Page 37 of Jordan’s Breakthrough (Unexpected Love #3)

MILES

I fold the blanket carefully, pressing the edges in so it fits snug in the green cardboard box. It had taken about ten tries to get it to fit this way, so that our smiles were the first thing Jordan would see when he opens the box. It looks perfect.

My chest aches as I touch Jordan’s face on the soft material. It’s my favorite picture of us. Jordan is caught mid-laugh, his dark eyes half-closed, and the sun is painting his cheekbones in a beautiful golden hue. His hair is loose too, blowing around my arm.

He’s gorgeous.

The blanket smells like me. Or at least, the version of me that’s been clinging to it for the past month.

I’ve slept with it, cuddled it, wore it around the entire hotel as I walked to the snack shop or to change my laundry.

Screw with the others think. This was my robe of honor, and I displayed our love proudly!

I’ve pulled it around me so many times that one end is slightly distorted, like I was trying to wrap him around me. I get worried every time I see it. He won’t notice, right?

I thought the gift would be romantic and sweet as we adjusted to being apart again. But now, letting go of it hurts. I don’t want to. It’s been my main source of comfort for weeks.

“It’s not yours,” I chide myself. “You didn’t buy it for you.”

On top of the blanket, I add a pack of Whoppers, some Mike and Ikes, Red Vines, Hot Tamales, and salted cashews. I make a face at those. Who likes cashews? He once said Hot Tamales made him feel “fierce and awake,” and I felt that fitting for his battle against depression.

I add the self-care stuff Sophie convinced me to buy, even though I haven’t a clue what any of it is.

Some kind of rejuvenating face mask, a stress balm, and eucalyptus body spray?

Whatever. I also bought him a new notebook and pens with weird little affirmations on the side.

You’ve got this. Write it out. Don’t punch anyone today.

Everything is covered in fun, rainbow-colored dick stickers too, because Jordan needs dick stickers. To finish the box off, I tuck in the last item: a long, green, vibrating dildo and a handwritten note to go with it: In case the need arises… literally.

With everything tucked away, I include the card I spent way too long filling out. Two hours and all I got was, “Even in the dark, you deserve comfort. I love you.”

Seriously? That’s all I can think of to encourage my boyfriend when he’s going through hell? What is wrong with me?

I should feel clever. Amused. Even a little smug that I organized such a great gift.

I’ve spent three days putting it together.

Tracking down his favorite stuff in his favorite color, including the cardboard box.

I even ordered the stickers off a website—because apparently the local craft store doesn’t stock “personal” stickers.

All of this is peak Miles effort: thoughtful, extra, totally ridiculous.

So why do I feel like shit?

I slump on the edge of the couch with the box open in front of me.

Seven weeks. It’s been seven weeks since we’ve seen each other, but it might as well be a fucking eternity for how long it feels.

I should be thrilled that Jordan is doing what he needs to do and getting the help he needs, and I am.

Truly. I’m beyond proud of him. But inside, I feel…

hollow. Like maybe I need that blanket more than he does.

Which just makes me feel worse.

I press my fingers to my eyes and blow out a breath. “Don’t be selfish,” I whisper.

Jordan started the medication transition about three weeks ago, and I know— I know —this part is supposed to be messy. The psych doc warned him it would take time. “Adjustment period,” she said, like naming it would make it any easier.

It doesn’t.

This fucking blows!

Jordan is tired all the time. Sleeping through his alarms, napping on his days off, sometimes just spacing out on the couch for whole chunks of the day. Declan told me the other day that he’s missed work a few times too, which is something he’s never done before.

Which means, even before, when he was at his lowest, Jordan never skipped work. And he is now, when he’s supposed to be getting better. That’s not a good sign, right?

Fear is choking me. All I can think about, worry about, is him slipping back to his dark place. I’m terrified he’s having suicidal thoughts again, so I cling to the only thing I can, his friends.

I pick up my phone to message Declan.

Me: Have you seen him? Talked to him?

I hold my breath as I wait for a reply. It comes within seconds.

Declan: Just went by his house this morning. Seth went yesterday, and Piper the day before that. He’s doing okay, Miles. I promise. Just taking it slow. I think he knows he can’t push himself.

Me: Is something wrong? Why are you guys going by so often?

Declan: We’re just checking in on him. Taking him food since he doesn’t have the energy to cook. He’s still working as much as he can, but… Let’s just say I’m missing him too. It’s rough. For all of us. How are you? You okay?

Me: Managing…

Declan: I figured. I’m here. We all are. Message us anytime.

I clutch my phone, like Declan’s words can somehow ground me.

Me: Do you think I should come see him?

I’d have to swap shifts to get the time off, or possibly threaten to quit. But if Jordan needs me…

Declan: No. You don’t want to see him like this, Miles. Trust me. Let us take care of him for you. We need to trust the doctor and the meds. Jordan’s doing what he needs to.

I let my head fall back on the couch. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m just full of worry.

Jordan uses anchors to get him through his dark spots, but every time I try, they do nothing for me. Every memory only makes me ache more. Makes me more terrified he won’t get out of this. What I need is physical. I need to be touched, hugged, to feel a physical connection. Or even hear his voice.

Would it be too much to ask Jordan to record himself for me? Or is that like, super clingy boyfriend stuff?

Ugh, no. I can’t ask that of him. I need to be strong.

I reread Jordan’s messages. They’ve become shorter and shorter this week, and less… him. Like his heart isn’t in them anymore. He still calls, but even when we do video chat, he’s not there. Quiet and barely listening. I hate it.

I hate all of this.

Feeling desperate, I message him.

Me: Can I get a mental health status update?

The light by his name switches to green almost instantly, as if he was there holding the phone. It softens the blow just a little. Jordan rarely lets my messages go unanswered. It isn’t much, but he is trying.

Jordan: Here and breathing. I’m better, I think. IDK. You?

I smile weakly. Jordan always asks about me. Like he knows how hard this is for me too.

Me: Here but hurting… I delete that and say, I’m okay. Love you.

Jordan’s silence is not because he doesn’t want to be with me, it’s because he can’t.

His body is in hibernation mode while the chemicals settle.

I know this. My medical training prepared me for it.

But to experience it… fuck. I’ve never really understood how difficult it is for a patient’s loved one.

How helpless it makes them feel to see them suffer.

In all my patient care, I’ve never felt as useless as I do now. I want to help him, and I can’t.

At his check-up last week, I expected his doctor to say it was time to switch medication, but Dr. Briggs assured him the signs are there and that it’s working.

It had thrown me for a loop. What signs? Jordan hasn’t told me about any signs!

The one small thing I have noticed—God help us both—is his libido is finally peeking through the fog. We had video sex two nights ago, and he was the one who initiated it.

Which brings me back to the oversized box and shiny new dildo. I want him to keep trying, even without me.

I read the messy handwriting on the lid and have a flush of embarrassment.

Jordan’s Box of Love!

I groan. Did I really have to write that?

The box isn’t small either, nor is it poorly planned. It’s top-tier level of boyfriend care. But is it enough? Will it reach him in his darkness? I don’t know. We literally built our relationship through text and video calls, but this is different. It feels impossible.

I dash at some tears. I seem to be crying so much these days, overcome with emotions.

I just miss him. I miss Sophie too. And Ana, who is covering in the maternity wing for a few weeks.

I still see her, but it’s not the same. She told me yesterday that she’s leaving soon for a position in Washington.

On top of that, I miss my family, and as crazy as it is, I miss Jordan’s family too, for the whole one day I got to see them.

Declan’s messages have been a lifeline. Piper and Seth check in with me too.

“I’m fine. Everything’s okay.” Maybe if I say it out loud, I’ll believe it. “Jordan is getting better and things will return to normal soon. It’s just time for my big boy pants, that’s all. I can do this.”

Lily jumps down from the couch, turning to look at me with green eyes full of judgment.

I sigh. It’s a sign of how bad things are when I start talking to myself, isn’t it? “If you’d let me hold you…”

She walks away.

“Brat. You’re supposed to be my travel buddy, not my travel diva!”

She doesn’t even respond with a tail flick.

Sitting up, I finish taping and labeling the box. Then I get dressed for work and head out the door. I don’t realize until I’m on the shuttle that I forgot to bring the box with me. Dammit. I was going to mail it from the hospital’s gift shop since they do that sort of thing.

Tomorrow, then. I’ll do it tomorrow.

I meant to do it last week, but still. Late is better than never, right?