More than Friends - Monica Murphy (25 page)

Jordan frowns at the server. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.” He bobs his head up and down in some strange display of manic behavior. “Perhaps you would like to join him?”

“Perhaps another time,” Jordan says coolly, glaring at the waiter until he finally slinks off.

“What the hell was that about?” Ryan asks once the server’s out of earshot. “I don’t think I’ve seen your dad ever.”

“You haven’t known him very long,” Liv says just before she turns to Jordan. “Though I haven’t seen your father much either, and I’ve known you for what feels like forever.”

She’s right. I’ve gone to school with Jordan Tuttle since the dawn of time and I’ve yet to see his dad materialize anywhere. Not at open houses or back to school nights. Not at evening plays or holiday programs. Not at any of his football games, not at honor roll assemblies, not at any of it.

“He’s out of town a lot,” Jordan says through clenched teeth. I see a tic in his firm jaw, his eyes so dark they almost look black. He’s angry. I can feel the emotion radiating off of his tense body in giant waves. “Not big on family time.”

I want to reach out and touch him, offer some comfort, but he looks like he might shatter if I so much as say something, let alone touch him.

The next few minutes are agony. Liv and I try to make small talk, but it’s uncomfortable. Ryan has completely checked out and focuses on his phone. Jordan sits as still as a statue, only his eyes scanning the room every few minutes, like he’s trying to prepare for that excruciating moment when his dad will pop out of the background and terrorize all of us.

When the waiter returns with our appetizer, Jordan places my order as well as his own, offering me a tight smile after he finishes. The moment the server dashes off, Liv is setting her napkin on the table and sending me a look.

“I need to use the ladies,” she sing-songs. “Want to come with, Amanda?”

Nodding, I push out of my chair and set the cloth napkin on my chair before I follow Livvy to the back of the restaurant, where the bathrooms are. The moment we slip inside, Livvy zooms over to the giant mirror, checking her reflection before pulling a MAC Lip Glass out of her tiny purse and applying the gloss to her lips.

“Your boy got super tense,” she says, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror.

I go to the spot next to her and wash my hands. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Clearly he has daddy issues.” The knowing look she sends me makes my blood simmer.

I don’t answer. Her comment is rude. She
totally
has daddy issues, so who is she to talk? Or judge?

Maybe going on a double date with Ryan and Livvy was a big mistake.

I
wish I had a drink. No mixed drink either. I need something strong, straight up. I don’t care what kind of alcohol, I need something to take the edge off. Soften me up. Instead I’m tense as hell, clutching my water glass so tight I bet it could shatter if I squeezed just a little more tighter. Ryan is trying his best to make conversation with me, but my terse responses—or worse, lack of response—is crapping him right out. To the point he’d rather pay attention to his phone while we wait for the girls to come back from the restroom.

Talking about me, I’d bet. Wondering at my reaction. My over-the-top behavior. I can hear Livvy now, wondering why I’m so cranky. I can hear Amanda too, defending me, saying I must be upset.

She would be correct.

My father is here, in this very restaurant on a Saturday night, when he should be home with my mother. His wife. Meaning he’s in town, with someone else instead of coming home—something he does a lot. I haven’t seen him in weeks. And the last time we actually made real eye contact, he was on his way out of the house as I was walking in. When he caught sight of me, his eyebrows had risen and he’d appeared surprised. Like he forgot I even existed.

My biggest dream is to forget his existence, but it never works. The rat bastard always pops up in the most inconvenient places.

Like this stupid restaurant while I’m on this stupid double date, when I wish I could be at home alone with Amanda.

I think of her and she magically appears. I watch as she and Livvy make their way back to our table. Heads turn as both girls pass, and I clutch my right hand into a fist, feeling protective. Primitive. I never feel that way about anyone, least of all some girl.

But she’s not just some girl. She’s Amanda Winters. I’ve had a ridiculous crush on her for years. Not just for her beauty—and she’s pretty, don’t get me wrong—but it’s her mind that I’m attracted to. She’s smart. And funny. She makes me smile and she makes me think. She challenges me. Half the time I think she doesn’t like me and that is a fucking challenge like no other. These last few weeks we’ve spent a lot of time together, and I am determined to make her fall in love with me.

Though what will that get us? Get her? Pain? Unhappiness? I don’t believe in love, not really. So why would I torture her—and myself?

I tell myself I don’t need her. But the more time we spend together, the more I’m starting to believe that’s not true.

They draw closer and I watch Mandy walk, her hips swaying gently. The dress she wears clings to her like a second skin, turning her body into long lines and subtle curves. I remember the times I’ve touched that body. How responsive she always is. The sounds she makes.

I need to quit reminiscing or I’ll be sporting a major boner soon. But I can’t stop thinking about her, about having her in my house, my room, my bed...

Makes me want to keep doing it. Keep her. Which is ridiculous. That sort of thing is what fucks up your life. Falling for someone, needing someone—you’ll only end up getting hurt.

I’ll be hurt. She will be too. This won’t end well.

Yet I can’t stop it.

She settles into the chair next to mine and I can smell her fragrance, delicate and sweet and infinitely Amanda. She smiles at me, her eyes full of fear, and I know I’ve acted like an asshole since I heard my father is here, but I can’t help myself. I won’t be able to ease the edge until I see him.

Or the edge will get sharper. More painful.

“Try the appetizer,” I tell Amanda when she just keeps staring at me with those big brown eyes. She looks like she wants to either comfort me or run screaming from the building.

I’d advise her to do the latter, but I’m selfish. I want to keep her near me.

“Is it good?” She sounds, looks unsure.

I take a thin cracker from the plate and dip it into the goat cheese and jalapeno jelly mix, then hold the cracker in front of her lush mouth. “Try it.”

Her lips slowly part and I feed her the cracker. She chews thoughtfully, the tension slowly leaving her expressive face just before she swallows. “That was delicious.”

“Told you.” I turn away from her and point at the appetizer, saying to Ryan and Livvy, “Eat up.”

They do as I ask like puppets on a string. But I can tell they’re enjoying the food. And they only jumped at my command because they know I’m a pissed off ball of rage.

“Jordan.” Amanda’s soft whisper curls through my blood, settles in my balls because as mad as I am, I still want her. “Are you all right?”

“Never better.” I give her the best smile I can muster, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. “Why would anything be wrong with me?”

“You can be honest with me.” She rests her hand on my thigh and her touch burns in the best way possible. “If you need to talk…”

“I’m good.” I settle my hand over hers and give it a squeeze, then remove mine. She frowns, like she wanted me to keep holding her hand, but I can’t. Looking happy with my father nearby would be a sign of weakness. He’ll see it and drive a stake right into my heart.

Or Amanda’s. And I refuse to let that happen.

“Are you sure?” She moves her hand from my leg and I immediately miss her touch.

“I said I was fine.” My voice is clipped and the hurt on her face is undeniable.

To anyone else—to Amanda—I look like I’m overacting. So what if my father is here tonight? Who cares?

But I care. I have my sneaking suspicions, and if he makes an appearance, if he comes out of that private back room I know he requests so he can dine in private and bring his special dinner “guests”—mistresses, sluts, whores, whatever you want to call them—I might take all of my rage out on him. Let him know exactly how I feel.

You’d think the old man would already know, but I’m not too sure about that. I think Mom has hidden my animosity toward my father for a long time as a way to—what? Protect him?

Whatever. That guy doesn’t deserve
any
protection.

Minutes later our salads are brought out and I pick at mine. I quietly offer the waiter two hundred bucks to bring all of us mixed drinks, preferably heavy on the whiskey, but he wavers too long so I snatch the offer back. Screw this guy if he can’t meet a simple request.

“Son. What are you doing here this evening?”

I slowly lift my head to find him standing by our table, with a hot blonde who doesn’t look much older than us hanging on his arm.

Emerson Tuttle, in the flesh. An older version of me, which I hate. I look just like him. When I’m older I will be his mirror image. I will have the same dignified silver at my temples and the broad shoulders, and I will wear an expensive designer suit because I’m a Tuttle and we’re expected to do no less.

“Who’s your friend, Dad?” My voice is falsely cheerful and he knows it.

The smile on his face is tight, though his eyes are cold as ice. Eyes the same color as mine, though I swear his are colder.

“I could ask the same of you, Jordan.”

Huh. I’m surprised he even remembers my name.

“I asked first.”

“She’s a co-worker,” he starts but I laugh. The sound is unpleasant, harsh in the silence that has taken over our table. I quiet immediately, sending him a disbelieving look.

“Give me a break, Dad. We know what’s going on here,” I say bitterly.

His smile cracks. Fades into nothingness. “Don’t disrespect me in public.”

“Why not? You’re disrespecting Mom in public right now. At least I don’t put my whores on display for everyone to see.”

The woman gasps, my father growls, but I don’t give a shit. I’m done. I push out of the chair, toss my cloth napkin on my salad plate and glare at my father.

“Have a great evening.” I pull my wallet out of my back pocket, peel off a few one hundred dollar bills and let them flutter to the table. “Sorry,” I mutter to my friends at the table before I walk out of the restaurant.

I’m halfway to my car when I hear someone call my name.

Turning, I watch as Amanda comes running toward me. She stops a few feet away, like she’s afraid to get too close. Her expressive face is full of concern, her eyes full of pain—for me. And that touches my heart more than I’d want to admit. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. You should go home with them,” I tell her.

Her expression falls and she does nothing to cover it up. She is the most openly honest person I’ve ever known. “You want to be alone tonight?”

I struggle with my answer. I should be alone. I’m angry and I won’t be good company. Mom is home and she’ll take one look at my face and know something bad happened. Then she’ll probably want to talk, while bombed out on pills, and maybe she’s already a few drinks in. My life is a fucking disaster. I shouldn’t let Amanda witness any of it.