More than Friends - Monica Murphy

by Monica Murphy

“It’ll start,” I tell him, sounding more confident than I feel. Sometimes my car won’t start. Back when my older brother was still in high school and drove the car that eventually became mine, he’d always leave the lights on and drain the battery. I try my best to never do that, but sometimes other things happen. The car is almost as old as me. So I can’t always count on it.

  “He should’ve waited.”

  I ignore his statement. This isn’t about Blake ditching me. It’s about Tuttle lurking in the parking lot waiting for me. “Why are you even here?”

  “Thank God I am. Otherwise you could’ve been left stranded.” Again he avoids my question. He’s really good at that.

  “I’m not stranded. My car will start.”

  “Prove it.”

  Heaving an exasperated sigh, I unlock my door and climb in, pushing my key into the ignition with a little more force than necessary. Whispering “sorry” under my breath—because yes, I do talk to my car sometimes, thank you very much—I turn the key and the engine starts right up.

  I roll down my window and smile triumphantly, not surprised to see him approaching my car. “See? Told you so.”

  He looks like he’s been socked in the chest as hard as possible. Weird. Did he really think my car wouldn’t start? What would he do then? Gloat? “Good. Now get out of here.”

  My scowl feels extra scowly and I aim it right at him. “Why aren’t you with your girlfriend?”

  His frown is almost comical. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Are you dense?” I roll my eyes, immediately feeling guilty for insulting him. “Lauren Mancini.”

  “There’s nothing between Lauren and I.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Roll up the window, Amanda. Put the car in drive and get the hell out of here. Now. Before you do something stupid.

  But I don’t. I just stare at him from where I sit, and he stares at me. He grips the top of the car, his torso filling the empty window space, and I blink up at him, hyper aware of just how close he is. How we’re the only two people in this parking lot.

  How it feels like we’re the only two people on this entire planet.

  “I wanted you there tonight,” he says, his voice dangerously low. Everything about him is dangerous, even his stupid eyelashes because they’re long and thick and lush and sexy, and it’s just not fair that he has eyelashes like that.

  “Why? So you could rub it into my face when you won homecoming king and Lauren won queen? We both know I’d never have a shot,” I say bitterly. I hate that I just said that. I don’t care about that stuff. I never have. Before this school year, I knew where I stood socially and I still do. Sort of. The hierarchy is pretty straightforward and I was right in the middle of it.

  Now, I feel lost. Untethered. I have no group, no one to belong to. And I say silly things I don’t mean.

  “I like it when you’re there. You’re like my good luck charm.” He hesitates and I wonder if I should be insulted that he called me a charm. “I play better when you’re at my games.”

  Ugh. I shouldn’t react like what he said was sweet. “You don’t really believe that.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, now Lauren can be your good luck charm.” The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. “And your dance partner.” Supposedly he never goes to dances. Supposedly he hosts one of his big parties after every home game. It’s a tradition.

  So why isn’t he at his house now, having one of his blow-out bashes?

  “I didn’t go to that stupid dance with Lauren,” he tells me. “That was never the plan.”

  “I don’t even care what your plan is,” I retort, and I mean it. Sort of. As best as I can. “Good night, Tuttle.”

  I’m about to roll up the window, but he just stands there, looking as if he’s struggling to say something else. He looks…unsure. That’s a look I’ve never seen him wear before.

  “So that’s it. You’re never going to call me Jordan anymore?” he finally asks.

  I glare at him. “Isn’t that Lauren’s privilege now?”

  He takes a step back as if I slapped him and I take my opportunity, rolling up the window, putting the car into drive before I pull out of the parking lot.

  My eyes stay glued to the rearview mirror the entire time. He never moves from the spot where I left him, not even a twitch or a flick of his hand.

  I watch him until he finally fades into the black.

  Fades into nothingness.

  The moment I open my locker door Monday morning, the note falls out, fluttering to the floor. I dive down and grab it, holding the precisely folded square of paper clutched against my palm, the sharp edges of paper cutting into my skin.

  I shove a couple of books in my locker and then glance around, making sure no one else is nearby who might want to know what the note says.

  Like Livvy. She’s nosy like that, but I’d be the same way if someone were leaving her mysterious notes in her locker, so who am I to judge?

  Carefully I unfold the paper, letting the open locker door be my shield. It’s typed out, not handwritten, like the sender wanted to be anonymous. Who could it be? God, what if it’s Blake? He acts a little awestruck when he’s around me, and I wonder if he has a crush.

  I hope not. He’s a nice guy, but the feelings aren’t reciprocated.

  Once I start reading the note, though, I know exactly who sent it.

  The torture is slowly killing me. That I can be around her, yet not have her, is twisting me up inside. She is forbidden. Untouchable. Off limits. But she is everything to me. She is the sun and the moon and the stars—everything bright and shiny and unstoppable.

  But she is also the threatening calm before the storm, the wind that howls with anger, the rain that pounds the ground. She is love and light and sweetness and darkness and anger and passion.

  She is all I could ever want.

  “What do you think?”

  I jump about a mile at hearing Tuttle’s question so close to my ear, and I turn to glare at him after slamming my locker door shut. “You wrote this?” I try to sound surprised, but I knew it was him once I started reading. The tortured Romeo to my Juliet.

  He looks offended. “Of course, I wrote it. As Romeo.”

  “You could’ve sent it to me in an email.” I start to walk and good Lord, he follows me. The crowd parts for us, but that’s because of him. He’s their god, walking among mere mortals.

  “Who uses email anymore?” Says the guy who typed it out and used a printer. Talk about old-fashioned.

  “Then you could’ve texted it to me.” I hurry my steps, but that doesn’t faze him. His legs are long and his strides are too, so I’m huffing and puffing trying to outpace him while he practically glides through the halls.

  So frustrating.

  “I thought this way was more creative.” I glance over at him, and he’s smirking. He’s both adorable and annoying when he smirks. “Did you like it?”

  I stop at the end of the hall and so does he. He stands in front of me, his body like a shield, as if he wants to protect me from everyone rushing past us. Someone jostles him as they pass by and he takes advantage, stepping closer, and I shift. Press my back against the wall while he rests his hand on the wall above my head.

  To the casual observer, we look like we’re a couple. Clearly together. Having an intimate conversation. But we’re not.

  I need to remember that.

  The way he’s watching me, waiting for my answer, it’s as if he’s seeking my approval. And I can’t help but find that endearing, even though I’m still pissed about the homecoming crap, the way he lurked around the Yo Town parking lot Friday night in the guise of protecting me.

  Deep down inside, I liked it. It felt like he made an undeclared choice with that gesture. He doesn’t want Lauren Mancini.

  He wants me.

  But I’m probably reading too much into it, so I push that thought out of my head.

  “When
did you write it?” I ask him, tilting my head back so I can look into his eyes.

  Big mistake. His gaze meets mine, and it’s like he’s actually touching me. I can read all of his thoughts and they’re focused on me. “Last night.”

  “I—I like it. It’s short but thoughtful and just the tiniest bit sad. I could really feel Romeo’s yearning for Juliet.” He stares at me, silent for so long I want to dash away. “Um, I need to get to class, so—” I try to duck under his arm.

  Jordan grabs hold of me, keeping me in place. Keeping me close. His fingers gently squeeze my arm as he says, “It’s your turn.”

  “What?”

  “Now you need to write from Juliet’s perspective. About her feelings toward Romeo.” He raises a brow. “That’s what Mrs. Meyer wanted, right?”

  I nod, unable to speak. He’s still holding onto me. And I don’t want him to let me go. Stupid boy. Stupid hormones.

  “Text me your entry tonight.” His voice drops, low and sexy and crazy making. “You know where to find me.”

  And then he’s gone.

  “Thought you said there’s nothing going on between you two.”

  I shake my head, shake myself out of my daze, and turn to find Em next to me.

  “There’s not.” My voice is shaky. A dead giveaway that he affects me and I’m nervous that Em heard it. Saw that. She could use it against me. I don’t trust her. I believe the stories Livvy tells me. I may feel sorry for Em, but I also know she’s manipulative.

  For all I know, she’s manipulating me. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Whatever. He looked totally into you. And he’s never into anyone.” I start walking and she follows. “So, um, did you talk to Livvy? About me?”

  I’m surprised she’s asking. She’s not one for forthright and truthful. “We talked about you on…Wednesday, I think it was? Maybe Thursday.”

  “Oh.” Her face falls. “I haven’t heard from her.”

  “Give her time. She’s trying to work up the courage to reach out to you.” I don’t know if that’s the case. It sounds bogus, especially because Livvy’s been on lockdown for the last week. Her mom relented and let her go to the homecoming game, but she wouldn’t let Livvy go to the dance, which crushed her.

  But she got her phone back this morning and all restrictions are lifted, so hopefully she’ll be in a better mood. Girl was grouchy this weekend.

  “I thought she was just busy with Ryan,” Em mutters under her breath. Her expression brightens when she catches me looking at her. “I went to the dance and Livvy wasn’t there. Neither were you.”

  “I was working. Liv was grounded.”

  “Oh.” Em’s cheeks color and I hope she’s remembering that she was the reason Livvy was grounded. She ratted Liv out to her mother that we were staying the night at Ryan’s house the weekend of his birthday party, unsupervised. When Livvy’s mom showed up to take her home, I wanted to die. All I could think about was my mom or dad finding me like that—a disheveled mess after sleeping in the same bed with Jordan and wearing only his T-shirt.

  My skin warms at the memory.

  “Tuttle didn’t even have his homecoming after party. It was so weird.” Em sends me a look. “Were you two together or what?”

  “We weren’t together.” I shake my head. “I know nothing about a party.”

  “I figured you and Tuttle might’ve become the party,” Em says, grinning. “Or had your own intimate party.”

  “Ha. Funny,” I say with full on sarcasm as I slow to a stop in front of my homeroom door. Em stops with me. “Listen, you have a lot to make up for too, you know. You’ve done some shitty things, and Liv’s hurt. I know she’s done some awful things too, but the both of you can’t go on damaging each other like this.”

  Em scowls, clearly irritated. “Who died and made you peacemaker?”

  I roll my eyes and start to head into my class. I don’t need to put up with this.

  Em chases me inside, coming to a halt directly in front of Cannon Whittaker’s desk. “Oh. Hey.”

  “Hey.” He hardly looks at her. The best linebacker at our school, Cannon is a huge guy who barely fits behind the desk he’s currently sitting in. He has a player reputation like all the other guys on the football team, but he’s never been anything but nice to me. Not that we’re in a lot of classes together or that he’s ever shown any interest, but still.

  “Well.” Em turns, flashing me a bright, almost manic smile. Her eyes are wide and unblinking and I wonder at the quick transformation. “Thanks for the advice, Amanda. You’re such a big help, as always.” She wags her fingers in Cannon’s direction. “Bye,” she says before she runs out of my homeroom.

  My gaze meets Cannon’s. “Are you guys friends?”

  He snorts and shakes his head. “No.” His cheeks go red. So does his neck.

  Hmmm.

  The day drags. I blame it on being a Monday. There’s a pop quiz in my government class, but I think I mostly ace it. Lunch turns into a nightmare. An unexpected heat wave has made people cranky—myself included—and all the seniors decide to grab food off campus. I planned on getting something quick at a drive thru somewhere by myself but decide I don’t want to deal with the traffic jam headache.

  I’m making my way out of the parking lot when Jordan Tuttle’s Range Rover pulls up alongside me. The tinted window rolls down, revealing there’s no one else in the car.

  Just Jordan.

  “Where you going?” He’s wearing sunglasses, but he shoves them on top of his head so I can see those pretty eyes of his.

  “Back to the quad.”

  He makes a face. “It’s hot as hell outside. Come with me.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to get in his car. I’ll say something dumb. Or worse, I’ll do something dumb. Something I’ll regret.

  “Come on, Mandy. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  My stomach growls at the word lunch, but I shake my head again.

  “We can work on our project together,” he suggests, like that’s going to tempt me.

  “I’m not going to write Juliet’s diary entry in front of you,” I snap, surprised he’d even suggest it.

  Now he’s frowning. “Get in the car.” I hear the doors unlock and he studies me with that quiet yet powerful look he’s perfected. The one that says, do as I say.

  Heaving a big sigh, I round the front of the car and open the passenger side door, plopping my butt into the seat. “There.” I turn to look at him after I shut the door. “Happy?”

  “Very.” He pulls his sunglasses back on, puts the vehicle in drive and off we go, speeding through the parking lot and pulling out through the entrance-only side and onto the street.

  “Jordan!” I did not mean to say his name out loud, but jeez. He’s gonna get in trouble for pulling a stunt like that.

  He grins at me and presses the gas hard, speeding down the road toward the restaurants all of us students frequent during lunchtime and after school. “Loosen up, Winters. You only have one life. Learn how to live it.”

  My hands ball into fists in my lap. I can’t believe he just said that. He’s so infuriating sometimes. “Are you saying I don’t know how to live my life?” He doesn’t even know me. Not really. Not well enough to give me that sort of advice.

  “No.” He keeps his eyes trained on the road before him. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t be scared. You need to learn how to take more risks.”

  I’ve taken more risks these past few months than I ever have in my entire life. “I’m a planner. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Tuttle says nothing, implying there’s everything wrong with that, but whatever.

  “Were you really going to lunch by yourself?” I finally ask.

  “I didn’t want to. I was taking a risk and hoping I could find you.”

  I sag against my soft leather seat. He’s exhausting. Now it’s my turn to not have a response.

  “Do you want anything in particular?”

  Sha
king my head, I tell him, “You decide,” and he doesn’t argue with me. He pulls into In-N-Out, goes straight to the drive thru and lets me make my own order at the speaker.

  “You mind eating in the car?” he asks after we finish ordering.

  “Not if you don’t. Though I can’t guarantee I won’t spill anything.”

  He smiles, and it’s breathtaking. He just doesn’t do it enough, I swear. “I’m not scared.”

  I bet he’s not.

  Jordan pays and grabs our food, handing me the bags and my drink. I take a sip and set it in the drink holder in the center console, quiet as he pulls out of the parking lot and starts driving farther away from school. I don’t know where he’s taking us, and I don’t want to ask. I also don’t want to freak out, but the farther we get, the longer it’ll take for us to return to campus. And I don’t want to be late to fifth period.

  Finally, he pulls into a parking lot of a small neighborhood park. It’s been around for a while, you can tell by all the tall trees and the worn out playground, but it’s quiet and mostly empty. He parks the car in the shade and shuts off the engine, the sound of the satellite radio playing softly in the background.

  I divvy out the food, giving him his burger and fries, trying to keep myself busy. I’m nervous. My hands are shaking and my appetite left me the moment I took hold of those bags, despite the delicious smell wafting from them. With grim determination I pull out my burger and stare at it, wondering how I’m going to choke this down.

  It’s so frustrating, how he affects me. How I let him affect me. I shouldn’t give him so much power.

  “It won’t bite you,” he says softly, and I jerk my head toward him, the amused look on his face making me feel dumb. “I thought you were hungry.”

  “I told you I wasn’t hungry.” Well, I didn’t actually say it out loud. I only shook my head.

  “I heard your stomach growl.”

  Ugh. My cheeks grow hot. “I’m not hungry anymore,” I mutter.

  “Why not?” He takes a bite of his cheeseburger, and I don’t know how he does it, but he makes even that sexy.

  What can I say to him? Can I tell him the truth?

  You make me nervous. You make me self-conscious. What if I get sauce on my chin? What if I drip ketchup on my shirt? What if I take a drink of my Coke and slurp on the straw by accident? What if you watch me eat and think it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen in your life?