As expected, Evan had no problem at all with Jordan taking the morning off to play host to Nolan. In fact, when Jordan texted him from the penthouse kitchen, Evan’s reply came back with a Take the whole damn day, Jordan. Family first. But if you feel like swinging by H&H, bring the cousin. I’ll give him the grand tour and promise I won’t embarrass you with my old war horse ways. When Jordan told Nolan over a second round of croissants, Consuelo sliding another tray onto the island with a knowing smile, his cousin just grinned up at him, that wide, lopsided flash that hadn’t changed since he was twelve, as if he’d never expected anything less, like a spoiled child used to getting his way, certain the world would bend just enough to keep him happy. Normally, Jordan would have reached over and swatted him lightly on the back of the head, just for the hell of it, a quick knock it off with a laugh to follow, but that morning, he let it slide.
He’d be the cool cousin today.
After rummaging through Ted’s walk-in closet, a sanctuary of impeccably tailored shirts in sea-island cotton and cashmere, rows of hand-stitched shoes gleaming like trophies under soft spotlights, Jordan emerged triumphant in one of Ted’s Brunello Cucinelli polos, the fabric clinging to his houlders in a way that made the fit comically tight across the chest. He struck a pose in the full-length mirror, flexing with exaggerated swagger, and Nolan teased that Uncle Ted must shop the kids’ section at Cucinelli these days. Jordan had to concede the point with a quiet huff of laughter; the polo looked painted on, the soft gray knit straining in places Jordan’s shirts never did. Then their little adventure began then, spilling out of the penthouse into the bright January cold.
Jordan really had no idea where to take his cousin. It wasn’t as if Nolan were visiting from the other side of the world. Like Jordan, he’d grown up in Greenwich, leafy streets lined with stone mansions, weekends split between sailing club and prep-school lacrosse fields, less than two hours from the city by Metro-North, and he’d come up to New York hundreds of times over the years: holiday shopping with their mothers, Broadway matinees for birthdays, late-night diner runs after concerts. The city wasn’t foreign to him, but a familiar territory worn comfortable by repetition. Nolan, however, had his own plans. He led the way with that boundless, twenty-year-old certainty, hands shoved in the pockets of his oversized cargos, backwards cap pulled low, stride loose and eager as they stepped onto Fifth Avenue. Jordan followed, coat collar turned up against the wind, the morning’s fragile lightness still clinging to him like borrowed warmth.
Nolan led them straight to a tiny East Village spot famous for its viral rainbow bagels, the kind that exploded on TikTok last month, swirled neon dough stuffed with cream cheese that matched the colors. He insisted on filming the whole thing for his Instagram story, phone propped on a napkin holder while he took exaggerated bites, narrating in that over-the-top vlogger voice about how it tasted like “childhood nostalgia mixed with unicorn tears.” Jordan rolled his eyes but played along, holding the phone steady when Nolan demanded a slow-motion clip of the cream cheese pull, the two of them laughing when it inevitably snapped and splattered across the table. The place was packed with kids half Nolan’s age doing the same routine, ring lights clipped to their phones, and for a moment Jordan felt ancient, but the absurdity of it loosened something in his chest.
From there, Nolan dragged Jordan through a full-blown shopping spree the moment they hit SoHo, darting from boutique to boutique with that relentless momentum, eyes lighting up at every window display like the city was one endless unboxing video. He piled items into his arms with gleeful abandon: a vintage Carhartt jacket in faded beige, oversized just the way he liked; a stack of graphic tees with ironic ‘90s prints; baggy corduroy pants that pooled at his sneakers; even a chunky silver chain that caught the light like it was made for close-up Reels. At the first checkout, the total climbed fast, and Jordan, watching the cashier scan tag after tag, felt compelled to ask how the hell he planned to pay for all that since, far as he knew, Uncle Nick had cut him off after his naked antics him Yale’s campus. Nolan just flashed him a wicked, conspiratorial grin, dimples deepening as he held up his phone like a trophy, “Mom got me a new card.”.
Jordan rolled his eyes, the gesture automatic, fond exasperation mixing with something sharper, envy, maybe, or just the quiet recognition of how differently their mothers handled rebellion. He really, really was a spoiled kid, Nolan. Jo and Ted had been generous with Jordan, no question, spoiling him long after he’d left for college with gallery opening tickets, surprise deposits for rent when money got tight, the occasional “just because” watch or coat that felt like armor against the world. But Jordan couldn’t imagine his mom quietly overriding Ted’s decision like that, slipping him a new card behind his dad’s back just to smooth over a mistake. They’d always presented a united front, even when it hurt.
Nolan was the clerk’s wet dream, a walking commission jackpot with bottomless enthusiasm. The young guy attending them, name tag reading “Luke”, kept pulling item after item from the racks with practiced flair: a buttery leather bomber from The Row that draped like liquid over Nolan’s shoulders, limited-edition Off-White sneakers in a collab colorway no one else seemed to have, a stack of cashmere hoodies in muted earth tones that cost more than most people’s rent, even a chunky gold chain necklace that caught the boutique’s soft spotlights and threw fractured rainbows across the mirrored walls. Nolan tried everything on, turning in front of the three-way mirror with that irrepressible grin, asking Luke’s opinion on fits and vibes while Jordan lingered nearby, arms folded, playing the indulgent cousin a little longer. It was only when Luke emerged from the back room with a triumphant flourish, holding aloft a limited-edition Moncler puffer in iridescent black, retailing for north of eight thousand dollars, that Nolan’s eyes truly shone with greed, a hungry gleam Jordan recognized all too well from his own boyfriend’s face.
That was when Jordan’s cool-cousin facade finally crumbled. He stepped forward, hand gentle but firm on Nolan’s arm and said that that was quite enough, he had spent enough money for the rest of the month. For a second, Jordan was sure Nolan would argue, lips parting, a stubborn flash in his eyes, but then he just schrugged, easy as ever, and muttered a “yeah, sure, whatever”. Luke’s face fell a fraction, the commission dream flickering, but he recovered with professional grace, ringing up what was already piled on the counter. Maybe Aunt Theresa had been right, after all, thinking Jordan could put some sense into Nolan’s head.
After that, they’d migrated to a rooftop in Williamsburg where some influencer had popularized “aesthetic” hot chocolate flights, mugs arranged in perfect color gradients, topped with heart-shaped marshmallows and edible glitter. Nolan filmed everything, of course, zooming in on the steam curling in the cold air, captioning it live for his story with sarcastic overlays like “living my best soft girl era.” Jordan sipped his drink, too sweet, too pretty, and let the city noise wash over him: the distant honk of taxis, the chatter of other twenty-somethings posing for content, the wind whipping off the East River. Nolan’s energy was relentless, infectious, pulling Jordan along like a current, and for stretches of minutes the ache dulled to something manageable.
It was crazy how much energy the kid had.
Like Jordan had predicted, not even two hours in and he was already exhausted, his legs heavy, and his eyes scanning for any empty bench where he could collapse for five minutes. Nolan, meanwhile, bounced ahead like an endless bundle of kinetic motion, backwards cap bobbing, oversized cargos swishing with every eager step, untouched by fatigue. Jordan had never felt so old in his life. It was barely nine a.m., the winter sun still low and pale over the avenues, and already he was counting down to sunset, but the day stretched ahead like a marathon he hadn’t trained for, league upon league away.
They were passing through Rockefeller Center when the crowd caught his eye, a thick knot of kids Nolan’s age clustered around the plaza, all dressed in the same uniform of baggy pants, graphic hoodies, and backwards caps, phones raised high for the perfect angle. Jordan recognized the setup immediately: the Today Show’s morning concert stage, the same spot where he’d stood almost fifteen years ago, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with screaming fans for Hillary’s Duff dawn performance, the air electric with anticipation and teenage invincibility. He tried to hurry Nolan along, quickening his pace, gaze fixed ahead, not even wanting even to know who was performing because he knew Nolan would want to stay, but it was too late. Nolan nudged a girl in the crowd, flashing that easy grin, and asked who was up. When she answered “Saint Meridian” (Who?) excitement lighting her face, and Jordan saw Nolan’s eyes went wide, the grin turning feral with delight, he knew his fate was sealed.
He found a spot against the railing, wedged between other resigned parents, middle-aged men and women in puffy coats, arms crossed, sharing weary glances of commiseration that needed no words: the universal sigh of adults surrendered to the whims of youth. He pulled his coat tighter against the biting January wind whipping through the plaza, and settled in to wait. He kept one eye on Nolan, a flash of backwards cap and bouncing energy swallowed by the crush of bodies, and endure an entire hour under the assault of Saint Meridian, a guy even whiter than Jordan, skin pale as winter milk, blond dreads tied back, rapping about the ghetto and thug life to a sea of hypnotized kids, shook and swayed, hands and arms bouncing to the beat in perfect, frenzied sync.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Jordan’s thoughts travelled to Ben. He had sent a text while he and Nolan had been at the rainbow bagel spot, “Heading upstate now. Have a good day in Switzerland and bring me a gift. Miss you”, which Jordan had ignored. By this hour, Ben had probably already arrived in the Catskills. The livestream, however, wouldn’t happen until much later, after the night fell on them and darkness wrapped the cabin in the cozy, cinematic glow they were banking on. For a moment, Jordan let his thoughts drift there, unbidden and vicious: what were Ben and Beau doing until nightfall? Playing cards by the fire, laughing over beers? Talking about their fucking feelings? Or another round of hot, slow sex, just to make sure Beau was really ready for the cameras?
But just for a moment. Jordan banished those images hard, a mental shove that left his chest aching. No, not here, not now. He focused instead on Nolan’s distant silhouette in the crowd, on Saint Meridian’s terrible music thumping through the plaza and on the cold biting his cheeks and tried to forget the catastrophe his love life had become.
When the show finally ended, the Saint Meridian fans erupted in a frenzy of screams and shouts, a couple of kids even crying openly, worshipping the rapper on stage like some descended god. Nolan made his way out of the crush of bodies, face flushed with pure ecstasy, the widest grin Jordan had ever seen splitting his features, like the morning had handed him the world on a platter. Jordan felt a quiet warmth bloom in his chest despite everything; seeing Nolan like this, so elated and alive, made the hour of godawful music feel almost worth it.
“I can’t believe this just happened,” Nolan said, throwing his arms around Jordan in a fierce, spontaneous hug. “Dude, I can’t believe this just happened. This is the best day of my life. I need to move to New York right now.”
Jordan laughed, the sound surprising him with its ease, and hugged him back.
“You had fun?”
“Yes, oh my god, fuck yes,” Nolan pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, still grinning. “Thank you for bringing me here, Jay. You’re the coolest person in the entire world.”
“Come on, don’t get all sappy on me now, dude,” Jordan said, laughing again. “I had no idea this guy would be performing here today.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nolan insisted, earnest. “I wouldn’t even have been here if you hadn’t ditched work to keep me company. Seriously, I’ll never forget this, Jay.”
Jordan’s chest tightened, love and pride swelling warm and sudden for this kid who’d always felt more like a little brother.
“Anytime you wanna come to the city,” he said. ““you just ask, okay? You can even crash at my place.”
“Come on,” he added, steering Nolan away from the dispersing crowd, the plaza still buzzing with leftover energy. “Let’s get lunch. I’m starving.”
For the first time that morning, Nolan let Jordan choose where they would go next. Maybe that was the secret to handling the kid, Jordan thought as he led them toward The Astor Room, the bistro just a few blocks from Harrison & Hale where he often grabbed a quiet lunch between meetings. Just keep him so overstimulated he wouldn’t have time to remember he was a brat. Nolan talked about Saint Meridian the whole way there, replaying favorite lyrics and moments from the plaza like he was reliving them in real time: how the bass had hit just right, how the crowd’s energy had felt electric, how he’d gotten close enough to see the rapper’s chain glint under the stage lights. Jordan nodded along, half-listening, the cold January air sharp in his lungs, the city’s midday bustle a dull roar around them. Nolan’s enthusiasm was infectious in small doses, a reminder of how uncomplicated joy used to feel.
They slipped into the bistro’s warm interior, wood-paneled walls glowing amber under soft sconces, the faint scent of garlic and butter drifting from the open kitchen, and took a corner table by the window. The waiter, Marco, approached with his usual warm smile for Jordan, menu in hand, and spent almost ten minutes listing the day’s specials: a velvety foie gras torchon with fig compote and brioche; seared yellowfin tuna with yuzu emulsion and microgreens; a delicate frisée salad with lardons and poached egg. Nolan, unfazed, leaned forward and asked if they did burgers.
To Jordan’s quiet surprise, Marco didn’t miss a beat.
“Of course,” he said, smile widening. “Our house burger is a dry-aged Wagyu and short rib blend, grilled medium-rare unless you specify otherwise, served on a house-baked milk brioche bun with aged Vermont cheddar, caramelized onions, and a black truffle aioli. Comes with hand-cut frites seasoned with rosemary salt.”
Minutes later, with massive hamburgers plated in front of them, Nolan was still going on and on about Saint Meridian. He listed the rapper’s Grammys with the fervor of a true believer, rattling off wins like scripture: how Saint Meridian was the youngest rapper ever to take Album of the Year, how the industry had no choice but to bow. Jordan let him ramble a moment longer, then cut in gently, no real heat in his voice.
“Okay, Jesus, I get it. Saint Meridian can walk on water and multiply fish.”
Nolan snorted mid-bite, sauce smudging the corner of his mouth. Jordan leaned back in the booth, the leather creaking softly, and raised an eyebrow.
“Since when do gay kids listen to rap, anyway? What happened to Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga?”
“Who says I’m gay?”, Nolan shot back, burger paused halfway to his mouth.
“Uh, your mom?”
Nolan groaned and rolled his eyes, dramatic and theatrical, slumping back against the seat.
“Ugh. She’s been so crazy with this stuff. I’m not gay, okay? I like dudes, sure, but I like pussy just as much. I’m an equal-opportunity lover. I don’t deny anyone a shot at this.”
He gestured down himself with a cocky flourish, grin wide and unapologetic. Jordan’s response came dry and automatic.
“Oh wow. How lucky they are.”
Nolan laughed, undeterred, taking another huge bite.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said around the mouthful, swallowing before continuing. “I wouldn’t even say anything, but Dad was going on like, ‘You keep that attitude and I’m pulling you from Yale and making you enlist, young man. Let the military straighten you out and teach you discipline, blah blah blah, But now he thinks I’m gay, and apparently making me swim in a sea of cocks isn’t that much of a threat, so at least for now he dropped it.”
Jordan snorted.
“And if in a few years you meet a cute girl and things get serious,” he asked, “what are you gonna tell them?”
Nolan shrugged, casual as ever, wiping his hands on a napkin.
“Some bullshit about sexuality being fluid and not believing in labels.”
“Wow, you really have it all figured out, don’t you?”, Jordan said, sarcasm and exasperation dripping from his voice in equal measures, “You know Uncle Nick is being hard on you because he’s worried, right? He should be worried! Loosing that scholarship was a big fuck-up, Nol.
“That wasn’t my fault!” Nolan imediately shot back, the outrage rising in his voice with that pure, teenage intensity, as if the injustice had happened yesterday. “No, really! Everyone was super drunk, but I was the only one they made a big deal out of it. And you know why?”
Jordan leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, and gestured for Nolan to tell him why.
“Because Aunt Jo is married to Dean Whitman!” Nolan burst out eyes wide with conviction. “I have this super distant relation to him, and now all of a sudden I can’t even get drunk without people acting like I’m breaking the Geneva Convention or something.”
Jordan exhaled slowly.
“No one’s saying you can’t get drunk. It’s college, it’s expected.”, he said, weary, as if he’s heard variations of that excuse before.” But, come on, you have to be smart about it. That shit you pulled ended up in the papers, Nolan. Of course they had to do something about it.”
“So if you really think about it,” Nolan pressed on, gaining steam now, words tumbling faster as if he hadn’t heard a word of what Jordan just said, as if his older cousin’s logic had only fueled him, “it’s not my fault at all. Mom is more guilty than me because it’s her sister who married the fucking dean. In fact…”
He stopped, as if had suddenly been hit by divine revelation.
“In fact, I’m a victim of discrimination! I should be getting, like, compensation. Not being punished!”
Despite himself, Jordan couldn’t hold back the laughter that bubbled up at the sheer absurdity of Nolan’s allegation, the sound escaping low and incredulous as he shook his head in exasperation. Perhaps he’d overestimated his ability to influence the kid after all.
“Look,” he said, “just keep your head down for a while, okay? Go to class, don’t do anything stupid. I think after some time Uncle Nick will let it go.”
“Nah,” Nolan replied, leaning back with that confident slouch. “I have a better plan. I wanna show Dad I don’t need his money.”
Jordan dipped a fry into the truffle aioli, the rich, earthy scent rising warm between them, and raised an eyebrow. He took a bite, the crisp salt and rosemary lingering on his tongue, thinking, after the morning’s extravagant spree, bags piled high with clothes Nolan couldn’t possibly afford without Aunt Theresa’s secret credit card that everyone knew Uncle Nick would be paying, that his cousin really, truly needed his dad’s money.
“What’s this master plan of yours?”
“I’m gonna do porn, dude.”
Just like that, Jordan stopped, stopped laughing, stopped eating, stopped breathing. A cold, dark dread spread through his insides, slow and viscous, filling every corner until it replaced the easy happiness he’d felt during that fun day with his baby cousin. The warmth of the restaurant, the rich scent of truffle aioli and rosemary fries, the low hum of conversation around them, all of it faded to nothing under the sudden weight pressing on his chest. He tried to keep calm. It was just a coincidence, right? It had to be a terrible coincidence. But Nolan was already saying more, voice bright and oblivious, shattering any hope Jordan clung to.
“I’m glad you brought that up, actually,” Nolan said. “I love you, but I didn’t spend the last weeks trying to talk to you just to hear your cousinly advice.”
“What you mean?”
“Dude, come on. I know you’re dating Big Ben. I want you to introduce me to him.”
The words hit Jordan like a sudden drop in altitude, sharp, breathless, making the world tilt beneath him, muffled under the rush of blood pounding in his temples. His chest tightened. It was contagion. The world Ben had built was spreading, seeping into the people Jordan loved most, turning something that had already cost him so much into something casual, something aspirational for a kid who didn’t know the price. He pictured Nolan in front of a camera, grin traded for performative hunger, body offered up to strangers for likes and tips. He pictured Ben mentoring him, gentle and patient like he’d been with Beau, drawing out the same wide-eyed surrender. The jealousy flared hot and immediate, but beneath it was terror: that the life he was fighting to pull Ben back from was seductive enough to claim even Nolan rich and spoiled as he were.
He gripped his water glass to hide the wat his hands were suddenly trembling, condensation slick under his fingers. He loved Nolan, and the thought of him stepping into that world because of Ben, because of what Jordan had enabled, made bile rise in his throat.
He couldn’t let it happen.
“Look, it’s really not that simple, okay?” Jordan said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the words came out tighter than he intended, edged with the panic still churning in his gut.
Nolan leaned forward, eyes wide and gleaming with that reckless, twenty-year-old hunger, utterly oblivious to the storm he’d unleashed.
“How did you even snatch that guy up, dude? He’s so fucking hot, like, so much, holy shit. I never cared much about bears, but ugh, there’s something about your man that makes me just wanna spread my legs and call him daddy, you know?”
“Nolan…”
“No, tell me, I legit need to know. His cock is really that big? It’s not like prosthetics or something, right? You’re a fucking champ for taking that thing, Jay. Seriously, I don’t think I could ever do that.”
“Nolan!” Jordan exclaimed, voice louder than he meant, sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the restaurant.
A couple at the nearest table glanced over before returning to their plates, and heat flooded Jordan’s face, burning hot under his skin. The casual chatter around them felt suddenly exposing, the clink of silverware and murmur of conversation pressing in like judgment. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper.
“Stop being crazy. You’re not doing porn.”
“No dude, it’s really a good idea!” Nolan insisted with conviction, burger forgotten as he gestured excitedly. “Especially if you and Big Ben, like, show me the ropes. I thought about filming with him, but then I though it’d be weird, right, fucking my cousin’s boyfriend like that. And I really don’t think I can take his cock. But he can, like, introduce me to a couple people, right? Maybe that agent of his? He represents all the biggest guys, right?”
The mere idea of Ben and Nolan having sex in front of cameras was almost enough to make Jordan puke. His stomach lurched violently, a wave of nausea rising hot and sour in his throat, the rich scents of truffle aioli and rosemary fries turning cloying, suffocating. He took long sip of his water to push the awful feeling back down, the cold liquid doing little to settle the churn. Then he rubbed his eyes hard, palms pressing against the sockets as if he could erase the images, make the world make sense again.
What the fuck was going on?
How had their fun day that begun croissants and laughter and rappers ended like this?
“How… how do you even know I’m with Ben?”
“I don’t know, man, I just do. I saw his stuff, thought he looked familiar, then I remembered you’re dating a big guy called Ben, looked through your Insta…”, Nolan shrugged, like it was no big deal. “He changed a lot with the weight gain, but all I needed to do was compare his tats to know it was him. Why, is that a secret or something?”
“Yes!”
Once again, the word burst out louder than he intended. Heads turned again, curious glances from nearby tables lingering this time, a few eyebrows raised in mild judgment. Marco paused mid-stride a few steps away, concern flickering across his face before he thought better of it and retreated with professional discretion.
“Yes, Nolan,” Jordan continued, in a more appropriate tone this time. “You can’t say that to anyone, you hear me? No one can know, especially our family. You understand?”
“Damn, what’s the big deal anyway?” Nolan asked, genuine confusion softening the bravado. “Who cares if people know? It’s not like he’s breaking the law or anything.”
“I care, Nolan,” Jordan said, the words scraping from his throat, panic and shame braided tight in his chest. “I need you to promise me…”
“Okay, okay, jeez, I promise,” Nolan interrupted, raising both hands in mock surrender.
At that, Jordan calmed a little, enough for the knot in his stomach to loosen a fraction, his breath coming easier in the warm, garlic-scented air. It was fine. He would be fine. Nolan would keep his mouth shut; no one else in the family would know about Big Ben, about their secret that ballooned into something monstrous, devouring their relationship one view at a time. Maybe it had been naive to think no one he knew would ever discover the truth, that the world Ben had built could stay neatly compartmentalized, hidden behind sunglasses and careful cropping. Nolan was gay, or bi, or whatever the fuck he was, so of course he’d too stumbled across the hurricane that had taken gay porn by storm.
The resentment toward Ben growing inside him was a slow-burning coal, buried deep under layers of love and guilt, glowing hotter every time he tried fanned it. He knew it wasn’t fair. He knew, with the clarity of someone who’d replayed every decision a thousand times in the dark, that he carried more than his fair share of blame. He’d been the one to suggest it, for fuck’s sake. He’d fed the beast, brick by brick, telling himself it was temporary, that it was for them, that the heat it sparked between them was worth the cost.
It wasn’t even just the hallway anymore. It was this: Nolan’s casual words, I’m gonna do porn, introduce me to him, turning a family lunch into another reminder that Ben’s world had grown tentacles, reaching places Jordan had thought were safe. The resentment tasted like metal on his tongue: anger at Ben for loving the adulation too much, anger at how easily he had adapted, how the fame and money and new watches had filled the holes depression left, while Jordan was left holding the shards of what they used to be.
“So when do you think I can meet Big Ben?” Nolan asked, eyes bright with that relentless enthusiasm. “Maybe we can go to your place after this? Wait, no, he’s doing that livestream thing today, right?”
Jordan sighed, the sound dragging heavy from his chest. Suddenly he felt exhausted, a tiredness different from the one he’d felt earlier while trailing Nolan around the city, legs aching from the endless pace. This was deeper, bone-weary, the kind no nap could solve, no distraction could touch. It settled over him like a weight he’d been carrying alone for too long, pressing down until his shoulders slumped under it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He won’t be home until later. But hey, listen to me. You’re not doing this, okay? This is not the answer to anything.”
“Yeah, it is,” Nolan shot back, grinning like it was all a game. “Beats going to school, for sure.”
“It’s not that easy, Nolan.”
“Oh no, being paid to fuck hot guys, how difficult!” Nolan mocked, voice pitched high and sarcastic.
“I’m serious, Nolan,” Jordan said “Ben and I… we’re not in a good place right now, okay? The whole thing about me going to Switzerland? That was me lying because I needed some space from him.”
“Well, that sucks for you guys,” Nolan said, shrugging like it was no bigger than a rained-out game. “But it’s not like I have a boyfriend or anything. I’ll be fine, Jay. I know it.”
Jordan felt a despair he had never known before. He didn’t know how to get through to Nolan, how to pierce that bright, reckless certainty and make him see that the world of porn wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns, wasn’t just easy money and hot guys and endless validation. That it was erosion, slow, relentless, stripping away pieces you didn’t realize were precious until they were gone. It was nights alone with your hand and your shame while the man you loved gave everything to strangers. It was waking up wondering if you were still enough. But how could he make Nolan understand? Nolan, young and stupid and reckless, invincible in the way only twenty could be, grinning across the table with burger sauce on his chin and dreams in his eyes.
Especially when the only person Jordan knew who actually lived in that world thought exactly like him. Ben, who’d embraced it all with an ease that still cut Jordan to the bone.
“No,” Jordan said, the word coming out flat and final. “I’m not gonna introduce you to Ben. You won’t do this. I won’t let you.”
Nolan repeated it slowly, tasting the syllables like they were foreign. “Let me?”
His voice carried an edge Jordan hadn’t heard before, sharp defiance, the kind that would make Uncle Nick’s skin prickle with recognition and brace for a fight. Nolan leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowing just enough to show the shift from playful to serious.
“Look, I appreciate you’re worried about me,” he said, “but you don’t get to tell me what I do. I already have my dad thinking he can do that. All I need from you is to be my cool cousin and do this for me.”
Shit. That was Jordan’s fault. He shouldn’t have indulged Nolan all morning, clearing his schedule, letting the kid drag him through viral bagels and TikTok thrift hauls, laughing along like it was nothing. He’d wanted to be the cool cousin, the one who gave Nolan a perfect day instead of lectures. But of course it would come to this: Nolan asking for something too big, something Jordan couldn’t, wouldn’t, give, and resenting him when he said no.
Still, it was the only thing he could do.
“No,” Jordan said again, quieter this time, but no less firm. He pushed back from the table, chair scraping softly against the floor, the half-eaten burger cooling on his plate. “I’m not doing it.”
He stood.
“Finish your food,” he said, voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “I’m gonna take you back to my dad’s.”
He turned abruptly, not really sure where he was going, maybe outside into the cold slap of January air, or the bathroom to splash water on his face and buy a minute alone… anywhere that wasn’t this table, this conversation, Nolan’s defiant eyes boring into him. He hated that the day was ending like this. Everything felt poisoned now, spoiled by the resentment flickering in his cousin’s face. Nolan would go home thinking of Jordan as an enemy rather than an ally, the friendly cousin reduced to another adult blocking his way. The thought stung sharp, a fresh layer of loss on top of everything else: pride wounded, love for Nolan tangled with frustration, shame that he couldn’t protect him without pushing him away.
Then Nolan’s voice stopped him cold, casual but edged with something dangerous.
“Yeah, Jay, let’s do this. Can’t wait to find Uncle Ted and tell him what his son-in-law’s up to.”
Jordan turned again. Nolan was standing too, looking at him with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, cold and challenging, the kind of expression that begged for a reaction. A different sentiment grew in Jordan then: fury, hot and hard, surging up from the depths like something long suppressed finally breaking free. Part of him knew he should let it go, knew it was just his young cousin being dumb, reckless words from a kid who didn’t understand the cost. The fury wasn’t really aimed at Nolan; it was the accumulated weight of everything else searching for an outlet.
But the part that welcomed the feeling was bigger.
It was almost a relief, really, feeling something that wasn’t fear or shame or the slow, corrosive resentment that had been eating him alive. Pure, clean anger, burning bright and immediate, giving him something to grip onto. He looked at his cousin, at that smug, unearned smirk, and felt only the raw desire to wipe it from his face.
In a second, Jordan surged toward Nolan. He grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie, fingers twisting hard into the soft fabric, and easily slammed the kid back against the table with a force that rattled the silverware and sent Nolan’s plate crashing to the floor, shattering in sharp porcelain pieces that skittered across the marble. A couple of people at surrounding tables screamed, shocked gasps rising in the warm restaurant air, chairs scraping as diners turned to stare. Marco hurried toward them, scandalized, voice pitched high with alarm. “Mr. Cartwright, please!”, but Jordan ignored it all.
It felt so fucking good finally being able to do something.
“Dude, what the fuck! You crazy?” Nolan yelled.
His words were muffled and strained. Nolan’s face was pressed hard against the wooden tabletop, cheek squashed, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts. He sounded scared now, truly scared, like a kid who’d played with fire one too many times and finally felt the burn. That gave Jordan a dark, vicious satisfaction, a hot rush that coursed through him like relief, like justice. He wondered, distantly, if Uncle Nick had tried that approach, putting sense into Nolan with fists rather than his words. Jordan leaned in close, lips brushing Nolan’s ear, voice cold even as his entire body burned with rage.
“You fucking open that big mouth of yours to anyone,” he hissed, fingers twisted tight in the hoodie collar, “and I’m gonna bash your fucking face in so badly no one will ever wanna fuck you again. You hear me?”
“Let go of me, Jay!” Nolan yelled, voice cracking, body twisting futilely under Jordan’s weight.
Marco was yelling too now, voice pitched high with alarm, and someone at a nearby table yelled something about calling the cops. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except making sure Nolan understood, really understood, the line he’d crossed. Nolan tried to push up, arms flailing for leverage, but Jordan was stronger, fueled by something unstoppable. He slammed him back down against the table, harder this time, the impact rattling the silverware, Nolan’s breath whooshing out in a sharp gasp.
Jordan shook him hard, grip unrelenting.
“You fucking hear me?”
“Okay, Jesus fuck, I won’t say anything, you psycho,” Nolan gasped, voice close to tears now, all the earlier bravado gone, washed away when faced with something Daddy’s money couldn’t buy off.
“Mr. Cartwright, please,” Marco pleaded, closer now, hands raised placatingly. “If you keep this up, we will be forced to call the police.”
Jordan let Nolan go. His fingers uncurled from the hoodie collar, releasing the fabric with a sudden slackness that sent Nolan stumbling backward. The boy dropped to the floor in a clumsy heap, knees hitting the marble hard, scrambling away on his hands and heels in hasty retreat as if terrified Jordan might change his mind and surge forward again, the fear unmistakable in his eyes. Jordan looked at him for just a moment, Nolan’s flushed face, the way his chest heaved with panicked breaths, and shook his head, disgusted at sight. Fucking coward.
“That won’t be necessary, Marco,” he said as he passed the waiter, voice flat and drained, the words scraping his throat. “Sorry about the mess.”
He tapped the man twice on the shoulder, light, almost apologetic, and Marco cringed, shoulders hunching as if afraid he’d be next.
“He’ll get the bill.”
Sorry for the delay with this one. I hope the wait was worth it. Like usual, I’d really mean the world to me if you became a paid subscriber. Thanks for staying with Jordan. Trust me, you guys will not want to miss next chapter. https://substack.com/@jackstaggwrites
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