It’s an easy story to explain, but it’s also not. We live in a mid-size Midwestern city with not a lot of things to do. Before we knew her name, it’s entirely likely that one or both of us had been in the same place as Jourdan before. And now that we do know her name and her face, and I know the way her ass looks in spandex, the chances that we’ll be in the same place and notice her are exponentially higher.

Nadia and I had even talked about this before we made our InfiniThree account. It was a possibility we’d made peace with months ago. Before Jourdan.

The part I’m struggling to explain is how I feel. Like I failed Jourdan, Nadia, and myself. Regret. So much regret. And even more desire. None of that makes sense. I barely know Jourdan. We met twice. Nadia and I texted her for only a few weeks. None of this should be hitting me as hard as it is.

“I miss her.”

Those three words probably aren’t what Nadia expects.

“I know, honey.”

Those three words certainly aren’t what I expect in return.

“Hey,” Jourdan says.

Speaking of unexpected.

the olive branch

I’m speechless.

And I forget Nate’s ice cream order. I can see him in the ball pit in the middle of the food court, too far away for me to call him for a reminder.

The notification of Nadia’s next text message pulls me back into this moment.

“I think you should talk to her.”

I swallow the lump in my throat at those words. When I look up, Jourdan’s standing awkwardly in front of me, both hands gripping the strap of her purse. She’s chewing at her bottom lip, eyes refusing to meet mine. She looks as nervous as I feel.

“You’re here,” I breathe in a hoarse voice.

She licks her berry lips, and her eyes shift around nervously again. “I’m here. I was worried you wouldn’t… I thought you might not be. Here, I mean.”

“I am. I’m here.”

Her eyes shift to mine, and she holds my very willing gaze for a few heated seconds.

“Next.”

“Shit.” I cringe, my eyes skirting to the ball pit just in case, by some childlike magic, Nate heard that curse and plans to add it to the snitch list for his mother. He’s not worried about me. He’s taking turns shooting at the basketball hoop above the pit with a kid in a Lakers jersey and beaded braids to match. Thank God he’s too young to get hustled for anything substantial. “Um, do you want some ice cream or…” I turn to squint at the menu. “A lemonade?”

We make it to the cashier, and Jourdan smiles at the young kid behind the register. “Hey, Ronnie. Lemme get the usual. On him.”

“Sure thing,” the kid says.