over.”
“You don’t like school?” he guessed.
“No, it’s not that. I just don’t really get along with the other kids and most of the teachers are pretty apathetic. Mostly, we read a lesson out of a book and then do practice problems or answer questions.”
“You are friends with these other students.”
I cracked an egg over my flour mountain. “Not really. They’re interested in a lot of things that I’m not. So I just do my school work and go home.”
Jordan nodded thoughtfully. “What is a swim team?”
That stirred a little regret. “A group of girls join together and swim in the pool. They practice almost every day and go to things called swim meets and compete against other teams.”
“What are they competing for?”
I smiled at that, surprised by things he wasn’t aware of. “We race each other to see who is the fastest. Each girl has a specialty, like backstroke or freestyle and whoever wins earns points for their team. The team with the most points wins the meet. And then we do it over and over, against different teams. At the end of the season, one team is recognized as the best.”
“Is your team ever the best?”
“Last two years in a row,” I said proudly.
“And what were you best at?”
“Relays and breaststroke.”
“So why did you quit?”
My hands froze over the dough. I didn’t realize he had been listening so closely to me the night before. “My grandma needed me.”
Jordan leaned forward, clearly not satisfied with my answer. “Didn’t she need you before?”
“She got worse after Lincoln died … disappeared.”
“So you must have recently quit?”
I attacked the dough with more force than necessary. “I quit the day he died, or whatever.”
“Why?”
His eyes were glowing, inches from mine as I kneaded the dough. I couldn’t lie to him, I could tell he would know. “I didn’t want to have to be around other people.”
“Wouldn’t that have made the loss of you brother easier?”
His questions were irritatingly pointed.
“Not for me. They wanted to ask questions and talk about it and cry about it and I didn’t.”
Jordan sat back, surprised. “You didn’t cry over your brother?”
“Of course I did,” I snapped. “In private.”
“He really was the only person you had?” he asked wonderingly.
I nodded, trying not to cry again.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Hey, it wasn’t your fault, right?” I said roughly.
“Right,” he echoed.
I seasoned my apples with spices. “So, what’s your next question?”
“Tell me about your dad.”
I suppressed a groan. “That’s not a question.”
Jordan cocked his head to the side. “What’s your dad like?”
I silently wrapped the apples in packets of dough for a few minutes before answering. “His name is Travis. He drives a truck for a living. He looks a lot like my brother.”
Jordan toyed with a spice jar, waiting for more.
I sighed. “He’s … gruff. He used to be happy when my mom was alive. Whenever he’s around he’s just angry and a jerk. He yells a lot and gets Grandma riled up and messes up how I do everything around the house.”
“You don’t like him?” Jordan guessed.
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“No idea,” I snapped. “I can’t do anything right, I’m too smart for my own good, I don’t listen—take your pick.” I slammed my little creations onto a steel sheet and shoved them into an oven that didn’t seem too hot.
Jordan seemed to take the hint. “Maybe you’d like to ask me something?” he asked, trying to ease the tension.
“Tell me about your uncle.”
It was his turn to grimace. “That’s not a question.”
“All right, what is your uncle like?” I asked, glad not to be the only one uncomfortable.
Jordan sighed and ran a hand through his gorgeous hair. “He is old, very old. And my guardian. He’s very opinionated.”
“About what?” I asked, carefully sweeping my scraps of dough off the
“You don’t like school?” he guessed.
“No, it’s not that. I just don’t really get along with the other kids and most of the teachers are pretty apathetic. Mostly, we read a lesson out of a book and then do practice problems or answer questions.”
“You are friends with these other students.”
I cracked an egg over my flour mountain. “Not really. They’re interested in a lot of things that I’m not. So I just do my school work and go home.”
Jordan nodded thoughtfully. “What is a swim team?”
That stirred a little regret. “A group of girls join together and swim in the pool. They practice almost every day and go to things called swim meets and compete against other teams.”
“What are they competing for?”
I smiled at that, surprised by things he wasn’t aware of. “We race each other to see who is the fastest. Each girl has a specialty, like backstroke or freestyle and whoever wins earns points for their team. The team with the most points wins the meet. And then we do it over and over, against different teams. At the end of the season, one team is recognized as the best.”
“Is your team ever the best?”
“Last two years in a row,” I said proudly.
“And what were you best at?”
“Relays and breaststroke.”
“So why did you quit?”
My hands froze over the dough. I didn’t realize he had been listening so closely to me the night before. “My grandma needed me.”
Jordan leaned forward, clearly not satisfied with my answer. “Didn’t she need you before?”
“She got worse after Lincoln died … disappeared.”
“So you must have recently quit?”
I attacked the dough with more force than necessary. “I quit the day he died, or whatever.”
“Why?”
His eyes were glowing, inches from mine as I kneaded the dough. I couldn’t lie to him, I could tell he would know. “I didn’t want to have to be around other people.”
“Wouldn’t that have made the loss of you brother easier?”
His questions were irritatingly pointed.
“Not for me. They wanted to ask questions and talk about it and cry about it and I didn’t.”
Jordan sat back, surprised. “You didn’t cry over your brother?”
“Of course I did,” I snapped. “In private.”
“He really was the only person you had?” he asked wonderingly.
I nodded, trying not to cry again.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Hey, it wasn’t your fault, right?” I said roughly.
“Right,” he echoed.
I seasoned my apples with spices. “So, what’s your next question?”
“Tell me about your dad.”
I suppressed a groan. “That’s not a question.”
Jordan cocked his head to the side. “What’s your dad like?”
I silently wrapped the apples in packets of dough for a few minutes before answering. “His name is Travis. He drives a truck for a living. He looks a lot like my brother.”
Jordan toyed with a spice jar, waiting for more.
I sighed. “He’s … gruff. He used to be happy when my mom was alive. Whenever he’s around he’s just angry and a jerk. He yells a lot and gets Grandma riled up and messes up how I do everything around the house.”
“You don’t like him?” Jordan guessed.
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“No idea,” I snapped. “I can’t do anything right, I’m too smart for my own good, I don’t listen—take your pick.” I slammed my little creations onto a steel sheet and shoved them into an oven that didn’t seem too hot.
Jordan seemed to take the hint. “Maybe you’d like to ask me something?” he asked, trying to ease the tension.
“Tell me about your uncle.”
It was his turn to grimace. “That’s not a question.”
“All right, what is your uncle like?” I asked, glad not to be the only one uncomfortable.
Jordan sighed and ran a hand through his gorgeous hair. “He is old, very old. And my guardian. He’s very opinionated.”
“About what?” I asked, carefully sweeping my scraps of dough off the
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