More than Friends - Monica Murphy (26 page)

I should push her away.

But I remain silent. She approaches me cautiously, like someone might approach a wild animal. No sudden movements, no words said. And then she’s there, directly in front of me, so close I can feel her body heat radiating toward me. A tentative hand rests on my chest, curls into the front placket of my button front shirt, and then she’s tugging me close. Resting her head on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around me.

Wrapping me up in her.

“My parents think I’m spending the night at Liv’s,” she says, her words like a promise.

I can keep her with me all night.

“I won’t be good company,” I admit, hating the shame I hear in my voice. I should have nothing to be ashamed of. Yet I am.

“I’ll take care of you,” she whispers against my neck. “I want to. Let me. Please.”

Those are the only words I need to hear.

H
e sneaks me into his house like we’re doing something naughty, which we are, because his mother is home and he doesn’t want her to know I’m here. I can hear my own mom’s voice droning in my head as Jordan leads me up the back staircase, reminding me I am worth more. No boy should treat me like I’m a secret. No matter how fun or illicit it sounds, he’s probably hiding me because he’s ashamed.

Of me.

I don’t really believe that’s the case with Jordan, but either way, I don’t care tonight. He’s hurting and I don’t like it. I want to take care of him. Make him feel better. Make him forget how angry his father just made him. Maybe, just maybe, I can get him to open up and talk to me.

He pulls me into his bedroom and shuts the door behind us, holding his finger to his lips before he starts to speak.

“I need to go downstairs and talk to her.”

“Your mom?” I frown.

“Yeah. I’m sure he’s already called her.”

My frown deepens. “You’re talking about your dad, right?” When he nods, I continue. “Really? Why would he do that?”

It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not used to manipulative people tricking each other, and I feel like that’s all I’ve been dealing with since I became friends with Livvy. Since I let Jordan Tuttle feel me up in his bedroom on a hot June night. Just after I caught my boyfriend cheating on me with my best friend.

Ugh. I’m stuck on repeat. I need to get over myself, and all the bad crap that’s happened to me. If I’m going to live in this new world of mine, I need to own it. Rise above it.

“My father is doing damage control. He talks to her first and manipulates the conversation. He can say whatever he wants and she’ll believe him. And I know he’ll make me out to be the bad guy,” Jordan explains. “I’m the one who caused a public spectacle in a full restaurant on a Saturday night, right?”

Well, he’s right. Meaning his father is right, too, which I hate to think. But Jordan is the one, after all, who called the woman with his father a whore. But there was so much animosity and anger bubbling just beneath the surface when those two locked eyes at the restaurant. It had been almost unbearable. The history, the pain, is long and buried deep, and I could feel it. Seeping its way into me, into everyone. I can’t judge. I don’t want to judge.

I want to be here for him as bet as I can.

“Go ahead,” I tell him softly. “Talk to her.” I’m still not sure if he really wants me here. He doesn’t even bother to kiss me before he exits his bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. I flop onto his neatly made bed and stare up at the dark ceiling. The starry ceiling that I remember from the summer. It’s velvety black, just like a night sky and when it’s powered on, tiny pinpricks of light shine among the velvet. He never turns on the lights anymore though, and I wonder why.

I wonder about a lot of things. He’s quiet. Closed off, even. We talk, and just when I get him to admit a few small things, he retreats. I wish I knew more. I’m going all in with this relationship, yet he’s pushing me away.

Makes me worry I’m going to get hurt, just like with Thad.

Only worse. What I felt for Thad doesn’t even come close to what I feel for Jordan.

My phone buzzes and I grab it to find a text message from Livvy.

Are you okay? Ryan said he would come pick you up if you don’t want to stay the night at Tuttle’s or if you’re uncomfortable. We’re both worried about you.

Aw. Just when I think those two are completely wrapped up in each other and don’t care about anyone else, they go and do something like this. I’m touched.

I’m good so far. But I hope the offer stands for the next few hours? Just in case…

You got it babe. Text anytime. xoxo

I send her some x’s and o’s back along with some kissy faced emojis and then start scrolling through my phone. Instagram—boring. Facebook—I don’t even bother checking because, what? I’ll see photos from my mom’s friends and video recipes and crap? No thanks. I open up Snapchat to check out people’s stories and see Brianne Brown posted endless photos of her and Dustin kissing. I swear I see shiny pink tongues in a few of the shots. Gross. Hope Liv steers clear of Snapchat tonight.

Somehow I am still following Lauren Mancini and she’s following me. It was all innocent good fun when we first became friends on Snapchat. I did it because I know her brother Sam. He was in band with me and is generally a nice person—unlike his older sister. I liked seeing all of her photos. Her life seemed so glamorous and far-reaching to me. As in, I could never reach it.

The photo I see that she’s included as part of her story sets my heart to pounding—and not in a good way either.

It’s her and Jordan in their homecoming court regalia. Her sparkling tiara on her head, his cheap ass crown tilted to the side on his. They’re dancing. Someone else took the photo and must’ve sent it to her. The caption on the photo is completely ridiculous.

#tbt but not Thursday so maybe just #tb? King & Queen never looked so good. #bestnighteverrrrr #homecoming #seniors #jordanandlauren

She is freaking unbelievable.

It’s the Jordan and Lauren hashtag that makes me want to tear her hair out like a jealous wench. Worse, though? I have zero reason to be jealous. Who’s the one spending so much time with Jordan these last few weeks? Who’s the one who’s lying on Jordan’s bed at this very moment?

Me.

I sit up and glance around, trying to find something obvious, that will clue people into the fact that I’m in Jordan’s bedroom. He doesn’t have many personal items in his room. In fact, it’s pretty bare and impersonal, which as always, makes me sad. The two photos on his dresser are actually lying facedown and I wonder when he did that.

It’s a total invasion of privacy, but I end up wandering around his room. I peek in drawers and immediately shut them because it’s wrong, what I’m doing. I enter his closet and am overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. How much clothing does a guy need? I guess Jordan Tuttle needs a lot. When I find some of his jerseys hanging on the bottom rung, I pull one off the hanger and hold it up in front of me.

It’s huge.

Going on pure instinct, I kick off my sandals and then shuck off my dress, pulling the navy-and-white jersey over my head, not surprised when the hem falls to the top of my thighs. An idea is brewing in my head. A bad one, but I want to go through with it. I’m feeling vindictive and rotten and evil. What I’m doing is ridiculous, and Jordan might not like it at all.

But I don’t care.

I cut through his bedroom, swipe my phone off the bed where I left it, and head into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I run my fingers through my hair until it’s a tousled and possibly sexy mess, and then I pose, snapping a photo with the camera.

Looking at the photo, I realize it’s not good enough. The message isn’t quite clear.

So I take a few more, then turn around so my back is to the camera.
Tuttle
is emblazoned across my shoulders, the number eight covering almost my entire back. Tuttle’s number. I’m looking over my shoulder, see that my butt is almost showing, and I realize right then,
this
is the photo I need to capture.

I open up Snapchat and take at least twenty selfies, deleting every single one of them until I finally settle on the one that works the best. Before I lose my nerve, I caption it quickly:

How I’m spending my Saturday night. #seniors #8isgreat #propertyof #CuddlewithTuttle

And then send to all of my friends.

He’s probably going to kill me.

“Mandy.” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Hey. Come on. Wake up.”

I sit up straight, blinking my eyes open to find Jordan perched on the edge of the bed, an indescribable look on his too gorgeous face. His eyes are still dark and he looks tired. There’s this dangerous air around him, like he’s simmering just below the surface and about to blow.

I push my hair out of my face and rub my eyes with my fists before remembering I still have lots of makeup on.

Great. Now I probably look like a raccoon.

“What time is it?” I ask groggily.

“Almost eleven. Sorry that took so long.” He doesn’t look sorry, though. He still looks angry. Maybe even angrier than before.

Unease trickles down my spine. “Should I go?”

“Do you want to?” His hostile tone is too much for sleepy me to deal with at the moment.

“I can, yeah. Clearly you don’t want me here.” I realize I’m lying under the covers. And I’m still in his jersey, which is going to be super-awkward in about two seconds, but screw it. I throw the covers off and climb out of his bed, note the shock on his face when he catches sight of me in his jersey and nothing else, but I ignore it.

I need to find my shoes, put my dress back on, grab my purse and get the hell out of here.

“You’re really going to leave?” he asks incredulously.

“I probably should, don’t you think?” I call over my shoulder as I make my way to his closet. My dress is still in a heap on the floor, and my sandals are in there too. I grab the dress, ready to change, but he’s standing in the doorway, watching me. “Um, do you mind?”

“Do I mind what?”

“I want to change.” I hold the dress up.

He leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. “Go ahead.”

“Privately?” I wave him away, but he doesn’t budge.