Page 5 of Jordan’s Breakthrough (Unexpected Love #3)

JORDAN

T he following day, I wake to a cold nose pressed against my cheek. Clematis purrs beside me, the gentle motorboat sound tickling my ears. Small white paws knead biscuits into the pillow, dangerously close to my face.

I groan and pull away. It can’t be morning already, can it?

Ignoring her, I roll to my back and drape an arm over my eyes, unwilling to get up yet. Clematis head butts my shoulder, meowing loudly. When I don’t respond, she does it again, then stands on my chest.

Sighing, I give in and scratch her ears. If I don’t, she’ll knead biscuits on my bare chest, and trust me, that is not a fun way to wake up.

My limbs are heavy. Not from sleep or the yard work yesterday. No. They’re heavy with something else. Something that won’t heal.

The bitter darkness clings to me like a wet blanket. Smothering. Suffocating. Draining.

Not threatening to—it is . Stealing every last drop of joy.

Burrowing my nose into the crook of my cat’s neck, I draw in her familiar scent. As expected, she wiggles away and jumps off the bed, tail flicking.

When I don’t immediately sit up, she meows again, long and loud.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Honestly, I can’t hate my cat for waking me up. If it weren’t for her, I’d stay in bed until it was time to go to work. She gives me a reason to get up.

More than that, she gives me a reason to live. To keep waking up every morning.

Scrubbing a hand along my jaw, I suck in a long breath. I hate this feeling. The weight of it. I wish I could peel it away and toss it in the trash. But depression doesn’t work like that.

Fuck mental illness. Fuck it all.

Forcing myself up, I shuffle my way into the kitchen.

The bright light streams in through the open window, making me squint.

I guess I forgot to close the blinds last night.

Outside, Gena is sitting in her rocking chair smoking a joint.

It’s not even noon and I’m tempted to join her.

Not to socialize, but to numb the emptiness. Weed is good for that.

Clematis perches herself on the edge of the kitchen island, paws together, sitting as pretty as can be. Her mismatched eyes are wide as she waits for me, judging my every move.

“It’s not fair that you get food before I get coffee, you know.”

She flicks her ears impatiently.

After scooping some kibble into her bowl, I add some of her favorite gravy from a pouch in the fridge, then set it in front of her.

“There you go, Your Royal Highness.”

The comment makes me think of Miles—the guy from the Plant Daddies group I’d chatted with last night. He’d called Clematis a princess. If he only knew how demanding the feline could actually be.

While she chomps away, I hit the brew button on the coffeemaker and wander back to my bed, craving the comfort and familiarity of the room. I’m too awake to go back to sleep, but not awake enough to actually do anything. And even if I was, I still wouldn’t want to.

Pretty much sums up the endless torture that is my life.

I search for something— anything —to drag me through the sludge of sadness. Anchor points, my therapist calls them. Little pieces of feel-good somethings to get me through the slumps.

It sounded like toxic positivity when she’d first described it to me, but honestly? They’re the best trick… the only trick that actually helps. Outside of my meds, that is. They’ve trained me to look for the good, since depression has made me an expert at highlighting the bad.

Sometimes, the anchors are the only thing that gets me through a shift at work. They help me mask my emotions until I’m home.

Because, unfortunately, wallowing in bed doesn’t pay the bills.

The hole in my chest pulses, threatening to drown me in sorrow.

Curling into my pillow, I stare out the window that faces the back side of our residential trailer park.

For close to two and a half years, I’ve enjoyed watching the horses in the pasture behind us.

Last week, a new guy moved in with his dumbass fifth wheel, blocking my view.

Now all I see is his fancy slide out. I hate the thing.

Makes my high-end motorhome seem not so high-end.

Anchor points, Jordan . Find the fucking anchor points.

I search deeper. The only anchor I can find this morning is the chat I had with Miles. He’d somehow made me laugh, despite the crash from socializing. I'd been drowning in the darkness, and our brief conversation felt like a lifeline.

Rolling onto my back, I reach for my vape and draw in a long pull. The coffee flavor swirls through my lungs and coats my teeth as I exhale. I watch it drift upward, disappearing into nothing. Makes me wish I could go with it. Disappear from this pit of emptiness.

Grow up, son.

I grit my teeth. Thirteen years since my dad died, and his voice still lives in my head. Asshole. But at least I know it isn’t just my “intense emotions.” It’s my good-for-nothing brain .

Chronic depression, the doc called it.

I just call it hell.

Reaching for my phone, I re-read the conversation with Miles, trying to pull some of that goodness back to the surface. It doesn’t work, but at least it gives me something to focus on instead of the hole in my chest.

Without warning, Clematis jumps on the bed, a little closer to my head than usual.

I drop the phone trying to avoid her, and when I pick it up, my finger taps the thumbs up emoji in the chat box.

Fuck. Why does Messenger even have that stupid thing, anyway?

It’s as annoying as the “poke” button used to be when Facebook first became a thing.

I scramble to delete the message before Miles sees it and thinks I’m a weirdo. But before I can, he replies with an even larger thumbs up.

I can’t help but snort.

“Going to be like that, huh,” I mutter to no one.

I take another drag, then press and hold the icon, making it as big as it’ll go before sending.

Miles replies with a laughing cry face.

Me: That was all Clem. She startled me and I bumped the screen.

Miles: Aw, hi Clematis.

Me: Sorry if I bothered you.

Miles: Nah. I’m playing a stupid game since I can’t sleep.

Me: Oh?

Miles: Don’t ask. It’s embarrassing.

Me: Well, now I have to know. What are you playing?

Miles sends a screenshot of a game with two Sims characters chatting in a messy kitchen. One of them has a green diamond above its head.

I crack a smile, exit Messenger, and open Sims Freeplay on my phone. It’s been months since I’ve logged in, so it takes a few minutes to bypass the “Welcome back!” messages, but as soon as I see Charles, my main character, I take a screenshot and send it to Miles.

He replies instantly with a string of laughing emojis. So we’re both nerds, huh? Plant Daddies AND Gamers? Sounds too good to be true.

Me: I hardly call myself a gamer. It’s hit or miss when the mood strikes.

For games and everything else in my life.

Miles: If you play games, you’re a gamer.

Me: Labels, schmabels.

Another laughing emoji.

Miles: Are you going to tell me you crochet too? Or is that just wishful thinking?

I arch a brow. Miles crochets? That’s… interesting.

Me: No, I don’t think I could handle a ball of yarn even if my life depended on it.

Miles: Skein. It’s called a skein, my dear friend. And dammit. I got my hopes up. Guess you’re not the man of my dreams after all. But hey, if you ever wanted to learn, your cat might thank you…

He attaches a picture of some crocheted mice scattered on what I can only assume is his bed. The plain white material looks like a standard duvet found in a hotel room. His black and white cat, Lily, is sprawled out next to the mice, green eyes slit into a look of pure satisfaction.

Me: You made those?

Miles: Yup. They’re easy! And it keeps her busy, since they have catnip inside. Keeps me busy too, when work gets to me. Gives me something to focus on instead of my sick patients.

Huh. Well, now I’m curious. I never considered making toys for Clematis, but she’d probably love them. She goes nuts for her other catnip toys.

Me: Easy, huh? Why do I feel like that’s a lie?

Miles: I promise they are. I can teach you, if you want.

I catch myself smiling. Why is this guy so easy to talk to?

Me: I thought you were trying to sleep? Or making some Sims flirt or something?

Miles: W ell, I didn’t mean right now, lol. I’d need to get more yarn before I can show you. But yes, I am TOTALLY making them flirt! Doesn’t everyone make their characters woo-hoo? That’s all the fun of it!

My smile widens.

Me: An Ace person would say they play the game to decorate the house…

Miles: Well, good for them. But I’m proud to say I make all my Sims walk around in their underwear and kiss as often as possible.

I laugh. I actually fucking laugh. How does he do that?

Me: Is that how you are in real life too? Walking around in your underwear and kissing available men?

Miles: You know it!

He adds a winky face.

Miles: Anyway, I really better sleep. Work is gonna come too soon. Can we talk later?

Me: Sure. Anytime.

Miles: Awesome, TTYL Jordan.

Me: Sleep well.

When I don’t hear from Miles again, I roll to my stomach and watch the dust mites float around in the air. I really should clean again.

Finally, I force myself to get up, take a shower, and eat a few pieces of peanut-butter toast for breakfast. The whole time I’m thinking about the damn crocheted mice.

Miles said they kept his mind busy. Is that what I need?

Something to keep my mind busy? It sounds exhausting, learning something new, but I can’t deny I’m intrigued. Lily looked so happy with them.

Clematis bolts across the dining area before jumping into her bed on the windowsill. She’s going to crash into the glass one of these days, but all I can do is hope the panel is strong enough to support her weight.

She curls around her stuffed frog, digging at the head with her paw. That thing is so frayed it’s going to bust apart any second. She really does need some new toys. I could buy some, or… I could stop by the craft store and pick up some supplies? Would I even know what to buy?

Maybe Miles can give me some advice. That thought gives me a reason to smile. I’ll go there soon.

Finally, like wading through quicksand, I drag my ass outside to water my plants. The six new pots I’d collected from Declan sit at the end of the long row in front of my trailer. I need to rehome some—fast. We aren’t supposed to have more than two potted plants here, and I have close to two dozen.

That’s not counting the ones inside.

If management asks, could I blame it on my therapist?

It was her idea after all. Two years ago, she’d suggested I get one, since plants are proven to improve moods.

It took me three months to buy my first plant…

and somehow, I added three more a week later.

A month after that, I had two dozen. It kept going. And going…

Just how many am I supposed to have before the good feelings kick in?

Gena waves at me from her chair while taking a drag from her joint. I wave back, turning on the spigot. Keeping my back to her, I walk the hose down the long line of pots. Halfway down, I realize I’m still thinking about the mice.

Miles must be on to something.

When I’m done, I wind the hose up and grab two small pots for Gena. She’s so used to me bringing her plants, she doesn’t even ask why. Just gives me a thin, wrinkly smile, the scent of her joint circling around me like an old friend.

“Thank you, Jordan,” she says in her raspy voice. “You’re always so sweet.”

The woman reminds me of a grandmother I never had. Well, minus the weed. Grandmas probably don’t share their stash with their grandkids.

“Of course.”

She holds the joint out. I smile and take a couple of drags before returning it.

“You work today?”

“Yep.”

“Well, have a good day, then. Maybe I’ll come in and see ya.”

She won’t. She avoids busy places just as much as I do.

Finally, I head back inside, grab a drink, and sink into my favorite leather recliner. On instinct, my hand slips into the side pocket, withdrawing the old worn notebook I keep there. I run my hand over the cover, willing my muse to speak. He doesn’t. Bastard.

It’s been months since I’ve heard Charlie’s voice.

Even longer since I’ve added a single sentence to his story.

A single word. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try.

Every day, I hold this notebook hoping inspiration will come, and every day it lingers out of reach.

Like it’s hovering just on the other side of the darkness.

That’s the part I hate the most. How debilitating depression is. With my meds, I can finally get out of bed to do things I need to do, but I still can’t do the things I want to do. It’s frustrating as fuck.

My fingers trace the leather spine as resentment twists in my gut. Why can’t my brain work like everyone else’s? This story should’ve been done three years ago, but instead it’s just sitting here, like an old wound that won’t heal.

Maybe I should give up. Lock it away and start over. But that thought drags me down even more. I want to see Charlie’s story through. I need to.

So why can’t I?

As I slip the notebook away, my fingers graze Pixie’s leaves from where she sits on her tiny table.

The rabbit’s foot fern has come a long way from when I’d rescued her on a clearance shelf at Lowe’s.

She must be happy here. Good. Makes me glad I went with this style of motorhome.

The natural light makes it a perfect little greenhouse.

Maybe a little too perfect.

Out of over sixty—seventy?— plants, I’ve only lost two.

They clutter my home. Pots and hanging planters take up every inch of space, even obscuring the TV.

But deep down, I don’t mind. The dumb things are helping somehow, even if I don’t feel better like my therapist promised.

They at least make me care enough to try. That has to count for something, right?

When it’s time to head to work, I grab two of my largest pots from outside and stuff them in the back of my Nissan Sentra. They’ll look great on the back patio at work, and they’ll be two less things to get me in trouble here.

My gaze lands on the little mound of white flowers in the small plastic pot. It makes me smile. Miles had gone out of his way to make sure Clematis was okay, and he’d called her Princess. Like he adored her already. That is definitely an anchor point.

If only I could find someone who treated me that way. Most guys run away the moment they witness my “moods.”

Would Miles? Not that it matters, I guess. He’s who-knows-how-many miles away, so it’s not like we’ll even see each other.

Which is just my luck. Finally connect with someone and I can’t even be with them.

The darkness hums again.