“Jordan’s.”
“Sam, it’s getting dark. Let me drive you.”
“I’ll walk.”
The door slammed so hard the pictures on the hallway wall rattled.
I ran to the window. He was walking down the sidewalk in his black jacket with his hands jammed in his pockets, fast, not looking back. Jordan’s house was a mile and a half away. I watched him until he turned the corner at the end of Maple Street.
Then I sat down on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by twenty-three letters from a man I had spent eight years hating, and I realized I didn’t know who I was angrier at anymore.
Jordan’s mother, Denise, texted me twenty-five minutes later.
He’s here. He’s okay. He’s eating pizza and not talking. I’ll keep him tonight if that’s alright.
I wrote back: Thank you. Tell him I love him.
