More than Friends - Monica Murphy (10 page)

Meant to be together.
He shouldn’t say such romantic, swoony things. He doesn’t believe that, and neither do I. I’m not sure why he continues to bother with it.

“Stop,” I whisper, flicking my head in Lauren’s direction. I rest my palms against the counter and lean over it a little, my face practically in Tuttle’s. “Go be with your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he whispers back, his hands coming dangerously close to mine.

“She’s your queen.” I snatch my hands away from the counter and point at his crown. “Congrats on winning.”

His face betrays nothing and he doesn’t bother acknowledging my statement. “When did you start working here?”

I lift my chin, trying for determined and cool and collected. Most likely failing miserably. “A few days ago.”

“You like it?”

I shrug. “It’s a job. I need the money.”

Tuttle studies me closely, like he can see right through me, and I want to take my words back. Somehow, he knows I’m lying. Well, I’m not really lying, but I am sad I wasn’t able to go to the game tonight. I love football. I love watching our boys play, and they’ve gotten so much better this year. They have a real chance to make it to the playoffs, and that’s incredible.

But I won’t get to experience any of it. I’ll be too busy working every Friday night, making approximately fifty dollars for my time served.

“You’ll be missed,” he finally says, his voice still low. Intimate. Like we’re sharing a deep, dark secret. “I liked seeing you in the stands at every game.”

I raise a brow, in full on skepticism mode. I can’t help it. He says things like that and I don’t believe him. Yet some part of me deep down inside
does
believe him. It’s incredibly confusing.

“You didn’t even notice me.”

“I always noticed you, even when you were in band.” He pauses. “I’ve told you that before. Why don’t you believe me?”

The sincerity in his tone almost makes me want to laugh. Or throw myself at him. I’m not sure which option is worse.

I brace my hands on the counter once more, mimicking his position. “I always feel like you’re yanking my chain, Tuttle.”

He smirks, and it’s adorable. Sexy. “Right back at you, Winters.” And then he does the most incredible thing. Without saying a word, without any indication of what he was about to do, he scoots his hand closer to mine, reaching out to graze the top of my hand with just his pinky finger.

I feel that touch all the way down to my toes. It’s like he electrified me. Reminded me that I’m alive. And he’s the only one who can make me feel like that.

The only one.

“Does it always take this long to clean up on a Friday night?” I stuff the mop into the yellow bucket and wring it out, frowning when I notice all the dark brown water floating inside. It’s disgusting. The entire shop was disgusting once we cleared everyone out.

“Nah. Tonight was an exception, with the homecoming game and all. Though it’s always pretty busy when there’s a home game,” Blake says as he finishes cleaning up the toppings station. He made a huge deal about it earlier, like his taking on that particular task was some sort of favor to me, but I don’t know.

Mopping definitely sucks.

We closed over thirty minutes ago and we’re still cleaning. When I finally finish mopping, I guide the bucket out through the back door, dumping the dirty water in the nearby drain. The air is cool, tinged with the faint biting hint of autumn, and my gaze snags on the black Range Rover sitting in the mostly empty lot.

No. It can’t be.

But I think it…might be.

I’m incredulous. Seriously?
Really?
I’m tempted to march out to that car, knock on the window and demand that he leave, but who am I to do that? It’s a public parking lot.

And maybe it isn’t him. There are a lot of black Range Rovers in the world. I’m just fixated on him so I think he’s everywhere. Like I’m some sort of obsessed psycho.

Pushing all thoughts of
him
out of my brain, I go back into the shop and head straight to the bathroom, taking out all of my frustration and disbelief on the toilet and sink counter. I scrub the hell out of that bathroom, and by the time I’m finished my forehead is sweaty and wayward strands of hair stick to my cheeks.

In other words, I look awful, but I don’t care. My body’s tired and my muscles ache. I’m ready to go straight home and collapse into bed. At least I can sleep in tomorrow. My next shift doesn’t start until noon.

“You ready?” Blake asks after I put away the cleaning supplies in the small closet.

Turning, I nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”

I gather up my things and head outside with Blake, watching as he locks the front door before shoving the keys into his front pocket. He offers me a faint smile as we start for the parking lot. “You did good tonight, Amanda.”

“Thanks.” I walk right beside him, headed toward our cars, which are parked relatively close to each other far out in the lot. I see the Range Rover out of the corner of my eye, but I ignore it.

I refuse to acknowledge him. Acknowledging means I accept what he’s doing, and I don’t.

“You kept up and tonight was like a trial by fire. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it that busy since we first opened,” he continues.

“Guess I proved my worth then.” I smile at him and he gives me that somber Blake look, with a hint of wonder in his gaze. Like he can’t believe I’m walking with him.

I can feel his pain. I really can.

“Yeah, you did. I’ll have to tell my mom.” His cheeks go red and I almost think it’s cute.

Until I remember that a certain someone is lurking in the parking lot like a stalker.

“That’s my car,” I tell Blake, pointing at my Toyota. Blake nods, waves goodbye and practically sprints to his older Nissan truck. He hops in it, fires up the engine and pulls out of the parking lot without any hesitation whatsoever.

“What a jackass.”

Whirling around, I spot Tuttle leaning against the side of his SUV, looking as casual as he pleases with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his black pants. He’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, though he looks a little more mussed. Wrinkled. Cuter.

Argh. I hate my thoughts sometimes.

“Are you talking about yourself?” I ask with raised brows.

He inclines his head, a silent acknowledgement, I guess. “He didn’t even bother waiting to see if your car started.”

“It’ll start,” I tell him, sounding more confident than I feel. Sometimes my car
won’t
start. Back when my older brother was still in high school and drove the car that eventually became mine, he’d always leave the lights on and drain the battery. I try my best to never do that, but sometimes other things happen. The car is almost as old as me. So I can’t always count on it.

“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.

T
he 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.