More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(16)

Or maybe I’m just unnaturally fascinated and can’t stop looking at him ever.

“I want to do Romeo and Juliet,” he finally says, lifting his gaze to mine. He waits, ready for me to challenge him, and I wonder at his choice and his motives behind it.

I wonder if he chose them for the same reason I did.

Lifting my chin, I say, “I think that’s a good idea.”

Surprise crosses his face, but then it’s gone. “I’ll be Juliet.”

“No, you won’t.” I nudge him with my elbow and he tugs on one of my braids. I sort of melt inside. “We need to run this by Mrs. Meyer. Make sure no one else has chosen them.” My arm shoots up into the air and Mrs. Meyer is standing by our desks within a minute.

“What’s going on? You know who you want to do your project on?” she asks pleasantly, her gaze drifting between the two of us.

“We’d like to choose Romeo and Juliet as our literary couple,” I tell her, and she smiles in response, looking pleased.

“I think that’s an excellent choice, especially considering my sneaking suspicion that you, Jordan Tuttle, are a closet romantic.”

His cheeks actually turn the faintest shade of red. It’s fascinating. Did Mrs. Meyer just embarrass him?

“Bring out the best in each other with these diary entries.” Mrs. Meyer turns to me. “Share them with each other as you work on the project. Maybe even have your characters respond to each other, as if you’re having a written conversation. What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” Tuttle says with ease.

“Okay,” I add weakly.

Great. Our assignment just turned into the two of us basically writing love letters to each other.

“Ready to be my Juliet?” he asks the moment Mrs. Meyer walks away from us. He leans across his desk, his fingers going to the end of my braid again. They brush against my chest and I feel that touch through my hoodie, my T-shirt, all the way down to my skin.

And it burns. Tingles. Makes me want more.

“Stop pulling on my braid,” I tell him, ignoring his question. I don’t want to be his Juliet. I don’t want to be his anything.

Liar.

“What? Am I bothering you?” He tugs again, gently this time, before letting my braid go. He trails a finger along my plaited hair. “I think you look cute.”

I say nothing. I can’t. It feels like my vocal cords are paralyzed.

“Your hair is so soft,” he murmurs. “Does it get wavy when you wear your hair in braids all day?”

I give the barest nod in answer.

“Maybe someday you’ll let me undo them for you.” His intense stare makes my mouth go dry and I part my lips, ready to come up with some lame answer. But then the bell rings, and I grab my backpack and bolt out of the room before I say something stupid.





After school I head toward the senior parking lot when I sense someone falling into step beside me.

Livvy.

“Where’ve you been all day?” she asks nonchalantly, like we didn’t have a big blow up this morning.

“I could ask you the same question,” I say coolly. Best to confront the issue and get it over with. “I thought you were mad at me.”

She stops me with a light hand on my forearm and we turn to face each other, people rushing past us to get to their cars and make their escape. “I thought you were mad at me too! You were just so…awful this morning.”

“Honest,” I correct her. “I was honest. And sometimes we don’t want to hear the truth.” I can so relate to this statement. The truth can hurt. “Once you bailed, I figured you were ignoring me.”

“I—wasn’t. I was spending time with Ryan, which you have to admit, you pushed me to do.” She studies me, nibbling on her lower lip. “Want to come with me and watch them practice?”

Yes. The word hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. Going to see Tuttle for the pure joy of watching him play football is not allowed anymore.

“I can’t,” I tell her, looking away, hating that I have to deny myself this tiny pleasure. What would it matter if he saw me watching him? It’s no big deal, right? I’m being ridiculous. If I want to watch our football team practice, I should be able to. He’s not the only boy on the team.

But he’s the only boy I’m interested in on the team. I can’t deny it, even though I’m trying my hardest.

“Oh, do you have to go to work?” Livvy offers up a weak smile. “I’m so happy for you, that you got the job, but I hate how it’s going to tie up your schedule.”

“I don’t work today,” I start, and Livvy squeals, launching into this weird little dance before she loops her arm through mine.

“Well then, let’s go watch them practice together! It’ll be fun. Like old times.”

Old times? That was only a few weeks ago. Back when I went to watch them practice almost every day after school, claiming I missed being with the band, which was a half-truth.

More like I wanted to watch Tuttle without judgment. He’s such a great player and his body is…a work of masculine art.

God. I sound so cheesy in my head.

It wasn’t just watching him play, though. It was being a part of his life. Seeing him, remembering all the moments we shared, reliving them. He’d become such a huge part of my life in a short amount of time, and I didn’t know what to do about it. He’s overwhelming in both the best and most awful ways imaginable.