Forever: A Friends Novel

by Monica Murphy

  His words suddenly sink in and I blink up at him. “What did you just say?” Did he really apologize?

  “I said I’m sorry. I won’t call you Mandy anymore.” His gaze is imploring as he studies me. “Why did you say that earlier?”

  The swift change of subject is jarring. “What are you talking about?”

  “Earlier, at the game. You told me you missed me. It was so—unexpected.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know how to answer you.”

  “So you thought the smart move was to say nothing? Thanks for that, by the way, because you made me feel incredibly stupid.” Like how I feel right now, being trapped in this tiny room with him, where he seems to suck up all the air with just his mere presence.

  “I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid. I was the stupid one to walk away like that.”

  I snort in response and his lips curl into the faintest smile. His perfect face is too perfect, and ugh. It’s positively unfair how gorgeous he is. It’s also unfair how I can be so ready to forgive him when he offers me up the smallest smile as his apology.

  He’s stingy with those smiles. And he’s even stingier with his laughter.

  “You were stupid,” I agree, removing my hand from his knee. I need to stop touching him. We’re too close, this moment feels too intimate and I need to make it stop. Create some distance.

  “I’m always afraid whatever I say to you will fuck it all up,” he admits in a low whisper. “So most of the time, I think it’s best to say nothing at all.”

  “Yes, and you somehow still manage to fuck it up, even when you’re quiet.” His eyes go wide at me dropping the f-bomb and I smile, rather pleased with myself. It’s not easy to shock the unshockable Jordan Tuttle.

  “I’m starting to realize that,” he says.

  “Please. There are a lot of things you don’t realize.” I pause. “A ton.”

  He arches a dark brow. “Like what?”

  Men. They always want facts.

  “You don’t seem to ever realize my feelings.”

  He says nothing.

  “You don’t realize that it’s not a bad thing, having a girlfriend.” I glance down, running my fingers over the bag of melting ice, before my gaze returns to his.

  His eyes are lighting up at the mention of the word girlfriend, but he’s not getting an easy pass.

  Not even close.

  “You don’t realize that you had someone who would’ve always been in your corner, fighting for you no matter what. Nope, you let that slip right through your fingers like the idiot you are.” He flinches at my harsh words and I only feel a little guilty. I’m getting to him. My words are bothering him and that’s a good sign.

  “So what you’re saying is that I can’t get you—it back.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You’ve lost the privilege.”

  Jordan frowns. “I can’t even earn it back?”

  “How? You’ve stomped all over it.” All over me. All over my freaking heart. “There’s really no way to get it back.”

  “I want to try.” He says this so quietly, I have to lean forward just to semi-hear him.

  “Are you serious?” Unable to stop myself, I start laughing. Oh, he’s hilarious, this guy. “Do you even know how to do that?”

  “Do what?” His frown deepens.

  “Try.”

  Everything comes so easy for him. Or at least, it seems to come easy. Maybe some things are hard for Jordan. This has been hard on him. What we’re doing. Or at least, I think it’s been hard on him.

  I hope it’s been hard on him. If not, then he’s inhuman.

  “Not very well,” he says truthfully, along with a halfhearted shrug. “Things are just…given to me. It’s been that way my entire life. I’ve rarely had to fight for anything. The football scholarship I want to earn to the school of my choice, and you. Those are the two hardest things I’ve ever had to fight for.” He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “And I feel like I’m losing both battles.”

  “You’re losing this particular battle.” I point my thumb at my chest, indicating myself. “But I think you already know that.”

  He says nothing. Just watches me with that pitiful little boy look he’s perfected.

  “I think I need to be alone for a little while. Just so I can close my eyes and rest for a few minutes before you take me home.” More like I need some time by myself so I can go over what he just said to me.

  He doesn’t so much as budge. In fact, he shifts closer, his body nudging against mine, and I’m tempted to shove him off the bed.

  But I don’t.

  “A few minutes? Please?”

  Jordan gives the slowest shake of his head I think I’ve ever seen.

  “Seriously?” I lift my hands palms up in pure frustration. “Are you holding me captive now? Is this how low you’ll go to keep me in the same room as you?”

  “I’ll go even lower if I have to. Hold you down, tie you up, whatever it takes to convince you that I mean it. That I want to fight for you. That I want—you.” He sort of chokes out that last word, and I suppose him saying the word out loud should set my heart aflutter but forget it.

  That stumble over the word you has thoroughly pissed me off.

  “You talk a good game. But you never come through. Ever.” I shake my head but stop because it hurts. I’m going to have a killer headache tomorrow. “How is it you can throw all of those amazing touchdowns, yet you can’t seem to ever score a girlfriend?”

  His nostrils flare, and I wonder if I made him angry. “I haven’t met anyone I wanted to make my girlfriend before.”

  “Seriously?” I still have a hard time believing these sorts of statements when they come from him.

  “Seriously.” He hesitates, his expression softening. “Until I met you.”

  “Please.” I snort, not caring if I sound unladylike. He’s the one who sent me sprawling to the ground with his elbow. So now he gets to see me through all my good and bad moments. “Stop lying to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Whatever.” I grab the bag of ice, but it’s wet and most of the ice has melted. I drop it to the ground, feeling vaguely guilty I’m getting the carpet wet.

  “Haven’t we had this argument before?” he drawls.

  This, of course, reminds me of our stupid argument in the guest bathroom at his house. The night he thought Eli Bennett kissed me.

  “Please.” The anger slips from my voice, replaced by sadness. “Just leave me alone for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll take you home right now.” He touches my arm, making my skin tingle. “You need to rest.”

  “I need to get away from you,” I mutter, sucking in a shocked breath when he shifts position so he’s sitting next to me on the narrow bed and I’m practically in his lap, my back to his front, my head resting on his broad shoulder.

  How did this even happen?

  What’s worse is that I’m enjoying it, being in Jordan’s arms again. I sort of melt into him like I can’t help myself.

  Which I think is my biggest problem.

  “You don’t want to talk?” he asks softly. I can feel his breath stir the hair at my temple, and oh God, it feels so good, sitting like this.

  “There’s nothing more we can talk about,” I say weakly.

  “You’re right.” He leans forward, nuzzling the side of my face with his. “Then let’s not waste our breath talking.”

  His hand cups my cheek and turns my head toward his, and then we’re kissing. His lips are soft and seeking, never pushing too hard, and I forget about everything. The fight. The elbow to my eye. Falling onto my butt in front of everyone.

  All I can focus on is the texture of Jordan’s lips, how damp and warm they are as they press against mine. How natural it feels to be sitting with him like this, his hand on my face, my hand on his chest.

  This is dangerous for my well-being. So dangerous. Yet I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

  “Jordan,” I whispe
r when his lips drift across my face. My nose. One cheek, then the other. My knees are wobbly and I’m glad I’m on the bed. My skin feels tight. Hot. I’m trembling and I don’t know what to say to make him quit.

  Not that I want him to…

  His mouth hovers above mine once more and I part my lips, ready—eager—for him to kiss me.

  “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll walk away from you forever,” he whispers against my lips.

  Like I can say that. The jerk knows I can’t, too.

  I remain quiet, anticipation making my breath come too fast and my heart race.

  “Amanda?” I crack open my eyes to find him watching me again, an almost amused look on his face. The smug bastard. “Can you say it?”

  I say nothing. Instead, I reach up, curl my hand around his nape and slowly pull him in close so his mouth brushes against mine. I ignore the pain and focus on him.

  This time around, I’d rather show him how I’m feeling versus tell him.

  She feels good in my arms, soft and warm—she fits perfectly. I could drown in her kiss, the taste of her, the sounds she makes, the way she inches closer, like she wants to climb on top of me. Words are bogus. Useless. I’d rather kiss her for hours and convince her that I want her.

  Words just get in the way.

  Her fingers slide through my hair and I groan. Her lips part and then her tongue circles mine, and I’d give anything to press her against the mattress and let her feel what she’s really doing to me.

  But I don’t do anything like that. She’s hurt. I don’t want to make it worse. And I definitely don’t want to push.

  “Jordan,” she whispers against my lips, and the breathy sound goes straight to my dick. I want her so damn bad.

  I just keep kissing her, silencing her. I don’t want to talk.

  But she says my name again. She’s struggling against me. So I loosen my hold and she pulls away. I open my eyes to find her watching me silently. Her eyes are wide and dark. Her lips are parted and swollen. The sensitive skin close to her mouth is pink, most likely from the stubble on my face.

  I scrub a hand along my jaw, making the stubble rasp, fighting the possessive feeling rising within me. I marked her. For everyone to see that she belongs to…someone.

  Hell. She belongs to me.

  Amanda shakes her head slowly, licking her swollen lips. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

  Her words are like knives carving at my walled-up heart. Those words bring me back to reality, remind me I have a huge task ahead of me. One I need to prepare for because I’m done losing. I’m done listening to what others want from me.

  For once in my damn life, I’m going after what I want. Screw everyone else.

  Screw my parents. They’re the ones who try to control me. I’m over it. Over them.

  “You ready to go?” My voice comes out low and gravelly, and I clear my throat, then run a hand through my hair. She watches me do it, her gaze lingering on my head, and I wonder if she wants to touch me there. I love it when she rakes her fingers through my hair.

  Does she remember? Does she know that’s a weakness? Does she realize she’s my weakness? I don’t even think she knows the all-consuming power she holds over me.

  “Yeah,” she says shakily as she reaches up and brushes her lips with her fingertips. Her hand is trembling. The bruise beneath her left eye is starting to darken and I know it’s going to look like hell tomorrow.

  The guilt that washes over me, knowing I did that to her, can’t be stopped. It was an accident, but tell my conscience that.

  I climb off the bed and offer my hand to help her stand. She’s a little wobbly, but otherwise she’s fine. I catch the wince, catch her gently touching her cheek, and I know she’s in pain.

  I need to make it up to her. I need to make this right.

  Starting now, she’ll have no doubt whatsoever how I feel about her.

  But will she actually believe me?

  “Amanda!” My bedroom door is thrown open with a resounding bang and I roll over with a moan, tugging my comforter over my head so Mom can’t see me. “Your dad needs your help outside.”

  Mom is never subtle about waking me up early on Saturday morning. As in, she never lets me sleep in. She used to love that I was in band and would have to be out the door early on Saturdays to go to practice or marching band competitions.

  Now, without band, she constantly complains that I’m getting lazy. It doesn’t matter that I work the hydration station and that I’m on the yearbook staff. In her eyes, I’m not doing much at all.

  Whatever.

  “He needs my help with what outside?” I crack open my eyes and stare at the wall. My left eye aches. I’m sure it looks terrible.

  I’m also sure I don’t want Mom to see it.

  “The backyard.” Mom’s tone tells me I should already know this. “He’s digging everything out of the plant beds, and then he’s going to add river rock. Remember the plan? We discussed it over dinner a few nights ago.”

  I vaguely remember the conversation. I haven’t been around much lately, not like I used to be. I’m always busy and staying for football practice, especially since we’re going into the playoffs, means I miss dinner most of the time.

  “Where’s Trent? Why can’t he help Dad?” I close my eyes, praying for her to leave soon. I’m going to have to show my face—and my nasty black eye—sometime, and I’m hoping before I see my family that I can use foundation and concealer to hide it. Or at the very least make it look less awful.

  First, I need to see just how awful it is.

  “He spent the night at Zion’s house. Once he comes home, Daddy’s putting him straight to work too. With all three of you out there, he’s hoping he’ll be done by midafternoon.” Mom raps on my door extra hard, and I wonder if she hurt her knuckles. “I’ll make you breakfast,” she croons to tempt me. “Your favorite, bacon and waffles.”

  For once, her promise of bacon isn’t going to work. “I’m not really hungry,” I tell the wall. “And before I help him, I need to take a shower first.”

  An exasperated sigh leaves her. “What’s the point? You’re just going to get dirty anyway.”

  “I want to, okay? I feel gross.” I sound whiny, and she hates it when any of us whine, but at the moment, I don’t really care. I’m still half asleep and my eye hurts and I can’t get over what happened last night.

  Yeah, that’s my biggest problem right now. I don’t know how to deal with last night. Jordan and I kissed. He told me he still wants me. He drove me home and we were quiet for most of the ride, right until he pulled up in front of my house, cut the engine, leaned over and planted a sweet, lingering kiss on my lips that almost made me swoon. He’d cradled my cheeks with both hands and whispered, “I’m sorry” while staring into my eyes.

  So where do we stand? What’s going on? I have no idea.

  “Hurry up then.” Mom’s shrill voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Your daddy’s waiting.” She slams the door extra hard, making everything in my room rattle. I reach an arm out from beneath my peach and pale green printed comforter and snatch my phone off my wobbly bedside table, checking my notifications. I have Snapchats from what feels like everyone, including Jordan Tuttle.

  I decide to keep the anticipation going and open the other ones first. Most of them are general acquaintances who were at the party, asking if I’m all right. Livvy sent a kissy face selfie with a giant blue circle around her eye and you okay scrawled in red across the photo.

  I send her a photo of my ceiling fan with the message I’ll live.

  Finally, I open Jordan’s Snapchat. It’s a photo of his room, and I see his reflection in the mirror that hangs above his dresser. He’s a distant figure lying on his bed, and I swear he’s not wearing a shirt.

  There’s no message. Just the photo. So I do what every normal teenage girl on Snapchat does and screenshot that sucker before it disappears. Then I open it up in my photos and zoom in on him lying on the bed.
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  Yep, he’s shirtless. Wearing what appears to be black pajama bottoms? Maybe black sweats? One hand is resting on his flat stomach and the other is clutching his phone and taking the photo. I can’t see his face, but his dark hair is a mess. The muscles in his arms bulge. And he looks really good without a shirt on, though I already knew this.

  Rolling over on my back, I sit up a little, pulling my hair over my left eye so he can’t see it. I have no makeup on and I probably look like trash, but screw it. I take a selfie and quickly send it to him before I chicken out.

  He immediately texts me in chat.

  How’s your eye?

  I don’t know. I haven’t looked at it yet.

  You’re still in bed?

  Yeah.

  Nice.

  I smile. Then scowl. Pervert.

  He sends me another message.

  You work today?

  Oh. That’s right. I do.

  At three.

  I’ll take you.

  I’m scowling again. There he goes assuming things he has no business…assuming. He can’t drive me to work. We’re not a confirmed thing. Nothing’s changed between us just because of last night. We talked, I got mad, he hit me by accident, he kissed me, I liked it. End of story.

  I don’t need a ride.

  I know you don’t. Because I’m taking you.

  Jordan, seriously. My dad can drive me to work.

  Yep. I’ll ask him if he could take me, though he’ll probably be annoyed that I’m interrupting his yard project.

  I want to do this. Stop arguing with me Amanda. I’ll pick you up at 2:45. Be ready.

  I don’t bother answering him. What’s the point? He won’t take no for an answer. And deep down inside?

  I sort of love it.

  After scrolling through my phone for a while, I drag my lazy butt out of bed and sneak into the bathroom across the hall, thankful no one’s around. The moment I spot my reflection in the mirror, I suck in a sharp breath and stare. It’s like a horrific accident on the freeway—I can’t look away.