Page 11 of Tucker
Tuckerruns in the evenings sometimes, but I’m not sure where. I just see him leave inshorts and come back winded and sweaty an hour later.
“There’sa pretty good trail around the lake. It should be quiet in the mornings.”
Swallowinga bite of his BLT, he shakes his head at me. “It’s dangerous. Any psycho couldbe out there in the woods, waiting for you.”
Rollingmy eyes, I sit back and cross my arms. “You’re worse than Derek sometimes, youknow that?”
AllI get in response is a grunt. Fine, if he wants to give me grief over runningalone, I’ll just go with him.
Whenhe walks out the front door in his running shorts and white tee, I’m waitingfor him on the porch. He takes one look at my workout clothes and the earbudsin my ears and shakes his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Iwouldn’t want to worry you by traversing the dangers of the forest alone, soI’m running with you. I prefer mornings, but I can adapt.”
Hegives a long suffering sigh, as if I’m the most frustrating person he’s evermet, but I see a glint of amusement in his eyes. Without a word, he jogs downthe steps and across the yard. I catch up with him and we jog in comfortablesilence until we get to the lake.
Whenwe turn onto the trail, I pick up speed and he does the same, moving a fewpaces ahead of me.
Nope.Not happening.
Ispeed up to pass him again and I hear him grunt as he catches up. “You don’thave to keep up with me,” I chirp. “I’ll wait for you back at home.”
I’mmet with a glare before our little run turns into a full-fledged sprint. He maybe in great shape, but all that muscle weighs more than my thin frame and Ibeat him back to the house by only a few feet.
“Yes!I’m the champion. All bow before my Olympic greatness!” I cry, and fall onto myback on the porch to catch my breath. “See, if some creeper is in the woods,I’ll just outrun him…like I did you.”
“Yougot lucky.” He stalks inside and returns with two bottles of water, tossing oneto me. “I want a rematch.”
“Tomorrownight,” I agree.
“Nottomorrow. I won’t be here.”
Hedoesn’t say where he’s going, and I don’t bother to ask. This is the thirdSaturday in a row he has plans and if he’s meeting a woman somewhere I reallydon’t want to know. I have no right to be jealous, but that doesn’t change theway it makes me feel.
Heleaves on Saturday mornings and doesn’t return until after dark. I’d assumehe’s partying or something, but he’s always sober and in a really shitty moodwhen he returns. It’s none of my business anyway, so I just don’t ask.
“Sundayit is. Better rest up old man.”
Tuckerhas already left when I wake the next day. Every muscle in my body screams intorment as I roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. Apparently,sprinting for six miles after a couple of weeks of no running is not a goodidea. I’m glad he isn’t home to see my agony as I run a hot bath and sink belowthe bubbles.
Anhour later, the bath and a couple of Ibuprofen have me feeling a little lesslike I was stomped on by an elephant, so I curl up with my laptop to write. Myoriginal semi-biographical outline has fallen by the wayside as this storypours out of me. It’s still cathartic, since the girl suffers long term abuseas a child, but I love that I get to control her outcome and give her a happilyever after with the man of her dreams. I didn’t set out to write a romancebook, but I’m tired of fighting it. Romance it is.
It’sfunny since I know the first advice a writer is generally given is write whatyou know. I know nothing about romance. My last relationship ended in a screamingargument because the guy didn’t trust me. He kept track of my every move, keptme from my friends, and tried to tell me what to do.
OnceI decided I was finished with school, I didn’t tell him, just packed up mystuff and left while he was at work. He still tries to message or calloccasionally, but not as often since I never pick up or respond. I won’t becontrolled.
I’mshocked when I look up from my computer to see more than four hours havepassed. I guess I was in the zone. Stretching my stiff muscles, I wander into thekitchen to figure out what to make for dinner tonight.
Arumble of thunder rolls across the darkening sky as I’m sliding a chicken andrice casserole into the oven. I set a timer on my phone and take it and mytablet out to the front porch to read. It’s been a warmer than usual night andthe lightning is impressive, branching its way across the sky in arcs thatleave an imprint on my vision.
Tuckingmy legs beneath me, I watch as the rain starts to sweep over the house insheets. I love Tucker’s porch, the way I can just snuggle back and watch itpour, closing me in. I’ve always loved the rain.
Headlightsbeam across the road and Tucker’s truck pulls in. He makes a dash for thehouse, stopping short when he sees me on the porch. “Don’t you have enough senseto come in out of the rain?”
Whatcrawled up his ass? “Are you too blind to see I’m not wet? I wasn’t exactly outplaying in it.”
Heglowers at me and heads inside without another word. I’m starting to detect apattern. He’s way more of a dick on Saturdays. Is he seeing someone who pisseshim off? Or is he pissed because I’m here and he feels like he can’t bring herhome?
Thetimer on my phone beeps and I go inside to remove the casserole from the oven.I can hear the shower running upstairs, so he’ll probably come down to eatafter. I’ve had a nice relaxing day and I’m in no mood to deal with hisattitude, so I make myself a plate and settle in front of the television toeat.
