Picking Up the Pieces

If there’s one thing about Jordan that hasn’t changed...it’s that she always needs to get the last word and leave my man pride in the dirt. Although, being around her so long…she’s been leaving my man pride in the dirt so long I don’t think I have any left. Wait...two things: she also doesn’t want me to call her Danny.

When she told me that her favorite color was silver, I painted two of my gold walls silver, just for her. Then I got a silver beanbag. Just to remind me of her. What was wrong with me?

Was she always that small? I mean seriously…she’s like an elf…a quiet, dangerous, punk chick elf from Artemis Fowl. Or like one of Matt’s farts: silent, but deadly.

Maybe that’s my problem: I shouldn’t be comparing my wife-to-be to my gassy older brother. Or maybe I’m just going crazy…yeah that’s probably it.

This whole thing is crazy! I mean…me? Getting married to her? We’re complete opposites. She’s like…as much as I hate to admit it…she’s a stranger to me now. I barely know anything about her.

I was a player…jerk…heartbreaker. I’m loud, obnoxious…tall. She’s down-to-earth, mysterious, isolated, quiet…and so…vertically challenged. Almost everything’s changed. She’s grown up. I’m glad she didn’t push the question of who I liked better: the older her…or the new her. To tell the truth…I was scared to death of the new her.

How can I get married to her? Poor girl…forced to wed a guy like me. I mean, we could sign divorce papers or something after the marriage…but still. Divorce is an icky word. And apparently I am a five year old for saying words like “icky.” Maybe that’s why I sleep with so many girls…to drown out my dumbosity. If that’s even a word…

Maybe I could talk Mom into letting Mark marry her or something…but Mark has a girlfriend…darn. Jordan deserved better than me.

Oh look, I’m getting myself mixed up in morality. What do I know about morals? I don’t think about morals when I sleep with girls, do I? Why do I need to go all noble and crud now? Man…I’m going crazy. Like, really, really crazy.

Luke Travel, married man. Who would’ve thought? It’s not my fault that Jordan has a low tolerance for jerks. Actually…maybe it is.

I didn’t see Jordan kicking up a fuss. Then again, she didn’t seem like the kind of person to kick up a fuss. Why wasn’t she kicking up a fuss? Maybe she’ll start kicking up a fuss when she sees me kicking up a fuss. And for some reason, I feel like I’ve overused the phrase, “kicking up a fuss.”

Shit, I’m going crazy. If I didn’t already mention that.

The door opened and Matt sauntered in, looking slightly grim.

“You’ve got yourself quite a catch there, bro,” he said slowly.

“Yeah. I do,” I replied honestly, but cautiously.

“I don’t know what you did to her last time to make her change like this, Luke,” he said bluntly and seriously, “but I hope you have something planned to fix it.”

“Psh,” I said. “Of…c-course I do…?”

Matt rolled his eyes and sat down in my gold beanbag. “You scarred that girl bad, man. But she doesn’t want to admit it.”

“So her new look is my fault?” That’s hardly fair. It was her decision to change, not mine.

“Duh! Man, you are such a loser!” he complained.

“Hey!”

“Shut up, Luke. You know it’s true.”

I stayed silent. Yes, I did know it was true. Matt stood up and left. But before he left, he said one last thing. “You better fix her, man.”

“Or what?” I challenged. The standard line. Pretty dumb in my opinion. Either the person doesn’t know what to say, or they say something so scary the other person is likely to piss in their pants. Just saying.

“No one but you can fix her. Because you love her. Do you want the girl of your dreams to stay broken?” And with that, he left. What is up with people damaging my manly pride? It’s very insulting!

“Who said she was my dream girl?” I muttered. But he was right…I didn’t want her to stay broken…and she was my dream girl...just a little different. I didn’t love all those other girls; I loved Jordan. But, like the very un-man I was, I didn’t do anything but mess it up. And I’ve been given another chance. I wouldn’t mess it up.

I heard the doorbell ring five times consecutively, so I ran down the stairs to the door when nobody answered it.

“Yeah, thanks for getting the door, Mom,” I said sarcastically. “I mean, it’s not like you were on the third floor or anything, were you?”

“Sorry honey!” she yelled back from the kitchen. “I was taking out the chicken from the oven!”

“And Matt couldn’t get off his lazy ass to get the door?”

“Just get the door, son!”

I rolled my eyes and opened the door to reveal a bored-looking guy in a flight-attendant outfit, with three humongous suitcases in front of him. He eyed me beadily, lifted the suitcases into the house, checked his clipboard, and looked back at me.

“You Jordan Hill?” he asked in a drawl.

I felt someone suddenly rush behind me. “No, idiot. I’m a girl,” Jordan said from behind me, so close I could feel her presence. I tensed up a little. Which is strange…because girls don’t make me nervous. Unless Jordan is some weird specimen I’ve never seen before. Or maybe I’m crazy…yeah, that’s it.

The guy looked her up and down, a smirk lighting his features. I decided I didn’t like him right then. “These bags yours, babe?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “You give me that look once more and I’ll wipe it off with a sledgehammer, got it?”

“Ooh, feisty,” he said, smirking wider. He grabbed her hand and scribbled something on it quickly, then let go before Jordan could punch him. Which, judging by her expression, was something she was about to do. Which I fully supported. “Call me.”

“Call you what?” she asked innocently. “A dick-headed bastard? Get out.”

The guy winked lazily and saluted. “I know you want me. Have a nice day, sweetheart.” He turned around and let me slam the door at his back. Something told me that wasn’t the last I’d be seeing of him. My fists clenched up and I experienced a feeling I haven’t felt for a long time – jealousy.

Jordan grabbed one suitcase in one hand and another in her other hand. “Come back for the other,” she muttered to herself.

“Oh, no, no,” I protested, placing my hands on top of hers. She retracted them like she’d touched hot iron and retreated a little. Ouch. “I’m helping you.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said coolly.

“No you won’t,” I said firmly. “Those arms weren’t meant for weight lifting like these babies were.” I tapped my biceps and raised my eyebrows at her. She ignored me and went to try and lift up the suitcases again.

I placed my hands on top of hers and looked at her eyes, forcing her to look back at me. “I’ll be fine,” she repeated, but less meanly.

I looked at her for longer, an incredulous look in my eyes. “I’m helping you, alright? Why won’t you let me help you?”

“I don’t need the help.”

“You need some help,” I said kindly, but firmly, making sure that she knew that I wasn’t only talking about the suitcases.

She huffed and crossed her arms. “No I don’t,” she murmured sullenly.

“You are such a child!” I exclaimed. “I’m going to help you. The end. Goodbye!” I picked up two of the suitcases easily and made my way to the staircase.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she said suddenly. “I’ve been mean to you since I arrived, and now you’re being nice.”

I shrugged. “I deserved all that mean stuff. And you deserve someone to sit on you.”

Jordan bit her lip, looking indecisive. She twirled her lip ring with her tongue, making me dizzy. I suddenly reached out and grabbed her lip, pulling open her mouth. “Wha ur you dooin?” she semi-screeched.

“Hold on a sec,” I said. I unhooked the ring from its little circle and pulled it out of her mouth. “Lip rings aren’t really your thing,” I continued, dropping the ring into her hand. Her mouth had a small red hole that would eventually close up. I hope.

“Why’d you do that?” she demanded, feeling her lip. She didn’t seem very angry though. Maybe we’re making progress?

“Like I said. Lip rings aren’t your thing.”

Jordan was quiet for a while, fingering the whole. She stepped hesitantly closer and wrapped her arms around my neck. I was so surprised, I didn’t hug her back until five seconds later. “Thank you, Lucas,” she whispered into my ear. She had to stand on her tippy-toes just to reach my shoulders.

“Have I ever told you that you are small?” I joked, trying to ease the awkwardness. That hug was totally un-Jordan-like. But it was nice. Hell, we are making progress.

She let go of me and glared. Uh…maybe not. “Just help me with these bags, Mr. Hulk.”

I gave her a look.

Jordan sighed. “Please?”

I grinned and took hold of the suitcases again.

“Who was it?” Mom yelled.

“Jordan’s suitcases!” I yelled back.

Jordan winced. “If you keep doing that, I may go deaf, you foghorn.”

Yes! Our relationship has gone from ignoring each other to insulting nicknames! Wait…is that something to be happy about? Well, it’s making me happy…

That, my friends, is what I call progress.