Page 117 of Old Acquaintances

He turns into the boat rental place and his knuckles whiten. “I had to let my dream go.” He pinches his lips. “I’ve got white picket fences. A guy who repairs vintage glass windows. A team of people who don’t mind sweeping forty-year-old mice skeletons and scrapping wallpaper for days. And a Lowe’s credit card.”

“I thought flipping houseswasthe plan?”

“It was the plan, but not the dream.” He parks the car. “I can’t have the dream. Because I can’t afford to lose it.”

I hate that mindset for him. I hate that he can’t be completely and utterly happy, even if I’m not in the picture.

I ask, “Were you ever close to getting it?”

He closes his eyes and palms his forehead. He whispers. “God yes. I was so fucking close.”

I wish he would tell me.

“Eli,” I start, reaching for his knee.

Tucker focuses on my hand. “Stay here. I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

He walks toward the building, and I observe him in the real world. As happy as he can be, is where most people operate. I wish I could accept that level of contentment. I wish I didn’t need to realize my dream, then all of the uncertain aspects of it wouldn’t exist. I wish I didn’t love Tucker, that I could live in his rejection, and I could move onto a relationship less fragile that required less of myself.

Thirty, single and childless, I feel small, childish and vulgar. Tucker’s an adult. He long since looked the part, but his casual confidence radiates when he walks into a strange building to talk to people about driving their boat. Adults give up on their dreams because it’s practical and reasonable, they find areas of life with which to be content.

I’m afraid I’ll always be destined for a life of rental apartments and saying “fuck” in mixed company.

I want him, for so many reasons, including this fact. We were vulgar together. I didn’t have to be ladylike and delicate to make Tucker like me. I could measure my words and behavior around Johnny but be as wild and free as I wanted around Tucker. I could help him find new dreams. I could figure anything out with him by my side.

He said it: he took care of me.

He swept me off my feet time and time again, and I want to show him I can do that, too. I didn’t know I loved him then, but I know it now and I understand why I’ll never be a picket fence kind of girl. Because nothing is good enough when your dream exists and you choose not to reach for it.

I never reached for Tucker. He always grabbed my hand. If I don’t try to love him as a thirty-year-old woman who knows him better than a soul alive, then I’ll always regret my silence.

He steps out of the building and waves me toward him. I grab the car keys and meet him on the dock where he points to a wrinkled old man sitting on a cooler, smoking a cigarette, as tan as leather. “He’s kinda cute.”

I roll my eyes, adjusting my straps.I’m trying to woo you here.He’s busy pawning me off on Ernest Hemingway’s muse.

Tucker takes my hand and helps me into the white fishing boat. “Untie that, will you?” We untie the knots, and he starts the boat.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.

Reversing from the dock, he says, “Yeah. Back to the house.”

“You know how to get there?”

“No, Ella, I’m going to drive us out into the sea until we run out of gas, just to see which one of us God wants to take next.” He speeds up slightly, motoring along down the waterway.

That sounded hostile.

Above the sound of the boat motor and the waves, I question: “Why do you sound angry?”

“Because,” he snaps. “I think I’m destined to always be a little angry. This wholedreamconversation fucking pissed me off.”

He closes his eyes for a second. He stands, despite the seat behind him, next to where I’m sitting, his hair whipping backward. I wish I had something for my hair. It’s flying behindme, and I know it’ll feel twisted and dry and full when we reach the house.

Tucker glances at me for a second. “Why is your dress so god-damn tight?”

I look down, catching the angry pinch in his cheeks.

Maybe this plan hasn’t backfired at all.

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