Page 2 of Among Friends

“Sure.” I turned my attention back to Madeline, who’d successfully located my health insurance information. Not continuing to glance at Tate took a lot of willpower, especially when I relayed my address and phone number for Madeline to enter into the computer. The Tate I’d known would have totally kept on listening in, but perhaps this adult version had better impulse control.

After I finished the check-in process, I rewarded myself by scanning the room for Tate. Sure enough, he’d saved me a seat next to him—one of the few open chairs. Not taking advantage of it would be rude, but my stomach fluttered the whole ten steps or so it took to stand in front of him.

“Um. Hi.”Slick.I was so slick. It was no wonder my blind date ditched me at the ER.

“Hi.” Tate was as friendly as I remembered and patted the chair beside him. He’d always been the extrovert to my introvert, my ticket to a larger friend group. “You’re back in town? For good?”

“Yeah, finished my move last week.” Cautious of my injuries, I gingerly sat next to him. “I’ll be working with the local CASA office as an attorney for child welfare cases. I always liked it here, so when I saw the job opening…” I trailed off because having fond but distant memories of a place sounded like a wacky reason to move half a state away. However, perhaps Tate didn’t agree because he kept right on smiling.

“That’s awesome, man.” He narrowed his eyes as he peered closer at me. “But why not tell anyone you’re back in the area?”

“Who would I tell?” I wasn’t playing stupid. My phone truly did lack a single Mount Hope contact, and I knew down to the minute the last time I’d spoken to anyone from here.

“Dude. We were best friends. Practically brothers. TNT. Remember?” Smile fading, Tate made a face like he’d gotten raisins in a cookie instead of chocolate chips. “And then you up and moved. Didn’t tell anyone. Not even the teachers could say where you went.”

Three-fifteen on October eleventh of our sixth-grade year, I’d stepped off the school bus and shouted goodbye to Tate. A big black car had been waiting beside our old white trailer outside Mount Hope’s city limits, and that was it: the last time I’d seen Tate Johnson and Mount Hope both.

“I was taken into state custody.” I was an adult now, pushing thirty, well over fifteen years past that day, and still, my voice shook. “The DHS worker decided the best placement was the family of a second cousin I’d never met down near Eugene.”

“Oh, Tennessee.” Tate croaked like words were fuzzy, oversized things. I sympathized. Tate shifted in his chair as if he might be about to touch me, then winced and rubbed his right arm. “I knew things were never great at home. But that bad? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t,” I whispered, not feeling very adult at the moment.

“My folks would have wanted to help.” Tate leaned forward, winced again, then rubbed his closely cropped hair with his left hand. “I would have tried to help. So many people would have helped.”

“I work for CASA. I know all the resources for kids in the system now, trust me. But at twelve? I wasn’t going to tell a soul how out of control my parents’ drug problem had become.”I paused to try to slow my heart rate. Tate wasn’t lying. His family would have readily offered assistance. But their warm and loving vibe with an always-welcoming house was precisely why I hadn’t been able to say anything. “I was scared and confused and ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Tate sucked in a harsh breath. “You thought it was your fault? God, kid logic is the worst. I’ve seen it on duty, and I hate how kids always seem to blame themselves for bad shit. Hate that you couldn’t tell anyone.” He tried again to touch me but recoiled as soon as he moved his arm. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He offered me a far gentler smile, and I could see how he was likely good as an EMT, making people feel calmer with a simple sympathetic look. “The curse was because I tweaked my injured wrist. But whatever went down, it absolutely wasn’t your fault.”

“Thank you.”

“You were never tempted to reach out?” Using his left hand, Tate pulled out a shiny phone with a rugged case, staring at it like he expected my pic to pop up. “I looked for you on social media a few times over the years, but I didn’t know the new last name. ‘Tennessee Church’ got nine zillion hits, none relevant.”

“My last name changed when my foster family adopted me. And I’m not really much on social media stuff.” I stared at my swollen hand, studying the bruising rather than trying to figure out what it meant that Tate had searched for me. “I share pictures of my cat once in a blue moon, but otherwise, I tend to forget the accounts exist. Also, for a lot of years, I felt misplaced shame and guilt over how I was forced to leave. Then I saw the job opening here, and it seemed like a sign.”

“Absolutely.” Tate was back to beaming, voice warm and welcoming. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Thanks.” A family of four trekked past us, jostling my arm as they passed. “Ow.”

“Oh crap.” Tate glanced down, seemingly only now noticing my injury. “Your right arm is hurt like mine? What happened?”

“It’s a long, rather embarrassing story.”

“I’ve got nothing but time. And I’m an EMT. I’ve heard worse, I’m sure.” He winked, an absolutely devastating addition to his charm. “And done worse. Likely today. Spill.”

Chapter Two

Tate

Tennessee was back in Mount Hope. I’d spent fifteen years wondering what had happened to my best friend, and now that he was here beside me, I was practically giddy. Who cared that we were in an ER waiting room? It wasTennessee, and somehow, I’d known from the instant he’d walked in. He didn’t look much like his twelve-year-old self, what with a fuzzy beard and long hair in a neat ponytail and all, but he had the same straw-colored hair and pale-blue eyes with a sharp nose. Same tall, skinny build. My mom would be beside herself, wanting to feed Tennessee up the same as before. I wanted to hear everything he’d been up to, starting with how he injured his arm. It was more than a little funny that we had similar injuries on the same exact day, no less.

Tennessee took his sweet time answering my question. But I remembered his long pauses from the past and was patient without rushing to fill the silence.

“It was a terrible blind date,” he said softly. Too softly. My overprotective hackles went up, and I leaned forward.

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