Later that night, after I’d had time to cry and sort out my thoughts, I called him back.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” I choked out, on the verge of another round of tears.
“But it’s so hard. I miss you every day. I just want to be with you.”
“Me too. But we play football for different teams.”
I loved my school. I loved my football team. I didn’t get all that much playing time as quarterback, but I did occasionally, and I loved the opportunity. Henry was an awesome wide receiver and got plenty of playing time for Michigan. I was proud of him, but deep down I resented that the only difference between us as football players was that he was a boy and I was a girl.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I love you, but I’m frustrated.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant sexually frustrated or emotionally frustrated. There’s a big difference. I hoped he meant emotionally. Sure, I wanted him physically, but even more than that, I missed falling asleep in his arms and watching TV curled up on the couch with him.
“I’m frustrated too,” I said. “We’ll get to see each other more at the end of the season.”
“We still have one more goddamned year of this,” he complained. “And then who knows where we’ll be. I wish you were here.”
“I go to school here.”
“And I have to play football here.”
Yeah, Henry got more playing time than I did, and he relied on his athletic scholarship while my parents had plenty of money, but I wasn’t about to give up football and transfer schools for him. For any guy. And on some level, that’s what I felt like he was asking me to do. He’d never come straight out and say that, but I knew he wanted me to be with him. Whatever it took.
Plus, while I was sure Zoe had kissed him, Henry put himself in a situation where it could happen. I thought of the number of guys at college who’d talked to me over the past three years. Any time they showed interest, I gave them a tight smile and vamoosed into the sunset.
Henry was hanging out with this girl in his room. She’d obviously felt comfortable enough to kiss him. He clearly had reservations about continuing our long-distance relationship that increasingly felt like a house built on sand. We loved each other, but not enough to make it work? Did that mean we weren’t meant to be?
“Henry,” I said. “Maybe we need some time apart.”
• • •
Henry Then
I never should’ve agreed to take time off from Jordan.
That’s what she wanted. She said she needed some space to see if we were really “meant to be.”
I should have climbed in my truck and driven through the night to be with her because I already knew we were meant to be.
Instead I hung up the phone, feeling relieved because I wasn’t carrying the weight of Zoe’s kiss.
The relief lasted two seconds.
Part of me wanted the out: I felt lonely and frustrated and was sick of sleeping alone at night. Jordan was so far away and cute girls were around all the time in classes and the dining hall. I missed being part of a couple.
But I loved Jordan. I wanted to be with her.
I called her back. She didn’t pick up.
I emailed, texted, mailed a card. She didn’t respond.
I tried to video chat her. She blocked me.
When she said we needed time apart, Jordan said, “I’ve only had one other boyfriend. I’ve been with you for four years. I need to know that we are right for each other. I need some time to get to know myself.”
I already knew myself. I’d known myself for years. I was the guy who loved Jordan Woods. And now she was dumping me.
For good reason, I reminded myself. I let someone else kiss me. I don’t know why I did, other than I felt trapped. But I felt even more trapped without Jordan.
If Jordan needed time to make sure I was the one, I could give her that.
I sent her a text: I will wait for you.
And I did. That year was the hardest—and the horniest—of my life. I missed her. But I couldn’t date or sleep with another girl.
I didn’t want to.
• • •
Jordan Then
I didn’t want to date anyone else.
Not the basketball player who’d gone out of his way to talk to me ever since freshman year bio lab. Not the frat boy who worked at the library copy center. Hell, not even the cute guy majoring in musical theater. Our date ended when I confessed I’d never heard of Rent and he was appalled. I, however, was relieved.
Spending time with these guys just made me think of Henry. I compared their smiles to his. His stories to his. The way they politely made out with me, to the way Henry set me on fire with a single kiss.
I told Henry we needed some time apart to get more life experience. And I tried. I really did, but I never met anyone I liked as much as him.
I came to this realization slowly over the course of my senior year—especially after the failed attempt with the weight lifter who spent more time looking at himself in the mirror than at me.
By March, I decided as soon as graduation was over I was going to drive to Michigan and tell Henry I wanted him back. Should I beg? Or play it cool? Because I was totally ready to beg.
That’s when it happened.
About a year after I’d broken things off with Henry, I happened to go on Facebook. I saw a picture of him with his arms around another girl. He was wearing a tux and she was in a green sequin evening gown. They must’ve been at some sort of formal.
First, I wanted to challenge the girl to a fight in a cage match.
Second, I wished I were the one on his arm. Not wearing that dress, because I had always hated dresses, but, man, did he look good in that tux. It reminded me of prom. How he rented a limo and we piled in with all our friends. Henry demanded the driver take the limo to the Burger King drive-through, and we all got paper crowns to wear. We had slept together for the first time that night.
I missed him. I loved him. I’d never stopped.
I hopped in my truck and drove four hours to Michigan, arriving in the middle of the night. I passed a few cars as I drove through the city of Ann Arbor, but the campus itself was quiet except for the trees swaying in the wind. No one was outside.
I hadn’t seen Henry in a year. I wasn’t sure if he still lived in the same dorm. There was no way he’d spend money to live off campus when he could live on campus for free as part of his scholarship, but he could’ve switched buildings or rooms.
I parked and banged on the glass door of the dorm’s lobby. The student receptionist looked up from reading a book and pressed a button to let me in.
I rushed inside. “Does Sam Henry live here?”
Slipping a bookmark into her book, the receptionist sat up straight. “We’re not allowed to divulge information about our residents.”
“But I need to tell him I love him!”
“I’m sorry, but I’ll need his permission before I can allow you to go up.”
“So he does live here!” Before she could stop me, I darted up the ramp to the elevators. I could hear her calling somebody on the phone.
“Security! We have an intruder!”
Oh my God. I was on the lam. Henry’d better be here, because he’s going to have to bail me out of jail.
I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and ran down the hallway to the room Henry had last year. The dry-erase board he used for messages still hung from the door, his name scribbled across the top of it.
I missed him so much.
I took a deep breath and raised my hand, prepared to knock. What if the girl in the green dress was in there? I was already in trouble for breaking and entering. The cops could add “threatening to beat up girl in a cage match” to the li
st of charges.
I pounded on the door.
A minute later, a shirtless Henry answered the door in a pair of loose pajama bottoms. He was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Jordan?” he mumbled.
I threw myself his way, hugging him. For a long moment, I worried his arms wouldn’t fold around me in a hug. But then they did. He sighed into my neck, relieved.
“I love you,” I said.
“I’ve always loved you and I always will,” he replied. Then he pulled me into his room, where we stayed for two days, only emerging to pay the pizza guy. Oh, and so Henry could tell the university police that there was a misunderstanding with the dorm receptionist, and no, he would not be pressing charges against me for breaking and entering.
However, he did ask them, “Can we borrow your handcuffs?”
• • •
Jordan Now
It’s time to play football.
Henry came home after “fixing his mom’s ceiling fan.” Which I don’t buy for one second because their house does not have a ceiling fan.
He’s up to something. I will get to the bottom of whatever Henry is hiding after we finish tossing the ball around. I don’t mind surprises.
Henry drives us over to College Street, a playground where we played Pop Warner football as little kids. This is where we first met.
When I was seven, Mom signed me up to be a cheerleader for Henry’s team, the Hornets. That first game, I wore a yellow-and-black skirt, and Mom put ribbons in my hair. But it was boring watching the game from the sidelines, so I ditched the pompoms to look for crickets. I was always on the lookout for good bait for trout fishing with my dad.
Henry was playing quarterback and threw the ball out of bounds. He never was much of a quarterback. I ran to grab the ball and hurled it back to the field. It flew farther than any of Henry’s passes. The crowd gasped.
Henry caught the ball and ran over to me. “Darn, you’re good,” he said. Then he invited me to join him and the team for pizza and video games. That’s when I traded my pompoms in for cleats and Henry became a wide receiver.
That’s also when I first gave him my heart.
Which is why I love playing at this playground. It’s our go-to spot.
It’s chilly outside, so we’re bundled up in sweatshirts and track pants, and he’s wearing a black knit cap that looks very sexy over his curly blond hair.
“I like your hat,” I tell him.
“I like yours too.”
It’s a blue Titans cap my brother gave me. With a quick movement Henry shoves the bill down over my eyes. I playfully shove him away, and with a laugh, he turns my hat backward so he has better access to kiss me.
“Mmm.” His hands caress my lower back. “Why did we get out of bed again?”
“Don’t try to get out of exercising with me, mister.” I wrap my arms around his waist. “If you play good, I’ll reward you later.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Game on.”
Our first couple of passes go fine. I catch the ball, and in a fluid movement, throw it right back to Henry. I haven’t lost my game at all since college: when Henry catches some of my passes, he makes a grunting “Ughhh” sound because I’m throwing so hard. He’s not faking those grunts either. I grin.
Then he runs back several steps, winds up, and rockets the ball way over my head. It goes so far, the ball flies into somebody’s fenced-in backyard. Before we leave, I’ll have to go knock on their door to see if I can have our ball back. Luckily, I have had two more balls with me, just in case. Ever since a huge St. Bernard took off with one of our balls, I’ve come prepared.
Boy do I need them today.
On the next throw, Henry bombs another over my head into the same yard.
“This is why wide receivers shouldn’t play quarterback!” I tease. “You’re terrible.”
He laughs, grinning back at me. I swear, his smile is brighter than the sun.
When he throws the ball over the fence for a third time, I lose my patience.
“What the hell?” I call out.
“I’ve got another ball.” He goes over to his truck, climbs up into the bed, and fishes around in the junk he’s got back there.
He launches a ball at me. This one’s got some heat on it. I jump in the air and catch it. When my feet hit the ground, I twist the ball around to line the laces with my fingers so I can throw it back.
Then I see it. Something’s written on the ball in black marker.
Woods—Darn you’re good.
Will you marry me?
Like Bend It Like Beckham and Sarah Dessen?
Then you’ll love Catching Jordan by Miranda Kenneally!
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For more info and updates about the series go to:
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Like Easy A and Jenny Han?
Then you’ll love Did I Mention I Love You? by Estelle Maskame!
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About the Author
Miranda Kenneally grew up in Manchester, Tennessee, a quaint little town where nothing cool ever happened until after she left. Now Manchester is the home of Bonnaroo. Growing up, Miranda wanted to become an author, a major league baseball player, a country music singer, or an interpreter for the United Nations. Instead, she became an author who also works for the U.S. Department of State in Washington, DC, and once acted as George W. Bush’s armrest during a meeting. She enjoys reading and writing young adult literature and loves Star Trek, music, sports, Mexican food, Twitter, coffee, and her husband. Visit www.mirandakenneally.com.
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Defending Taylor Page 23