Page 13 of Jealous Guy

Andy is openly gay, and he’s the kind of guy who’s very difficult to be around when you’re closeted. He has one of those faces that’s almost impossible to look at and keep your mouth closed at the same time. He looks like the reason the phrase tall, dark, and handsome was invented. He’s put his own spin on the phrase, though, with over-long wavy hair and sad eyes that all but whisper the word “sex.”

It’s hard to know how long to make eye contact with him and be sure it’s coming across as strictly platonic. Andy’s a really good guy, and I’d like to be better friends with him, but whenever I’m around him, I spend most of my time in a cold sweat from worrying someone will notice me looking at him.

Or that he’ll stop looking at West long enough to clock me.

To make matters worse, Andy’s friend Sarah is out with them tonight. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s very nice. That’s not the issue. The issue is that the last three times I’ve seen her, Summer has been with her.

Sure enough, as soon as we’ve finished the whole greeting rigmarole, I look up, and there she is.

Summer Deacon.

My face instantly feels hotter than it did before, and I look around, hoping to spot a possible exit. Jordan is sitting next to me, and West is beside him, boxing me into a booth seat. Unless I ask them to move and cause everyone to shuffle their seats, I’m going nowhere.

Shit.

Jordan spots Summer seconds after I do. “Told you you should’ve worn my lucky shirt tonight,” he says to me under his breath.

His lucky shirt is a plain black tank from The Gap. It’s in no way memorable as far as tops go, but Jordan is convinced that he never strikes out when he wears it. He thinks the garment has been imbued with seductive magic or something, when really, it’s just tight and his body is smoking hot.

He raises his hand and waves her over. “Hey, Summer, over here.”

Summer stalks toward us, and everyone at the table, except for Andy, takes a deep breath. She is so beautiful she hardly looks real. She has long silver-white hair that cascades down her back in the kind of waves girls usually get when they sleep with braids, and a face so flawless that I kind of feel sorry for straight guys who encounter her.

I can’t really blame them for the way they act around her.

The awful thing is that her looks are far from the most interesting thing about her. She’s smart with a dark sense of humor and almost no desire to please people. She doesn’t suffer fools and has no qualms calling people out on their bullshit. She’s the kind of girl who’s deeply intimidating to most men and likes that about herself. She’s confident in a quiet way that comes from an unshakable place. A place that I can only assume—as I’m far from an expert on such matters—is accessible exclusively to those who like themselves on a fundamental level.

She’s way more than the average guy could ever hope to handle.

To put it another way, she’s the exact kind of girl who could take Jordan down.

No girl has ever made me feel like this. Not only jealous, but scared. Terrified. Certain, in a deep, twisting, terrible way, that if Jordan gets naked with her, he won’t be okay. He won’t show her out in the morning without a care in the world, and sure as shit won’t say, “Nah,” when I ask if he’s going to see her again.

I’ve known Jordan long enough to know his type well. I can spot girls he’ll be attracted to from across a room, whether I want to or not. He’s into looks, of course he is, but that’s not the main thing he’s into. He cares more about personality, and there’s a very specific personality type that makes him weak. He likes women who are fearless. Fiery. Wild, with unpredictable temperaments and a lot to say for themselves.

The first time I met Summer, I saw all those things at once. Her presence is large and mesmerizing. It reached out to me, wound around my heart and throat, and squeezed hard. I saw her, and something inside me died, shriveling into a dried husk. Something sad and pathetic. Something that thinks of Jordan as mine even though I know damn well he’s not.

Before I ever said a word to her, I recognized her for what she is. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Not perfect as a human being. Of course not. No one’s perfect. Summer is something much worse than that.

She’s perfect for Jordan.

I didn’t mean for what happened to happen. I swear I didn’t. I saw her, and my heart stopped. I stood stock still, unable to speak, as she walked toward us.

Jordan saw my reaction.

He accurately perceived that I was affected by her, but he misinterpreted the reason. He slung a heavy arm around my shoulder and spoke quietly so the people around us wouldn’t hear. “You calling dibs on her, bud?”

I croaked something short and dry that he took to mean yes.

To his credit, he didn’t show any sign of resentment or even disappointment. “Okay, I got you. Follow my lead, Imma talk you up.”

And talk me up, he did. He told Summer more about me than most people know. He gave her a detailed account of the places I’ve lived, where I’ve traveled. He covered my hobbies and interests and touched on my stellar academics, then pivoted to amusing anecdotes when she didn’t look all that interested in my GPA.

He was relentless.

I swear to God, at one point, I heard him telling her that I have a close and healthy relationship with my mom.

It was deeply uncomfortable to watch.