If- Nina G. Jones Page 0,8
single mother and her two kids, and Jordan was the one who helped me get my current apartment, across the hall from him.
I think Jordan felt like I was his responsibility, and Trevor, being his boyfriend, became an extension of that. They knew I was alone out here and they felt it was their duty to watch out for me, like two older brothers.
“Well, it’s good he’s okay. I know you wanted to visit with him, but at least you know,” Trevor said, bringing the conversation back to my failed mission of the night.
“He’s in the area often. I’m hoping I’ll see him around. I just feel like I need to help him. Part of me thinks I made it worse with my heroics. He could have just run, but he put his life on the line for me.”
“How do you know he’s around often?” Jordan asked.
I realized I had sort of given away my little secret: that I had noticed him for months before the incident.
“I’ve seen him around. I just noticed him. I don’t know why,” I said, fumbling with the contents of my plate so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact. But I did know. Because there was a presence about him. Something that made me want to know his story. And it made me feel like a bit of a bitch. What made it okay for me to walk past dozens of other homeless people and relegate them to human fixtures on the street, but made this guy worth the extra thought? Was it his striking sage-green eyes? His mysterious brooding? The fact that I felt him watch me? Or was it because he was young and homeless and had my life turned out slightly different, if I hadn’t hit the adoption jackpot as an infant, I could have turned out like him? In a way, I was relieved this had happened, because it both justified and awakened my latent curiosity.
“You know . . . this would make a really great human-interest piece at the station. Girl saves homeless guy, homeless guy saves girl. I bet we could raise some funds for him. These things tend to go viral pretty easily.” Trevor now had his producer hat on.
“I’ll think about it. I’m not sure I want to be on the news.” While I wanted to make my living in the spotlight, I didn’t want my face plastered on TV. In the first case, my dancing would be the focus of attention, but in the second my face would be filling a screen. “Maybe we could just feature him.”
“We could. Just think about it. It could really help him. And if we did it, the reporters could help you find him.”
The proposal was tempting, but I wanted to see if I could find him on my own first. From what I could tell, he was kind of withdrawn, and I wasn’t sure if he’d take well to being dug up by reporters.
BIRD
Trevor had to get ready for work, so he dropped Jordan and me off and went back to his place. We both had a second wind and I settled onto my futon while Jordan dropped the needle on my record player and marked some dance moves as he spoke. Draped in a sunburnt orange blanket, the futon was the only substantial piece of furniture in my studio apartment; it served as my guest seating during the day and unfolded to become my bed at night.
“It’s going to skip.”
“That’s why I like to use it. It forces me to be light on my feet.”
Jordan did a high arabesque, his muscles contracting as he fully extended his long limbs, his toes pointing perfectly. He was a sublimely gifted yet effortless dancer. His physical proportions were created to be admired in fluid motion. When we practiced lifts together, his sheer power made me feel like I defied gravity. Watching Jordan move distracted me from the anxiety still coursing through my body.
“So, we’re doing Thanksgiving in your place right? You know my place is a hot mess.” I appreciated Jordan trying to reestablish normalcy with routine holiday planning.
“I guess, but you have so much more room,” I insisted. “Have you considered, ya know, tidying up?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Even if I cleaned up, my shit is just cluttered. I might have more square footage, but you have way less furniture and one big open room.”
“Trust me, I am not a minimalist. This lack of furniture is called