me over. She’s smiling like everything’s back to normal. Like the almost kiss never happened. Like she didn’t tactfully avoid me for the last three days. I’ve never been more confused in my life, and the part of me wanting to leave is losing a battle with the part of me that wants to stay just to figure out where the two of us stand.
She’s completely makeup-free and has her hair in a ponytail, revealing a small streak of hair dyed fire engine red at the nape of her neck. I never noticed that before. She’s also wearing something I didn’t even know she owned . . . color: a burnt-orange thermal shirt with buttons halfway down the front. It’s deliciously snug.
I realize I’m staring at her chest about halfway to the kitchen and correct myself, guiltily glancing around.
Jordyn shoves a plate of hors d’oeuvres at me, most of which are so fancy-looking, I can’t even begin to imagine what they are. I don’t want to be rude, so I take one that sort of looks like a mini pizza and search for a plate or napkin.
“Over there.” Jordyn points to the other end of the counter without looking. She’s at the sink doing something and I am now privy to a view of her ass in some tight-fitting jeans. All her shirts and flowy skirts usually cover it up, and for the life of me I can’t understand why.
What the hell am I doing? Three of her parents are standing right there. I snap out of my perversion and head toward the little plates shaped like turkeys. The pizza thing is actually really good. I take another.
“You like the quiche, I see,” says Jordyn’s mom. This is when I realize I’ve not been properly introduced to everyone. Jordyn seems to realize it at the same time and jumps in.
“Mom, you remember Tyler Blackwell?”
Jordyn’s mom wipes her hands on her green apron. She has long, silky brown hair and light brown eyes. She doesn’t wear any makeup, but then she really doesn’t need it. She’s very pretty. Her smile is almost exactly the same as Jordyn’s. Actually, Jordyn resembles her quite a bit, seeing them side by side. She reaches out her hand for me to shake. “Of course I do, but this is not Tyler Blackwell. Because if it is, then I must be a hundred and ten, and I’m not even in my thirties yet.”
“God, Mom, that’s just . . . lame,” Jordyn says.
“My daughter may call me lame, but you may call me Kelly.”
This is when a woman who looks very much like Kelly, only blond and a bit plastic, turns her attention from the stove. “Jordyn! Now, this is the kind of boy you need to bring around the house,” the blonde says, eyeing me like I’m the turkey. “Not that strange little Jeffrey kid. Patricia Henderson-Smith.” She wipes her hand on her aggressively tight jeans and extends it to me like I’m supposed to kiss it. Unsure what to do, I awkwardly shake it.
“Mrs. Henderson-Smith,” I say.
“Call me Patricia,” she says with a wink, and then she turns back to the stove. This lady is what Sheila will grow up to be. The second wife. The wife that almost lives up to the first one who didn’t want to keep the guy around and he never got over it. The one he screws while pretending she’s the other.
“Dad!” Jordyn yells across the room. “You’re being rude. We have a guest.”
Her dad mutters something and pauses the game, walking over to gawk at me with the rest of the room.
“What’s the score?” Henry asks him.
“Seventeen to twelve,” he says, like he’s just sure the team with the lower score can easily beat the team with the higher score.
“Who’s playin’?” Henry asks, then he starts laughing just before Jordyn’s dad opens his mouth. “You know I don’t give a shit who’s playin’. I’m just messin’ with ya.”
“This guy!” Jordyn’s dad grabs the back of Henry’s neck, which he has to reach up pretty high to accomplish, and mock-punches Henry in the arm while making gruff manly noises.
“All right, all right.” Henry shrugs him off with a chuckle. “Tyler, this ol’ coot here is Aslan Smith.”
“Mr. Smith.” I extend my hand.
“Nah, bro. We do this.” He holds his fist out. I look at Jordyn as I go to fist bump her father, and she closes her eyes like she’s about to die of embarrassment. “Yeah, man. That’s the shit! And seriously, call me Aslan. I hate all that formal ass-kissery unless I’m at work.”
Is this guy for real? He’s like a Ken Jeong character.
“So, Tyler, you play ball?” Aslan asks, looking me over.
“Not really,” I say.
Jordyn gives me a look that clearly says “Good call.”
“Seriously, bro? You look like you could throw a ball around. What’s your sport?”