More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(56)

“Why not? You’re disrespecting Mom in public right now. At least I don’t put my whores on display for everyone to see.”

The woman gasps, my father growls, but I don’t give a shit. I’m done. I push out of the chair, toss my cloth napkin on my salad plate and glare at my father.

“Have a great evening.” I pull my wallet out of my back pocket, peel off a few one hundred dollar bills and let them flutter to the table. “Sorry,” I mutter to my friends at the table before I walk out of the restaurant.

I’m halfway to my car when I hear someone call my name.

Turning, I watch as Amanda comes running toward me. She stops a few feet away, like she’s afraid to get too close. Her expressive face is full of concern, her eyes full of pain—for me. And that touches my heart more than I’d want to admit. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. You should go home with them,” I tell her.

Her expression falls and she does nothing to cover it up. She is the most openly honest person I’ve ever known. “You want to be alone tonight?”

I struggle with my answer. I should be alone. I’m angry and I won’t be good company. Mom is home and she’ll take one look at my face and know something bad happened. Then she’ll probably want to talk, while bombed out on pills, and maybe she’s already a few drinks in. My life is a fucking disaster. I shouldn’t let Amanda witness any of it.

I should push her away.

But I remain silent. She approaches me cautiously, like someone might approach a wild animal. No sudden movements, no words said. And then she’s there, directly in front of me, so close I can feel her body heat radiating toward me. A tentative hand rests on my chest, curls into the front placket of my button front shirt, and then she’s tugging me close. Resting her head on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around me.

Wrapping me up in her.

“My parents think I’m spending the night at Liv’s,” she says, her words like a promise.

I can keep her with me all night.

“I won’t be good company,” I admit, hating the shame I hear in my voice. I should have nothing to be ashamed of. Yet I am.

“I’ll take care of you,” she whispers against my neck. “I want to. Let me. Please.”

Those are the only words I need to hear.





He sneaks me into his house like we’re doing something naughty, which we are, because his mother is home and he doesn’t want her to know I’m here. I can hear my own mom’s voice droning in my head as Jordan leads me up the back staircase, reminding me I am worth more. No boy should treat me like I’m a secret. No matter how fun or illicit it sounds, he’s probably hiding me because he’s ashamed.

Of me.

I don’t really believe that’s the case with Jordan, but either way, I don’t care tonight. He’s hurting and I don’t like it. I want to take care of him. Make him feel better. Make him forget how angry his father just made him. Maybe, just maybe, I can get him to open up and talk to me.

He pulls me into his bedroom and shuts the door behind us, holding his finger to his lips before he starts to speak.

“I need to go downstairs and talk to her.”

“Your mom?” I frown.

“Yeah. I’m sure he’s already called her.”

My frown deepens. “You’re talking about your dad, right?” When he nods, I continue. “Really? Why would he do that?”

It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not used to manipulative people tricking each other, and I feel like that’s all I’ve been dealing with since I became friends with Livvy. Since I let Jordan Tuttle feel me up in his bedroom on a hot June night. Just after I caught my boyfriend cheating on me with my best friend.

Ugh. I’m stuck on repeat. I need to get over myself, and all the bad crap that’s happened to me. If I’m going to live in this new world of mine, I need to own it. Rise above it.

“My father is doing damage control. He talks to her first and manipulates the conversation. He can say whatever he wants and she’ll believe him. And I know he’ll make me out to be the bad guy,” Jordan explains. “I’m the one who caused a public spectacle in a full restaurant on a Saturday night, right?”

Well, he’s right. Meaning his father is right, too, which I hate to think. But Jordan is the one, after all, who called the woman with his father a whore. But there was so much animosity and anger bubbling just beneath the surface when those two locked eyes at the restaurant. It had been almost unbearable. The history, the pain, is long and buried deep, and I could feel it. Seeping its way into me, into everyone. I can’t judge. I don’t want to judge.

I want to be here for him as bet as I can.

“Go ahead,” I tell him softly. “Talk to her.” I’m still not sure if he really wants me here. He doesn’t even bother to kiss me before he exits his bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. I flop onto his neatly made bed and stare up at the dark ceiling. The starry ceiling that I remember from the summer. It’s velvety black, just like a night sky and when it’s powered on, tiny pinpricks of light shine among the velvet. He never turns on the lights anymore though, and I wonder why.

I wonder about a lot of things. He’s quiet. Closed off, even. We talk, and just when I get him to admit a few small things, he retreats. I wish I knew more. I’m going all in with this relationship, yet he’s pushing me away.