Disclaimer: I'm still working on a way to convince Tim Kring and associates to auction the rights of Crossing Jordan to the highest bidder, but it might take awhile. In the meantime, they ain't mine.

Author's Note: This is just a bit of drabble and with a little luck it will turn into a full fledged fic. I have no immediate plans for it, but thought I might as well go ahead a post it anyway. It was written awhile ago (sometime over the summer) so it's pretty much AU, but I suppose it could still work as a future fic if so inclined. Heh. Anyway, enjoy, I suppose.

Promise It Will

Prologue

Boston was cold in November. Damn near freezing in fact. Snow fell somberly from the gray, overcast sky, but seemed to disappear as it touched the ground below. Jordan Cavanaugh swore as the wind bit into her unprotected hands. She quickened her pace as she made her way to her car, the heels of her boots clicking against the hard pavement.

Jordan shivered and unlocked the door to her El Camino, throwing her two bags and guitar case into the worn back seat, where they landed with a dull thud. Climbing in herself, Jordan tried to start the engine. The old car put up a fight, but eventually gave in. As she sped down the road, she adjusted her rearview mirror, catching a glimpse at her reflection as she did so. Staring back at her was a pretty woman, with long, dark waves of hair and intense amber eyes that were somehow both warm and distant. Her mouth was drawn in a firm line and her lips pressed together tightly, a sort of saddened expression painted on her face.

She hadn't left a note this time. There wasn't any kind letter explaining where she'd be, why she'd done it, why she had run this time around. Because there was always a reason, whether Jordan wanted to admit it or not, there was always a reason. And this time that reason was Woodrow Hoyt.

She didn't know where she was going. And more over, she didn't really care. As long as it wasn't here. In fact, the farther away from Boston, from him, the better. Maybe someplace warm. Not Los Angeles, because she'd been there and done that a couple of times too many. Somewhere new, a fresh start without any lingering memories of his handsome face.

Jordan absently drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, her neck craning to see when the lazy traffic light would change from red to green. It began to snow more heavily, the flakes thick, and Jordan knew that winter had, just in those few moments, settled in Boston. She was almost sorry that she would miss it. Would it really be so awful to stay?

And then she could hear his voice echoing in her ear. Soft and slow at first, quickly becoming clipped and harsh, but always a whisper. "I don't love you Jordan. Not anymore. Maybe I never did." She forgot about pretty Boston winters and felt her foot push down hard on the pedal.

As she rounded the corner, tires screeching at the sharp turn, part of her brain told her that it was childish to run. The other half contemplated Florida or Texas. She wasn't sure which side was more reasonable, but stopped at the end of the block and pulled a worn map from the glove compartment. She traced her finger down both routes and briefly wondered if New York wasn't the way to go. It wouldn't be a long trip and if the other part of her brain really was right, the drive back could be made easily.

But is that what she wanted? An easy way out? A fallback, in case she remembered how blue his eyes were and how before he uttered words that broke her heart, she could get lost in them? She had always prided herself on not letting anyone even near her heart, lest it did in fact get broken. But she had now realized that it was infinitely worse when they got stuck in your head.

Jordan reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins along with a crumpled up receipt and a broken earring. She plucked a quarter out of the pile and dumped the rest of the contents back into her pocket. Jordan rolled the coin between her thumb and forefinger before lightly tossing into the air. It landed in her open palm where she jiggled it back and forth. She opened her fingers and stared intently at the quarter.

"Okay," she sighed. "Heads New York, tails Florida."

With a flick of her wrist, Jordan swiftly pitched the coin into the air and plucked it out just as quickly. She slapped her right hand, with the quarter clenched tightly inside, palm down on top of the left one. Slowly she lifted her slender fingers and saw George Washington smiling, somewhat mockingly, back at her.

"New York it is," Jordan announced to no one. She opened the glove compartment once more and flung both the map and the quarter inside.

Jordan revved the tired, sputtering engine and turned the corner, back onto the main road. She fiddled with the old radio dial, which crackled and spit before she found a decent station. Jordan bobbed her head in time with the light rock tune when her eyes caught, through the thick snow, a sign that cheerily stated that she was leaving Boston and to come back soon.