You Promised Me Forever

  But that feeling quickly fades, because kids? No. I’m too young, too non-committed, too selfish. I’m not ready for a wedding or a marriage or babies. I don’t even have a boyfriend so, ya know, guess you need one of those first to make it happen.

  Though really you don’t. I just want to take the more traditional route.

  “Is it five o’clock yet?” I lean against the raised counter of the front desk, smiling down at Lena. She hates answering the phones. Customers make her angry even when they ask her innocent questions, and sometimes she has to watch her attitude.

  “I wish.” Lena glares at the elaborate phone system on the desk in front of her. “If I get one more call from a grouchy coach asking if he could get a release letter for his favorite boy playing tonight…”

  “Yeah, I hate those calls.” They make me uncomfortable. During football season, there’s always a coach out there who wants to put his injured player back on the field too soon. It’s only the end of August and we’re already getting those calls. It’s bound to get worse.

  “Ladies.” We both turn our heads to see Cade approaching the front desk, a smile on his handsome face. He just finished with a patient only a few minutes ago. “Are we the only three left?”

  “Afraid so,” Lena chirps, sending me a knowing look. I really hope Cade doesn’t notice. I don’t want to seem too overeager. “Though I’m perfectly willing to leave a little early if you’ll let me.”

  “Since you’ve worked here longer than I have, don’t you think you have authority over me?” he asks jokingly, sending me a quick wink.

  Ugh. Winks. Are they cheesy or cute?

  I’ll have to take it under consideration.

  “Perfect. Then I’m out. Amanda, you can watch the phones.” Lena throws open a drawer, yanks her purse from its depths and is gone in a matter of seconds.

  I blink up at Cade as I settle myself in the chair Lena just vacated. “I didn’t know she could move so fast.”

  “Me either.” He smiles at me, our gazes lingering for a beat too long before I look away. Yes, yes, he’s cute. He’s really nice. Easy to talk to. Everyone seems to like him, he’s fit in here seamlessly since he started.

  But do I feel a zing? Do we have actual chemistry? Guess I’ll find out for sure when we go on our first date tomorrow night.

  “So tell me.” He rests his forearms on the counter and I study them. His skin is golden, like he spends time outside but doesn’t spray tan or anything gross like that. And they’re corded with muscle, but not too bulky. I have a thing for arms. And hands. “Do you have a restaurant preference for our date tomorrow?”

  “Um.” I press my lips together, my mind scrambling. Can’t he just make the decision? “I’m pretty open.”

  “Not a picky eater?”

  “No. Not at all.” I shake my head.

  “That’s a relief.” He smiles. “My ex-girlfriend was super picky.”

  Oh. Is he going to be one of those who talks about his ex all the time? I hope not. “That’s…unfortunate.”

  His eyes widen, like he just realized what he said, and he holds his hands up in front of him in an almost defensive matter. “Hey, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m over her. We split up a long time ago.”

  How long ago? Days? Weeks? Months?

  Preferably months. Maybe even years.

  I can’t ask, though.

  “No, that’s fine.” I try to sound easy breezy. Like nothing he says about his ex is going to bother me.

  But if I’m being real? It sort of bothers me.

  “She lives in a different state,” he continues. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

  “I wasn’t worried.” My smile feels brittle, so I let it fade. Thankfully, a call comes in and I answer it, sending it to the director’s voicemail before placing the receiver back in its cradle. Cade is still standing there, though he’s scrolling through his phone now, and I decide to put this all on him. “Listen, you’re the one who asked me on a date, so why don’t you pick the restaurant? And the movie?”

  He lifts his head, his lips curled upward. “You don’t mind?”

  “I definitely don’t mind.” I’d rather not deal with it. I have too many other things occupying my brain space.

  “Great.” He glances at his phone’s screen. “It’s four-fifty-nine. I say we lock up.”

  So we do.

  Is it wrong to admit I was dying to get away from Cade so I could head home? My commute averages about forty-five minutes, but on a Friday, it can take up to an hour, which it totally did. Bay Area traffic at its finest, no?

  But seriously, I was fine with it, because inching along the freeway makes the time pass, and that’s what I wanted. Sitting on the bus, I pulled up an old playlist on my phone that I made during my senior year and I listened to it, letting all of those old memories wash over me. Memories of me and Jordan. All the fun we had together. The way my toes would curl every time he kissed me long and deep. How when I was with him, I felt like we were the only two people on this whole planet.

  Basically I tortured myself the entire ride.

  I got off the bus at my favorite Chinese restaurant that’s a couple of blocks from my apartment and ordered takeout, then sat around waiting the ten minutes it took them to prepare my half order of chicken wonton salad and sweet and sour pork with a side of fried rice. Tried to be healthy with the salad addition, but they smother it with this delicious sweet dressing that is probably about a million calories, so healthy went right out the window.

  It’s definitely a wallow-in-my-misery Friday night.

  By the time I got home, changed into an old pair of sweats and an oversized T-shirt that—yes, OMG, originally belonged to Jordan—pulled out that chilled bottle of rosé I’d been saving for a special occasion, poured myself a giant glass, and plated as much Chinese food as I could, it was almost seven o’clock.

  Almost time for Inside Football featuring Jordan mother trucking Tuttle.

  The food smells delicious and I start shoveling it in, but when the TV goes black for the briefest moment and then a photo of Jordan on his NFL draft day magically appears, the announcer rattling off facts and stats, my stomach churns.

  I’m instantly afraid all the food will go to waste. I set the plate on my coffee table.

  Curling up on the couch with the wineglass clutched in my hand, I watch with rapt attention. This is ridiculous, I tell myself as they show a few photos from his younger years. A class picture from fourth grade—yes, holy shit, I’m in it—a team photo from his youth league days, when they won the regional championships in the eighth grade.

  The announcer gives the brief rundown on Jordan’s life, talking about his parents, his successful father, his much older sister, how the family is extremely wealthy. They don’t talk to any of his family, though, not even his pitiful mother or his wretched father.

  Despite my feelings about them, this makes me sad. He never had solid parental support. My parents may drive me crazy, but at least I know they love me.

  I’m not so sure Jordan knows his parents love him.

  When the photo flashes on the TV of Jordan after our high school team won the championship game our senior year, I almost spill my wine. He’s holding up his helmet in the air in victory, his other arm wrapped around…

  My shoulders.

  His gaze…

  Staring adoringly in mine.

  Me…

  Smiling up at him like he’s the love of my life.

  The photo is there and gone in the blink of an eye. I rewind the DVR back a few seconds, then hit pause so I can study it. I own this photo. It’s buried deep in a box somewhere, probably still at my parents’ house. There’s no reason to keep the photo with me.

  God, we look so in love with each other, it’s heartbreaking.

  “I’m seriously trying to drive myself crazy,” I mutter before I hit the pause button and the show resumes.

  The commercials go on forever and I eat some of my dinner, d
rink a lot more of the wine. When the show finally comes back on, I’m hypnotized as the stupid flirtatious female reporter—Liz Rockwell, at your service—is walking side by side with Jordan as he takes her on a tour of his freaking mansion.

  He talks. I stare. She asks lame questions, he answers them, always with the faintest hint of irritation in his eyes like he’d rather be anywhere else. I’d know that look anywhere. He hasn’t changed much.

  Well. I take that back. He’s changed a LOT. He’s filled out even more, and while he’s not bulky, he has muscle. A broader chest. A more chiseled jaw. That same reluctant smile—he’s never been a smiler, though he would just for me—and those beautiful blue eyes.

  They’re standing by his kitchen counter, Liz thumbing through a pile of photos, the ones they flashed on the screen earlier. She comes to a stop at the one of me and him, tapping her index finger on top of my face. “Who’s that?”

  The camera flashes to Jordan. His eyes are cold. “An old friend.”

  “Girlfriend?” Liz gives him a pointed look.

  He shrugs. The rat bastard. “I suppose.”

  Her smile is cunning. I bet she thinks she’s going to get information out of him. “Bad breakup?”

  He hesitates for a moment, like he has to think about it, and I realize I’m literally sitting on the edge of the couch, waiting breathlessly for his answer.

  “Typical breakup,” he finally says with a quick nod. “We were young.”

  Liz is staring at the photo once more, her expression thoughtful. “You two look very much in love.”

  Massive understatement.

  “It was nothing,” he says quickly.

  “Nothing?” I leap to my feet, pointing my index finger at the screen. “Freaking liar!”

  Liz sets the photos aside and focuses all of her attention on Jordan. “Is she the one who got away?”

  “I guess.”

  Ugh. I fall back onto the couch. He’s being his typical evasive self. I can tell you right now, I don’t miss that shit for the world.

  They talk about other stuff, but I can’t hear anything. I’m too caught up on his I guess statement. I don’t warrant much, do I? I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m the one who walked away first. I deserve his indifferent treatment.

  After the next commercial break, Jordan gives Liz a tour of his home, and it is beautiful. Gorgeous. Like out of a dream. They talk about his future, about football, she tries to talk to him about his past, his family, but he hedges, changes the subject. It’s all coming at me at a rapid-fire pace, throwing me off balance. Sending me into Tuttle overload.

  I haven’t experienced anything like this in years.

  “So.” Liz smiles. They’re now sitting opposite of each other, the hot lights shining on them, Liz appearing as cool as a cucumber while I swear Jordan looks like he’s sweating. “Do you ever think about the one who got away?”

  My heart drops into my toes as I wait for it.

  He stares straight at the camera, his expression sincere when he says, “I think about her all the time.”

  Ugh. My heart just skipped like, five beats.

  “You said it was nothing, though,” she counters, looking pleased with herself, like she just caught Jordan in a lie. Which she totally did. “I’m guessing the relationship was serious.”

  “As serious as a relationship can be between two teenagers,” he says. “We were young, sh—stuff happens. And then it was over.”

  “You have regrets?”

  “I used to,” he says.

  Oh my God, what does he mean by that? His answers are so…unexpected. Confusing.

  Annoying.

  “What do you think she’d do if she saw you right now? During this episode?” Liz leans forward, her eyes gleaming. “Or what do you think she’d say if you two ran into each other in some random spot?”

  “She’d probably tell me to grow the hell up and get over it.” He chuckles. Liz actually giggles.

  And then they break for another freaking commercial.

  My head is spinning. He’s making a mockery of our relationship, and I’m sorry, but that’s not fair. I was young and stupid. So was he. How did we expect to make this work? Were we really that ignorant?

  Apparently so.

  I grab my phone and open up Instagram, then go to the search feature and type in his name. His profile pops up before I can type the u in his last name and I click on it, scrutinizing every photo he’s shared.

  Clearly this isn’t a personal profile. He’s catering to the fans, with photos of him poised and ready to launch a ball, or videos of some of his better plays over the last couple of seasons. Without hesitation, I hit the blue follow button, praying I won’t regret this.

  I stare at the newly appeared message bar, temptation making my fingers twitch. The commercials drone on in the background, but I’m not even paying attention anymore. I impulsively click it and send him a message before I can overthink anything.

  I would never tell you to grow the hell up and get over it.

  That’s all I say.

  Setting my phone down, I finish off my first giant glass of wine, wishing I’d brought the bottle into the living room with me. Inside Football starts back up with a quick interview with Jordan’s current coach, talking about how great he is and his potential and how he’s going to have an amazing career and a blah, blah, blah.

  My phone buzzes and I check it.

  Jordan_Tuttle8 has sent you a follow request.

  What the hell? Talk about fast. I immediately go on Instagram and check my followers pending list.

  Yep. There he is.

  Glancing at the TV, I see he’s back, still wearing the sexy flannel shirt and dark rinse jeans, looking like Hollywood’s interpretation of a lumberjack. He’s talking about wine and grapes and it’s crazy to hear him ramble on about this stuff because he sounds so grown up and mature.

  Not that he was immature when we were together, but this is a whole new side to Jordan that I don’t know. That I will probably never know.

  The realization makes me a little sad.

  I accept his follow request, my heart hammering, my ears roaring. I’m staring at the phone, waiting for him to make another move, but after five minutes I give up and set the phone on the couch beside me.

  Totally overreacting. Maybe it’s some overzealous assistant who somehow remembers the name of her boss’s old girlfriend so she sees it pop up and immediately decides to follow me back. That’s logical, right? Right?

  My phone buzzes with another notification, and I check it.

  Jordan_Tuttle8 has sent you a message

  I almost drop the phone when I try to open up Insta, and when I finally do, I see his message.

  Mandy.

  That’s all it says.

  The fucker.

  I wake up to my iPhone vibrating next to my ear. I check the screen to see, first, it’s 8:07 a.m.

  And second, that it’s my best friend from high school calling me. She lives in Texas so she’s two hours ahead and completely thoughtless when it comes to time zones, I swear.

  I greet her with, “Livvy, why are you calling me this early?”

  Please. I know why she’s calling me this early.

  “Did you see Tuttle on Inside Football last night? He was totally talking about you. God, what a douche.”

  As all loyal high school best friends are wont to do, she can’t forgive Jordan for our breakup, even though I was the one who broke up with him. In her eyes, he drove me to do it. You have to love a best friend like that, right?

  We’re not as close as we used to be, only because she lives in Austin now with her fiancé and true high school sweetheart Dustin, but we talk as much as we can.

  “I think he made all of it up,” I tell her.

  Livvy pauses for a moment, like she has to consider what I just said. “Made it up? What are you talking about?”

  “It makes for good TV.” I lower my voice in a terrible imitation of Jordan. “‘
Oh yeah, that special girl from high school was my first real love, but we’re not together anymore. So I’m broken hearted and all that crap.’” My voice goes back to normal. “He’s so over me. You do realize this, right?”

  “Maybe he’s not.”

  “Please.” I make a noise and sit up in bed. My head hurts. Too much wine. And my stomach hurts. Too much Chinese food, which I ended up devouring after I watched Inside Football. Twice. “He makes millions, he’s world famous and he can have any woman he wants. He is not losing sleep over me.”

  “You never know,” Livvy sing songs. “It would be what he deserves, wishing you two were still together.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He can want you, but he can never have you, because you are so done with that douchebag. He can go suck a bag of dicks.”

  Funny how when we end up talking about high school stuff, Livvy immediately starts sounding like her high school self. We’re in our twenties now. We don’t go around saying suck a bag of dicks anymore.

  Well. I never really did. That’s more Livvy’s style.

  “He doesn’t want me,” I reassure her. And myself. “He probably has a different woman in his bed every night. He’s probably dated half the Kardashians.” There was a rumor he had a minor tryst with Kendall Jenner about a year ago, but who knows if that’s true? He takes one photo with her at a random event, and it’s splashed all over social media claiming they’re a couple.

  “I wish he did. I wish he was begging for you to come back to him right now, just so you could have the satisfaction of telling him to kiss your ass,” Livvy says.

  I think about him following me on Instagram last night. How he sent me that one-word message and nothing else. The tease. The jerk.

  Should I tell Livvy?

  Nah.

  “I’m not out for vengeance,” I say. “I only wish him well.”

  “You have a bigger heart than me,” Livvy mutters. “Dustin tells me my hate for Tuttle is ridiculous.”

  “It sort of is,” I say gently. “Don’t forget, I broke up with him.”