Page 85 of Last First Kiss

“My parents aren’t happy about that detail,” Jamie continues. “They’re why any of this is happening. Why Sloane and me are… hanging out.”

Jordan trips on nothing. He catches himself before eating pavement.

“Sorry, what?”

“I shouldn’t have—” Jamie’s eyes turn sad. “I don’t want to get into it.”

Jordan’s mouth opens, before he presses his lips back together. As much as he wants to know, as bad as he wants to peelback all the layers of this Jamie Peters and find the Jamie Noah underneath—the parts of him he keeps hidden even from Denz—Jordan doesn’t press. Just like Jamie’s never pressured him about his identity.

The memory sticks out like a piece of sea glass in the sand, colorful and rare. Late last summer in an empty parking lot. Sitting in the back of Jamie’s Jeep Cherokee with the liftgate open. It was Jordan’s idea to go to an Atlanta United FC game. It was Jamie’s suggestion to stargaze after.

“Who doesn’t love staring at the moon? Like, can you believe we get to do that?” he asked.

Jordan, in fact, could not.

So there they were. Shoulder to shoulder. Sharing a bag of leftover nachos. Washed in the moon’s milky white glow. Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” buzzing low through the speakers.

Out of nowhere, Jamie said, “Do you think you’re queer?”

Jordan almost dropped the bag. Almost swallowed his tongue. Jamie, however, kept chewing. It was like he’d just asked Jordan his favorite color.

He’d never asked Jordan about whether he was queer or not before.

Jordan didn’t have an immediate answer.

At the time, he’d spent so much energynotasking himself that question. He just liked being around Jamie. Eating late-night diner pie. Laughing until their faces hurt in sticky bars. Enjoying the casualness of whatever it was they had.

(Yes, the kiss from when they were young was somewhere in the back of his mind too. But not in an overwhelming way. Just… there.)

Don Henley transitioned to a Lana Del Rey number Jordan didn’t recognize. Finally, he said, “I… don’t know.”

A beat.

Jamie nodded. “Okay, cool.”

Then he moved on. He started rambling about some newrom-com obsession. He never asked again. There was no pressure. Jamie left it alone.

Now, Jordan gives him that same courtesy. He decides not to push the topic of Jamie’s parents and Sloane.

In a soft voice, he says, “Okay, cool.”

Jamie sucks on his lower lip. He goes silent again. But, after a few steps, he drifts a little closer to Jordan. That’s been happening a lot lately. It happened before, of course, but it felt less intentional.

Like an accident.

Jordan doesn’t mind. He just notices it, that’s all.

Early-evening joggers pass by. Southern red oaks and American beech trees cast shadows around the path. Their branches let in puddles of sunlight. It paints Jamie’s tense expression golden.

He sighs. “It’s—”

His words are cut short by a surprised gasp. By… Bruno Mars?

“No fucking way,” Jamie says, laughing.

Jordan’s gaze follows Jamie’s crinkled stare. “No fucking way,” he repeats, shocked and horrified and on the verge of losing his shit.

He can’t believe this is happening. Here. Right now.