Page 9 of Old Acquaintances

“I think Eli is searching for connection,” she explained. “He doesn’t know his biological father. His grandparents disowned his mother. His family is full of people she married into. I think he wants a connection with you that isn’t just because you’re both friends with the boy next door or because your mothers are friends. He wants tocreatea relationship with you.”

It went over my head. All I know is that the notes stopped, and we didn’t speak to each other directly for the rest of the year.

When high school came around, everything changed.

The notes reappeared. This time, however, he stuck sticky notes on theoutsideof my locker, where everyone could see. No snickering crowd stood watching. I’d catch the eye of a boy walking past and he’d notice the Sharpie written note - Tucker always wrote in big, bold letters - and give me a once-over. I’d pick up a flower Tucker taped on the outside and a group of girlswould swoop in and want to hear all of the details. There were no details to tell, but my face blushed at the reactions around me, giving the allusion of being charmed. I was seemingly the object of someone’s affection and that made me interesting.

He became progressively more boyish. He’d tug my hair, pick me up or pinch my side. He’d drop bags of M&M’s in my backpack. He’d walk past me in the hallway and call me names.

“Brat.” “Bossy.” “Beautiful.”

We would sit beside each other at lunch, with our friend group, and barely say a word to each other. Then, I’d find a donut on the hood of my car from when he snuck out of school early.

Being in the orbit of the most popular boy in school put me on the map. He’d shout down the hallway,“I love you, Ella!”and it finally felt like a tease, like I was in on the joke. He’d cover my car windows with hearts written in paint marker. He’d write my name on his right hand, his pitching arm, when he had a baseball game.

On Eleventh-grade picture day, he ran into the shot before the camera took the picture and kissed me on the cheek. They actually used that shot in the yearbook. In fact, every single yearbook I have from high school is filled with comments from friends and classmates saying things like, “I love you too, Ella.”People I barely knew asked to sign it, just to be part of the game. They would have to scribble their messages in between the giant block letters Tucker would fill every blank page with. I LOVE YOU.

The whole school knew it was a joke and they knew it was for me. When he’d make a scene, I’d shout some obscenity back to him, flip him the bird, or pretend to be angry about it. Most of the time he’d give me his perfect, cheeky smile, and I’d have to bite back a laugh.

We weren’t friends.Never. We were friends of friends. ButTucker liked to play this little game.

And I let him.

Chapter Five

Today

Oh, God.

He’s here.

I close my eyes and exhale, crinkling the note in my hand. I wonder how long he’s been here, if he’s been watching me. I don’t want to look at him, but I can’t stop myself. I need to see him. I want to hear his voice. I want an explanation.

When I open my eyes, I see him where he’s probably always been, sitting one row of seats away from me.

His right ankle rests on his left knee. His broad, tall body slinks into the chair, his arm slung on the top of the empty one beside him. A smirk lifts his mouth. Those very familiar, warm green eyes focus on mine. His rumpled dark hair is swept back from his golden, olive skin.

When we were teenagers, on a cruise with our families, a stranger commented that we made a nice-looking pair. His warm skin tone and strong features, and me with matching colored hair, pink cheeks and large, almost black eyes. I thought that meant we looked related. Gracie laughed when I told her.

“That means you look like acouple. Like a romantic couple,” she explained.

I stare at Tucker now, from across a sea of people standing, holding their bags, and search him for signs that he’s changed in seven years.

He has the same large frame and relaxed confidence. His usual clean, stylish white T-shirt and blue jeans. I flip through the different versions of him I have in my mind - five years old, ten years old, eighteen, twenty - and I only seethis. He’ll always be whatever image I have right in front of me.

He raises an eyebrow.

I reach into my bag and take out a pen. I scribble beside his words,Why are you here, stalker??Then, I spit into the paper. I smile at a concerned woman in front of me, crumbling the paper into a ball, and when a little boy slides out of the way, I throw it back to Tucker.

The man who played baseball for his whole childhood and college career, catches it with one hand, only briefly tearing his eyes from mine.

The plane begins to board. An awful realization hits me as I watch Tucker open the paper.

If Johnny bought my ticket without telling me Tucker was coming, then he probably bought Tucker’s ticket as well. He will have booked us seats together. He’s trying toParent Trapus into talking.

Without getting up, Tucker tosses the paper in the trash and settles into his seat, eyeing his phone.

What am I supposed to say to him for two hours on this flight?

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