More than Friends - Monica Murphy

by Monica Murphy

  It is so very difficult, to want what you cannot have. To love who you fear you’ve already lost. They say we’re too young to know what real love is. They say we’re foolish and reckless and stupid, that we can’t make our own choices. We don’t make a proper match, they remind us. We’re too different.

  But when he looks at me, I don’t feel foolish or reckless or stupid. I feel beautiful. Special. Loved.

  So loved.

  We are not so different after all. When we are together, we are one and the same. We are like a puzzle, each of us made up of so many varied pieces. And those pieces only make sense when we come together.

  They say we can’t make our own choices, but they’re wrong.

  I choose him.

  I stare at the paper for so long the words start to blur together. It doesn’t feel like she’s talking about Juliet and her feelings for Romeo. It feels like Mandy is talking about her feelings for me. She’s my missing puzzle pieces. She’s the only one I need.

  “You hate it.”

  Her flat voice makes me jerk my head up to find she’s watching me, her eyes full of worry. She’d be a terrible poker player. She wears her every emotion on her face, with her body language, even the tone of her voice.

  “I definitely don’t hate it.” I glance over the words again, sticking on one sentence.

  I choose him.

  Does she choose me? Most of the time she acts like she’s running away from me.

  “Do you think the puzzle analogy is bad? I don’t know if they had puzzles during Shakespeare’s time, so maybe it’s inaccurate. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Meyer.” Amanda raises her hand into the air.

  I immediately pull it down, my fingers circling around her wrist. I can feel her pulse and it seems a little fast. Did I do that to her? I smooth my thumb along the inside of her wrist to calm her down. “Don’t ask her. Not right now.”

  She frowns. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want her to interrupt us.” I gently squeeze her wrist before letting her go.

  “Oh.” She visibly swallows. “By the way, I, um, didn’t mean anything by those love references. Just to let you know.”

  “I understand.” I pause. “You were just—getting into character.”

  “Right.” She nods. Flips her hair behind her shoulder, reaches up to twist the tiny pearl earring in her ear. She fidgets when she’s nervous. I’ve noticed that about her.

  I’ve noticed lots of things about her.

  I let my gaze roam over her face, drinking in every tiny detail. Her pretty dark brown eyes and smooth cheeks and perfect, sexy lips. I’m kissing her tonight. I don’t care what happens or how she acts toward me, it’s been too long and nothing is going to stop me.

  I’m kissing her. And I’m going to kiss her for a long time. Until we’re both out of breath and our mouths are sore and she’s probably late for her curfew but she doesn’t care. I won’t care either.

  Yeah. That is definitely going to happen.

  “Where’s your next diary entry?” she asks, her sweet voice knocking me out of my thoughts.

  “You wanna read it?”

  She rolls her eyes, a big smile on her face. “Yes, I do.”

  I make a production out of pulling it out of my backpack, then glance over it real quick, frowning when I realize just how…needy this thing sounds. I wrote it last night, thinking about that hug in the parking lot. I sort of poured all of my own feelings into Romeo’s diary entry and now I’m having second thoughts about her reading it.

  “You can’t back out now.” She tries to snatch the paper out of my hands, but I lift it up, away from her grasping fingers. “Hey! That’s not fair. I let you read mine.”

  “After I already let you read mine,” I remind her.

  “That you shoved into my locker like some sort of love note.” She blushes. I love that I can make her do that. If she’d give me half a chance, I can do a lot of things to her that would make her blush. And I’d get to see if that same pretty shade of pink blooms all over her body.

  “Maybe it was a love note,” I say as I set the paper on my desk face down. Her blush deepens. “To Juliet from Romeo.”

  “Whatever.” She shoves me and I grab her hand, linking our fingers together. I rub my thumb against her fingers, her soft, soft skin. Her nails are painted a pale pink and cut short. She wears a ring on the index finger of her right hand and I touch it. Trace it. It’s a braided silver ring, thin and delicate, old and worn.

  “Where’d you get this?” If she says that dick ex-boyfriend gave it to her, I will rip it off her finger and crush it.

  “It was my grandma’s.” She meets my gaze and smiles, but it’s sad. “We were really close. She died when I was thirteen.”

  “I’m sorry.” I have no idea what that’s like, losing someone I love. I honestly feel like I’ve never really loved…

  Anyone.

  “She gave this to me right before she died of cancer. Said her dad gave it to her when she was little. My mom tried to take it and put it away for safe keeping after Grandma passed, but I told her no. Grandma wanted me to have it.” She studies the ring and I touch it again, tracing it all the way around her finger.

  “A family heirloom,” I tell her.

  Amanda nods but doesn’t say anything. If she cries, I’m gonna lose it.

  “How’d you get this scar?” I touch a jagged one across the top of her hand, between her thumb and index finger.

  “My cat Stubbs. He was super feisty when he was a kitten.” The sadness is gone, replaced with a faint smile.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  I hate the thought of her in pain. Which means—holy shit—I’ve got it bad for this girl.

  Really bad.

  “How’s it coming, kids?”

  Amanda jumps in her seat and rips her hand from mine, looking up at Mrs. Meyer. She watches us with full on amusement in her face, like she knows exactly what we’ve been up to. “We’re sharing our entries with each other,” Amanda says. “Well, I did. Jordan hasn’t yet.”

  Mrs. Meyer looks at me. “And why is that, Mr. Tuttle?”

  She is the only teacher who adds the mister to the front of my last name. Everyone else just calls me Tuttle. No one ever calls me Jordan.

  Except for Amanda. Oh, and Lauren Mancini when she thinks she can get something out of me.

  “I’m still working on mine. Amanda’s is so good, I want to make sure my next one is too,” I say smoothly.

  Amanda glares. Mrs. Meyer smiles. “Well, that sounds like a compliment. Don’t you agree, Amanda?”

  She mumbles, “I guess,” and then Mrs. Meyer is gone, moving on to the next group project.

  “She saw us holding hands,” Amanda says.

  “So?”

  “I’m surprised we didn’t get in trouble.”

  “Mrs. Meyer doesn’t care. Besides, we can tell her we’re getting into our parts.” I reach for her hand again, but she snatches it away. “You’re going to deprive me?”

  “Stop.” She sends me a look. “You aren’t going to let me read it?”

  “I’ll let you read when I have something to read from you,” I remind her. “Sounds like a fair deal, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Hey.” I slip my fingers beneath her chin and tilt her face up. I could kiss her right now. We are in perfect position. But I’m not going to let it happen in the middle of Honors English. “You’ll sit with me on the bus?”

  She frowns. “Tonight? To the game?”

  I nod, releasing my hold on her chin. “I want to sit with you.”

  “What about your friends?”

  None of those guys are my friends. Not really. Ryan is the closest thing to it, and I cultivate that friendship out of needing his trust on the field. “They can live without me.”

  “Jordan.” She rests her hand on my forearm. “You’re their quarterback. Their leader. You can’t ditch them. You need to spend time with them and get
them pumped up, so you’ll get pumped up.”

  Amanda has a valid point. “I’ll sit with you on the ride back home then.”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  No other girl would’ve suggested what she just did. They all want a piece of me. And don’t want to share with anyone else. I’m willing to give my all to this girl, yet she wants to make sure I’m taking care of everyone else in my life.

  She’s unreal.

  And soon she’s going to be all mine.

  I’ve been on the football field plenty of times in my life, but always as a band member. Always as one of the girls in her scratchy polyester blend uniform, trying her best to run as fast as possible while playing the clarinet. Working hard to keep up with the coordinated moves and praying my too large hat doesn’t fall off my head and trip the person running behind me.

  But tonight, I’m on the sidelines, keeping my boys hydrated. Running around with the other water girl as we try to keep up with the boys as they come off the field. We help tape them up too, Coach Halsey barking at us when a player needs help. Most of the boys try to refuse us but Kyla, the other water girl, is a force to be reckoned with. She won’t take no for an answer.

  “Don’t let those boys boss you around,” she told me as we sat on the bench in between the JV and varsity game, trying to rest up. “If Coach says they need to be taped up, do it. If we need to spray their knuckles with Neosporin or whatever, do that too. Don’t let them whine at you and tell you they’re fine.” The look she sent me made me laugh a little. “They’re usually not.”

  Our little conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Coach Halsey, who clapped his hands together and demanded we get ready for the boys to come out onto the field. I watched in awe as they jogged out, the visitor section filled with parents and fans from our school cheering loudly. It was exciting. Exhilarating. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.

  I wish I could’ve discovered this water girl job a lot sooner.

  Livvy came to the game. She got a ride with one of the other football player’s girlfriend and they’re both up in the visitor stands, their boyfriends’ jersey numbers written on their cheeks in blue and white face paint. They yell and scream and Livvy goes especially crazy when Ryan scores a touchdown, and it’s super hard for me to keep my crap together.

  I’m envious of their jumping around. I want to be able to jump around for my favorite player too. But I can barely talk to him, let alone act like a crazed fan. Jordan is kept busy the entire game, going over plays, in the huddle with his team, playing out on the field, sitting on the bench, or taking one of the many water bottles I hand him. He always gives me a nod of acknowledgement, but I know he’s so incredibly focused on the game, he’s barely registering it’s me. Just a few minutes ago he was shaking off Coach Halsey when he suggested they put in the backup guy for a little bit, just to give Jordan a rest.

  “Fuck that, Halsey,” I heard Tuttle mutter, and I know he meant business. So did the coach, considering he didn’t reprimand him for foul language. Jordan is so edgy, so freaking intense while playing football. It’s kind of scary.

  It’s also really sexy.

  So I remain cool. Calm. And busy. Incredibly busy because I sort of know what I’m doing, but then again I don’t. Kyla is the calm in the storm and I hope after a few games I’m like her, efficient and organized. I’m almost thankful when Cannon Whittaker sits with me for a few minutes right before halftime while I tape up both of his hands. He’s shredded his knuckles and while it looks painful, he keeps brushing me off like it’s no big deal.

  But I persist and he eventually lets me tape him, all the while giving me some tips and asking a few personal questions—though nothing too personal. He may act like a total dog with the girls, but he’s actually kind of sweet. And he’s also very passionate about football.

  And Jordan? He acts like his normal untouchable self. He paces the sidelines, growls at the defense. Oh, and he also growls at his offensive line too, because he’s an equal opportunity growler. He tosses water bottles and slaps guys on the back or the butt and he never, ever wants anyone to step in for him when it’s his turn out on the field.

  You’d think the coach would get this by now.

  I don’t bother trying to talk to him because that wall is up so high, there’s no way I’m penetrating it. Not right now. The score has remained close through all three quarters. Now we’re in the fourth and final quarter and I’m nervous as crap, bouncing my leg so hard I’m making the entire bench vibrate.

  The cheerleaders start up a chant about holding that line and I hate to tell them, but they’re off—we’re currently playing offense. They probably wouldn’t appreciate my correction.

  It’s hard not to cover my eyes while watching Jordan play. Not that he’s awful—he’s the farthest thing from it. It’s more that I’m totally nervous. He throws the ball and I’m terrified someone from the opposing team will intercept it. Or one of our players will drop it. We need this last touchdown. It will most likely ensure our win.

  But the home team’s crowd is roaring loudly, trying to distract us. They don’t want their team to lose. Though guess what?

  We don’t want our team to lose either.

  I perch on the edge of the bench as Jordan drives the ball down the field. Coach Halsey is eerily calm as he watches, his expression blank, his gaze never leaving that field. I nibble on my thumb, fighting the nerves that threaten to overload me. Kyla’s pacing, looking at a loss, but that’s because no one wants to be hydrated right now. Everyone’s too tense.

  When Ryan catches the pass and runs it into the end zone, I leap from the bench, bouncing up and down, screaming at the top of my lungs. I can hear everyone in the visitor stands behind me yelling and cheering. The cheerleaders are squealing and chanting Ryan’s name.

  Jordan runs up to Ryan and they high five, then Jordan slaps his hand against the back of Ryan’s helmet and pulls him in close, knocking their helmets together. I can tell he’s saying something, but what? I wish I knew.

  The kicker comes out and they line up to go for that point, and of course they get it. The lead is solid and with what time remains on the clock, the game is essentially over. Our boys won.

  I hand out water as the boys pass by and a few of them take the bottles, squirting the water all over their heads after they take the helmets off. They’re in good spirits and I congratulate them all, laughing when they say something funny. They’ve been nice to me, every one of them, and even Ryan comes up to me and tells me, “Good job,” before he slaps me on the back and jogs off.

  When I see Jordan approach, I busy myself with cleaning up the portable water station, stashing the empty water bottles in their carriers, doing what Kyla tells me to. I feel him drawing closer, but I won’t look up. Not yet. My entire body prickles with awareness and I go completely still.

  “So, what did you think?”

  Glancing up, I meet his gaze. He’s a sweaty, dirty mess. He’s clutching his helmet in one hand and his hair is standing up on end. The black lines under his eyes are smudged and there’s a giant grass stain streaked across his chest from when he got tackled earlier. He’d fallen hard and I’d leapt to my feet when it first happened, my heart racing so fast I thought it would gallop right out of my chest.

  “You played great,” I tell him, offering him a tiny smile. “Congratulations on the win.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me closer, his gaze unwavering. “I played for you.” His voice is achingly sincere, and I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.

  “Jordan…”

  He cuts off my protest with a kiss. It’s soft and sweet and so fast, I almost think it didn’t happen, but the satisfied gleam in his eyes tells me it did. “You need to wear my number next time.”

  “Huh?” I’m in a daze over his lips connecting with mine. We’ve kissed plenty of times in the past, but it’s been a while. And his lips have always had a way of rendering me senseless.


  He points to the number eight on his chest. “I can give you an old jersey if you want.”

  “I’m supposed to wear this.” I point at the navy blue polo that Kyla gave me to wear. She has on a matching one.

  “I want to see my number on you.” The possessive gleam in his eyes sort of turns me on.

  “But—“ Without warning he tugs me in close, his mouth at my ear, his breath so hot I shiver.

  “Stop pretending this isn’t happening, Amanda. I’m tired of fighting it.” He kisses my ear, the sensitive spot just behind it, and I sag against him.

  He’s right. I’m tired of fighting it.

  I’m ready to give in.

  The bus ride to the game had been loud and chaotic. The cheerleaders were obnoxious, squealing and yelling and shooting lusty glances in the players’ directions. Coach Halsey kept trying to give the boys “let’s get pumped up” speeches, and they worked. They sounded like roaring beasts ready to unleash and conquer by the time we pulled into the opposing school’s parking lot. I even had the fleeting thought that I needed to bring my ear buds next week so I could avoid the noise and listen to music.

  The ride home is completely different. It’s quiet and dark in the bus. Most everyone is worn out and there’s not much talking. I do see a lot of faces illuminated by the glow of their phones.

  I sit with Jordan, his legs spread wide in that way boys like to sit, taking up all the space, but with him, I don’t mind. His knee is pressed against mine and he has his arm slung over my shoulders casually, his big hand lightly gripping my upper arm. I feel…owned. He’s declaring to everyone on this bus that he wants to be with me, and I bask in his attention.

  “Yo, Tuttle.” It’s Ryan.

  Jordan leans his head against the wall of the bus for a moment, closing his eyes. “What?” He sounds irritated.

  “You having a party at your house?”

  Oh. Is he? I can’t remember the last time he had one. It’s been a few weeks. I turn to watch him, noting how thick his eyelashes are when his eyes are closed. He is too pretty for words. I can’t help the little sigh that escapes me.