Page 12 of Old Acquaintances

“And I would like to keep blood circulating through my leg.” He lifts it again.

“That’s your own fault for being so damn tall.”

He sets his hand on mine before I can move it. “Ella, I swear to God.”

The warmth of his skin seeps into mine and the pressure of it, and his eye contact, forces to me blurt out, “Whyare you here?”

It comes out just as I want: begging, pleading. Why would he suddenly try to reenter my life to ruin my thirtieth birthday?

Tucker’s face softens, but he keeps his hand in place. He says gently, “I wanted to be with my friends.”

“Won’t I ruin it for you?”

“Seeing you is an added bonus. Like when you find a fingernail in your soup.”

“That’s disgusting.” I move my hand. “And I’m not stupid, Tucker. I know you hang out with them.”

He relaxes beside me. His leg stretches long into my space. I’ve had twenty-nine years of him taking up more room than he’s allowed. “Well, maybe I wanted to see you too.”

“Me, me, me,” I mock. “Everything’s always about you. Did you ever think that I don’t want to see you?”

“I’ve listened to a lifetime of you saying one thing and meaning something else.” He sniffles. “I don’t think you know what you want.”

“Excuse me?”

He looks at me sideways. “If you don’t want to be friends, that’s fine. Then we can at least beold acquaintanceswho can be in the same room for the sake of our family and friends.”

“Old acquaintances?” I repeat.

I think he stole that phrase from me at one point in our friendship.

His eyes dart between mine.

I close my eyes and replay the early days in the hospital, after the accident, when my friends came to see me. I stared at the door with tears in my eyes. I begged for Tucker, actually begged. Did anyone tell him that? I wanted him to walk through that door more than I wanted to see any other person.

Lori would wince, “He’s really busy, baby,” and his step-brother Jake told me, “You know, Tuck, he’s not sure what your relationship is. I thought you guys weren’t even friends.”

I knew that was bullshit. No matter what Tucker and I told the world, he should have shown up.

I open my eyes and finally ask, “Did Johnny tell you to back off?”

“From…”

I swallow. “Me?”

Tucker’s jaw clenches. He runs his hand through his hair and the strands fall perfectly back into place. “No. I just –”

“You just what?” I demand. “You just stopped answering text messages that include me and stopped going on group trips with your friends from college?” I ping of remorse hits me. “I mean,I’mthe outsider. You should get to hang out with them all you want. I’m the one who went to a different school. These are your friends.”

He rests his head back and gives me a look. “Come on. The only reason Johnny and I are even friends is because ofyou.” He rights himself. “In fact, if everything changed, you and I might be the only two in the group still friends.”

“We are not friends,” I stamp.

He pauses. “You know what I mean.”

I do. Kind of.

If I didn’t live beside Johnny, then he and I might not be friends. He and Tucker might not be friends. They might not have gone to Clemson together. I wouldn’t know Serena, Callie, Wyatt or Ritchie. Our mothers claim to be soulmates. Whether we liked it or not, Tucker and I would always be acquainted.

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