You Promised Me Forever (Forever Yours #1)(6)

“As serious as a relationship can be between two teenagers,” he says. “We were young, sh—stuff happens. And then it was over.”

“You have regrets?”

“I used to,” he says.

Oh my God, what does he mean by that? His answers are so…unexpected. Confusing.

Annoying.

“What do you think she’d do if she saw you right now? During this episode?” Liz leans forward, her eyes gleaming. “Or what do you think she’d say if you two ran into each other in some random spot?”

“She’d probably tell me to grow the hell up and get over it.” He chuckles. Liz actually giggles.

And then they break for another freaking commercial.

My head is spinning. He’s making a mockery of our relationship, and I’m sorry, but that’s not fair. I was young and stupid. So was he. How did we expect to make this work? Were we really that ignorant?

Apparently so.

I grab my phone and open up Instagram, then go to the search feature and type in his name. His profile pops up before I can type the u in his last name and I click on it, scrutinizing every photo he’s shared.

Clearly this isn’t a personal profile. He’s catering to the fans, with photos of him poised and ready to launch a ball, or videos of some of his better plays over the last couple of seasons. Without hesitation, I hit the blue follow button, praying I won’t regret this.

I stare at the newly appeared message bar, temptation making my fingers twitch. The commercials drone on in the background, but I’m not even paying attention anymore. I impulsively click it and send him a message before I can overthink anything.

I would never tell you to grow the hell up and get over it.

That’s all I say.

Setting my phone down, I finish off my first giant glass of wine, wishing I’d brought the bottle into the living room with me. Inside Football starts back up with a quick interview with Jordan’s current coach, talking about how great he is and his potential and how he’s going to have an amazing career and a blah, blah, blah.

My phone buzzes and I check it.

Jordan_Tuttle8 has sent you a follow request.

What the hell? Talk about fast. I immediately go on Instagram and check my followers pending list.

Yep. There he is.

Glancing at the TV, I see he’s back, still wearing the sexy flannel shirt and dark rinse jeans, looking like Hollywood’s interpretation of a lumberjack. He’s talking about wine and grapes and it’s crazy to hear him ramble on about this stuff because he sounds so grown up and mature.

Not that he was immature when we were together, but this is a whole new side to Jordan that I don’t know. That I will probably never know.

The realization makes me a little sad.

I accept his follow request, my heart hammering, my ears roaring. I’m staring at the phone, waiting for him to make another move, but after five minutes I give up and set the phone on the couch beside me.

Totally overreacting. Maybe it’s some overzealous assistant who somehow remembers the name of her boss’s old girlfriend so she sees it pop up and immediately decides to follow me back. That’s logical, right? Right?

My phone buzzes with another notification, and I check it.

Jordan_Tuttle8 has sent you a message

I almost drop the phone when I try to open up Insta, and when I finally do, I see his message.

Mandy.

That’s all it says.

The fucker.





I wake up to my iPhone vibrating next to my ear. I check the screen to see, first, it’s 8:07 a.m.

And second, that it’s my best friend from high school calling me. She lives in Texas so she’s two hours ahead and completely thoughtless when it comes to time zones, I swear.

I greet her with, “Livvy, why are you calling me this early?”

Please. I know why she’s calling me this early.

“Did you see Tuttle on Inside Football last night? He was totally talking about you. God, what a douche.”

As all loyal high school best friends are wont to do, she can’t forgive Jordan for our breakup, even though I was the one who broke up with him. In her eyes, he drove me to do it. You have to love a best friend like that, right?

We’re not as close as we used to be, only because she lives in Austin now with her fiancé and true high school sweetheart Dustin, but we talk as much as we can.

“I think he made all of it up,” I tell her.

Livvy pauses for a moment, like she has to consider what I just said. “Made it up? What are you talking about?”

“It makes for good TV.” I lower my voice in a terrible imitation of Jordan. “‘Oh yeah, that special girl from high school was my first real love, but we’re not together anymore. So I’m broken hearted and all that crap.’” My voice goes back to normal. “He’s so over me. You do realize this, right?”

“Maybe he’s not.”

“Please.” I make a noise and sit up in bed. My head hurts. Too much wine. And my stomach hurts. Too much Chinese food, which I ended up devouring after I watched Inside Football. Twice. “He makes millions, he’s world famous and he can have any woman he wants. He is not losing sleep over me.”

“You never know,” Livvy sing songs. “It would be what he deserves, wishing you two were still together.”