Page 80 of Old Acquaintances

We do these vacations together and catch up on the phone, but Johnny and I stay pretty surface level. That’s probably our friendship now. I think about St. Patrick’s Day and beach vacations and that RV trip Wyatt wanted to take to the Grand Canyon. Jen with her delicate hands and sun dresses and giant diamond, the secret life between she and my best friend that I’m not privy to. Then, I think about Tucker and the woman laughing at his side while the four of them take couple walks together.

My chest hurts.

I sit up, tucking my hair back to see him properly. “Is that weird for you? Meeting the girl you’ll have to spend best friend trips with for the rest of your life?”

He scratches his jaw. “I haven’t really thought about it. How about for you?”

“Johnny and I haven’t beenbest friendsfor a while. Not like you two.”

“He says you guys talk every week.”

“He didn’t even tell me he was proposing to her,” I say. “And I’m not even mad that he didn’t. By now it’s kind of like he’s a comfortable voice. We’re just familiar, that’s all.” I add, “Maybe that’ll be different when I meet someone.” I gauge his reaction, noting a slight shift in his legs. “Then Jen and I can be friends.”

“What makes you think she wants to be your friend?”

“She’s nice. I’m nice.”

Tucker scoffs, “Tell that to my testicles.” He focuses on the pillows between us. “Ella, can I ask you something without it being…wrong?”

The look he’s giving me hurts. I feel like the question will hurt. It’ll be one of those things that tests boundaries. I don’t respond, but Tucker asks anyway.

“You said yesterday that I was your best friend.” His eyelids droop, heaviness in his gaze. “Did you mean that?”

My stomach tightens. “Yes.” That’s the truth.

“When did you figure that out?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I wince. “I think when I put you beside Johnny. When I thought of who I would call if I needed something. Or who would show up even when I didn’t call.”

Tucker’s hand lands on our barrier. I wouldn’t take a body language analyst to decipher this movement. He’s bringing himself closer to me. By the distracted look on his face, he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

We weren’t going to talk anymore.

I wasn’t going to be angry anymore.

He wanted neutrality. Gesturing like he wants to touch me does not belong in any of those categories.

“Is that how you define a best friend?” he asks.

I say, “Yeah, I guess so. It’s the friend you like the best, trust the most. At some point, you became that for me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he urges.

I stiffen. There he goes again, the blame back on me. I say, “Would it have made a difference?”

If you told me I was your friend, I would have called you sometime.

Tucker shakes his head. “My mom said you lost your memory -”

“I lost some memories from just before the accident, Tucker, I didn’t forget a lifetime.” I exhale with surprise. “I haven’t forgotten how I felt.”

He frowns at that. Maybe he’s wondering how I feel.

Sitting on this bed, his protective layer between us, is not the time to discuss how Ifelt.Then, or now. If I went there, his hand might make its way across no-man’s-land and I’d gladly accept him because we have peace treaties to discuss, battles left unfinished. I can’t hate him on my side of the bed. If he touches me again, I’ll forget to be mad.

Tucker doesn’t respond. I don’t give him the time.

I roll off the bed, stumbling on dizzied feet. In the bathroom, I assess my pale skin and dark eye circles, the purple on my lips from the wine. I grab soap bottles from my toiletry bag and turn on the hot water in the shower. Tucker will have gone out into the kitchen by now, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, hangover-free. He won’t have anything embarrassing to hide from. He can stew in his thoughts about friendship, that’s a decent punishment.

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