More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(21)

“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.