Not that the rest of Jordan wasn’t superior; he was an offensive back, broad-shouldered, and cut as all hell. He had perfect skin, and his teeth were toothpaste-ad white.
I was pretty much in love with him, but so was everyone else. It wasn’t that burning sort of unrequited love, but a good, healthy regard. It was just so easy to smile around Jordan, and so hard to speak without sounding like a complete idiot.
“Cassidy, my man.” Jordan slapped Cas’s hand from where he sat on his dual-reclining throne. To his immediate right was a girl named Lauren McPhee, who I had English class with last year, and to his left sat Ezra Lynley, looking bored. The rest of the couch was teeming with people, spilling onto the floor, holding their own kegger cups, and basking in Jordan’s glory.
“Hi,” I said, when Ezra’s eyes caught mine. Cas and Jordan had taken up a conversation about the game.
Ezra didn’t reply but rather just stared at me, and I felt the same mixture of embarrassment and indignation that I had in gym class when met with that sneering You’re a senior?
“We have gym together,” I said flatly.
Something like surprise flickered across Ezra’s face. “I know.”
“Is that Devon Tennyson?” Jordan snatched my attention away in an instant. He pulled off his sunglasses, as if requiring serious visual confirmation, and then jumped to his feet.
A dopey grin took over my face, the kind only people like Jordan are really capable of producing. “Hi.”
He threw an arm around me, the most casual, coolest, best-smelling hug of my life. “Where you been, Champ? I didn’t see you all summer. What’ve you been doing with yourself?”
Admittedly, champ was usually the kind of endearment that passive-aggressive dudebros called each other, but Jordan claimed it was short for “champion of my heart,” and I may or may not have melted a little each time he said it.
“Uh … we were in California for a little while,” I said when we broke apart.
“California,” he said, nodding. “Got to love those beaches. Nothing like some West Coast sun, am I right?” He resumed his seat. “You guys want some drinks? Where’s Martin?”
I hadn’t seen Martin Lahey all night—as was the way with house parties. More often than not, the host is of little or no consequence.
Without an answer to Martin’s whereabouts, Jordan went right on.
“D’you see the work our man Ezra did in the first half? Three-touchdown lead and I was there to cover his ass.”
He hit Ezra on the arm. “Don’t I always say I got your back?”
Ezra barely nodded.
“Shut up, man,” Jordan said, and hit him again. “You’re talking too much. Let somebody else get a word in.”
Not even the smallest smile cracked Ezra’s expressionless face. No one was safe from Jordan’s charm, but this guy seemed immune.
“There’s that sense of humor,” Jordan went on. “That’s why I love this guy. Such a fucking comedian. Seriously, Ezra, shut up and let someone else talk.”
Cas and I stayed with Jordan’s inner circle a little while longer, but it gradually grew more and more crowded (as Jordan’s stories grew more and more animated), and we resigned ourselves to moving on once more.
We went into the front hallway, where over the noise of the crowd came a cry of “Cas!” All at once a shiny-haired figure broke away from the masses and flung herself at Cas. His hand slipped from mine and his arms encircled her. It was Lindsay Renshaw.
She broke apart from Cas and threw her arms around me.
“Where’ve you guys been?” she said, and squeezed far harder and with much more sincerity than most people afforded in their hugs. “I haven’t seen you once this week at school!”
She pulled back and I got my first good look at her after a summer apart.