Page 52 of Old Acquaintances

She makes the sound of a popped balloon and scrambles out of the room, mentioning something about needing to process things.

He turns to me. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I overshared,” I grumble.

Tucker approaches me and my back straightens. “I need to talk to you.”

I finish my orange, digging my heels into the floor. “Then talk.”

“No. Alone.” He grounds his teeth and snatches my hand. I’m pulled into our bedroom, he looks around and guides me to the edge of the bed. He leans with his legs stretched out and I say, “Don’t sit there, you’re all wet!”

He rolls his eyes and drags me with him toward the wooden bench. He sits and I argue, “Not there either, you’re going to warp the wood.”

“Jesus Christ!” He pulls me along into the bathroom, my feet stumbling to keep up, and pushes me up against the sink. He grips my sides and hoists me onto the counter.

I choke, “What are you doing?”

Tucker’s hands flatten beside my hips. “I need to say something, and I need you eye level.” He sucks in air, taking in the sight of me in front of him. He decides, “Maybe with a little distance.”

He backs up a little. “Ella, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.”

I wait, expecting more, but he’s stopped, so I prompt, “Sorry for?”

If he thinks I’m going to hand-feed him the right words, then he’s wrong. Tucker’s smart, he’s always known exactly what to say to charm the pants off anyone, he can formulate the words but he’s holding back.

“I’m sorry for not calling,” he replies. “I should have checked on you. I got busy and things were a little crazy with me moving and I, just…I dropped the ball.” His leg shakes, his breath rattles.

I gag in surprise. “Youdropped the ball?” I repeat. My nose pinches.

Johnny hates it when I cry. He calls it a ‘cheap shot,’ thinking I’m being manipulative or that he has to apologize just because tears flow, but Johnny rarely apologizes. Tucker always apologized. He knew I cried when I was so full of emotion that I had burst.

Years ago, he would have come to me, offered a hand or rubbed my back or wiped the tears away. It was as if my hurt caused him hurt.

Tucker doesn’t move toward me. If anything, he backs away. “I was a shitty friend, and I’m sorry.”

I blink, pushing away the tears that have already escaped.

“Is that what we were?” I ask. “Friends?”

“I don’t know what else to call it.” A nervous ripple runs across his neck muscles. “You were so hot and cold all of the time, I never knew where I stood with you.”

My eyes bulge. “Me? I was only ever hot when you touchedme. I know where I stood.”

“Where was that?” Tucker’s eyes flash angrily for a second before softening. He looks at me, pained, and I think I have that same expression, too. TheI can’t believe I’m seeing youlook.

“…in the middle,” I answer.

The middle of love and darkness, that place where I never had to choose.

“That was the problem,” Tucker says. “You never told me what to do next. I never knew what to do next, I just did things impulsively and you didn’t stop me. That’s not the same thing as wanting it, Ella.”

“That’s why you didn’t call me? Because of what happened at the wedding?”

He didn’t think I’d bring that up. He’s fidgeting. We had so many moments between us that never saw the light of day, he must have assumed that’s one of them. For me, it’s the last memory I have of him. I assumed we had taken it too far - I had misstepped - and he wrote me off.

Carefully, Tucker says, “No. I didn’tnotcall for any reason. I just…got busy. I was selfish and fucked up. I’m sorry.”

I grab a tissue from the box between the sinks and dab my face.

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