Chapter Twenty-Eight

Today

My eyes drift open. I'm snuggled into Tucker's body, his hands loose but caged, as if he woke up a dozen times to stop me from falling off the couch. It's daylight beyond the sliding glass doors. There's noise in the kitchen.

For the first time in years, I'm warm. I'm safe. I'm right where I want to be. I can say with conviction that I love him. He is exactly the person I thought he was. He might not have called me for years, but his silence came from a place of care. He stayed away because he needed that time to heal, and that makes sense to me.

I received the answer I wanted.

I don't want to move. I just want to stay in this position where everything is fine. I know what I need - he still cares, he showed up - and the rest can take the backseat. The rest being… us . This hold he has over my heart. My body. It's all so intertwined. I told myself it was youth, young love, first times. That I would always hold something for the boy who kissed me best. But, deep in the crevices of my soul, I never felt satisfied without his presence. I hated him because I couldn't love him, because I felt incomplete and hurt. That part is still unresolved. I never knew exactly what I wanted, or needed, from him, but I do now. If he's the same man I loved seven years ago, then he'll be the same one I'll love seven years from now. And more.

Did he ever really love me? For any of it, all of it?

Can I reconcile myself to sitting on the sidelines watching as his friend while he builds a life with another woman?

"Hey." Tucker wakes with a moan. "You're still here."

"Yes." I lift my chin to him. "I wasn't going anywhere."

Our mouths are lined up, his eyes note the closeness. I feel him against my stomach, focusing on the heat radiating under his hands. Last night, he held me to him. I kissed his skin, and he touched me with his breath. I truly relaxed for the first time in years.

"We should get up," he says, lifting me with him to a seated position. My hand falls to his thigh. He moves it with a wince. "I'll bet Serena has things planned for today."

"That's it?" I ask when he stands. He silently walks away.

It's almost our last day. Tomorrow is New Year's Eve. We celebrate our birthday and then we all go home. Me to Atlanta, Tucker to Savannah. Same state, different cities, different flights. If we're able to keep up the friendliness, I'll probably see him at the baby's first birthday in September and maybe even Christmas, but I don't imagine more interaction. I told our friends we wouldn't see each other anymore and they would honor my wishes, just as they have.

I stand by that statement. I can't do this again. I can't do friend vacations. I forgive him for not calling, I'll always feel indebted to him for saving my life, he's a breathing piece of my heart, but I'll never be able to see him happy with another woman because I will hate her on the principle because I loved him first and he might have loved me some, too. I want more than all of that.

I walk into the kitchen where Callie braids Serena's hair at the table. It's sunny outside, everyone else is eating at the patio table. They must have all walked past us while we slept. I assume they all know the truth. No doubt they had their ears pressed to the walls while Tucker and I had it out. They would have been the people to prop up him after he left me in the hospital, to encourage him to see a professional about his feelings. They met him when he walked out of jail and didn't judge him for it.

These friends held my hand while I recovered. They didn't press or pry or argue when I expressed my needs. They held Tucker's hand, too, and they kept his secrets.

I've been so caught up in my head, I haven't appreciated the people around me.

God, they're good people.

Tucker emerges from our bedroom with jeans and a shirt, he avoids my eye, and he snatches the rental car keys from the table.

"Thanks, Tuck," Serena calls out.

"Where is he going?" I ask after he's gone.

"I rented a boat so we can go snorkeling. He's going to get it since he's the only one who can drive a boat."

Without thinking I yell, "Wait!" I open the door and shout, "Tucker, wait!"

"What are you doing?" Serena questions when I start striping off my pajamas.

I run into the bedroom and pop on a simple jersey dress. "I'm going with him."

"Because you're a boat fanatic?"

I'm not entirely sure why I'm doing this. I haven't thought it out. I just know I can't let him put a stamp on this moment and mail me off like the accident was our only link, our only unexplored truth. "I'm going because…I have to make him fall in love with me."

Callie laughs, "Then, you don't know what you're doing."

"Do it the right way, Ell," Serena insists. "Make yourself beautiful and we can set you guys up on a romantic dinner tonight -"

"Screw that," I snap, sliding into flip-flops.

I notice how neither of them says, Oh my gosh, why would you want him to fall in love with you, this idea is flying out of left field.

I stop and breathe, "You know, don't you?"

"That you're in love with him?" Callie smiles.

"Yes. We know," Serena answers.

He lands on the horn, and I hesitate. "So, what do I do? How do I do it, no romantic gestures, how do I make him love me?"

"Tell him."

"Serena - I can't just tell him. I've hated him for the last seven years, I can't just switch it up on him so fast. Plus, I've kicked him in the nuts so many times and the last time that we almost -"

Her eyes go wide.

"Well, he left. He said he didn't want me." I step backward, hand on the doorknob. "He says he's over me. If I tell him I'm in love with him, he's not going to believe it and he's not going to want me. And then he'll just…disappear again." I open the door. "I have to make him fall in love with me."

"Maybe you should take a beat and put on a Nora Ephron movie. You know, research ."

"I don't have time! Time is of the essence!"

She grumbles, "I'm glad I'm done with men."

I shut the door behind me and run down the driveway. I hop into the passenger seat where Tucker waits, hand on the gear shift. He asks, "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you." I clip into my seatbelt. I stare straight ahead, trying to be composed and normal - be normal - and not let him find a reason to boot me out. If he thinks I'm trying to corner him, he'll be harder to win over.

"Why?" he questions suspiciously.

"I like going for car rides."

"Are you a golden retriever?" he snaps.

"No. I'm a Shiba Inu."

"The fuck is that?"

I say, "I think it's like a dog. I did a Buzzfeed quiz once."

He groans, backing out of the driveway, and his phone speaks directions I assume Serena gave him. I cast an eye to his calm hands as they rest on the steering wheel. His head relaxes back. He tousles his hair. He breathes steadily through his nose.

He says, "Stop looking at me."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are." He rolls his eyes. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"Because you were afraid I'd know you saved my life and I'd fall in love with you?"

He raises his brow. " No ." He takes the turn. "Because you'd want to talk about it. Something I don't want to do."

"I didn't say I wanted to talk about it."

"Okay then."

"Fine."

Tucker says, "Are you hoping to meet some cute guy out here on the Marina? Is that why you decided to come?"

"No."

"You could probably thrive here in Florida. These people don't wear a lot of clothes either. Look at that woman over there. Where are her pants?"

"Stop it," I huff.

"Stop what? I'm making conversation."

I disagree, "You're picking at me so that we don't have to sit in a quiet car and think about everything."

How can he be so calm in my presence?

He's finally told me the big reason we didn't talk for so many years and now we have nothing standing in our way. We can explore the reason for his abrupt exit after the wedding. He can tell me what he meant by, "I don't want you."

That is unless he meant what he said about not finding me attractive anymore, being done with his infatuation with me.

Why couldn't I have seen it before? I might have had a lifetime with him if I uncovered my feelings sooner. Stupid, stupid.

Tucker fiddles with the music on his phone and I move his hand away. He fights, "Ella, stop it."

"We don't need any music. If you aren't uncomfortable around me, then we can sit here quietly and look for…alligators."

He offers me an annoyed look.

I didn't want to believe him last night when he said he was over me, that he had to stop loving me to get through the trauma of handling my near-dead body. I doubted he would be so immune, after years of undressing me with his eyes, but I'm apparently not the vixen I once considered myself.

I used to simply exist and it garnered Tucker's attention. I spent last night curled up in his arms, our tears spilling into one another, and woke to a raging hard-on in my stomach, all things he's currently indifferent about.

"There's one," he grumbles, pointing at a green plastic yard decoration.

I surreptitiously adjust the top of my dress. I cross my legs, hiking the bottom up. I brush my hair to the side, Jessica Rabbit style.

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

"There's another one," he says.

I snap. "Okay, you made your point."

"Are you on the way to making yours?" He rolls his eyes. "I know what you're doing." He grounds his jaw. "Trying to va-va-voom yourself into getting me to talk to you. That's just sick ."

"So, you don't mind me being sexual as long as it's on accident?" I scoff. "The minute I want it, you've lost all interest in me. Who's the sicko now?"

He bites back a smile. "Backfired."

"I'm not doing anything," I pretend. This is going to be harder than I thought.

He says, "You know, Ritchie likes you." He stares at me. "Genuinely, he always has, for whatever reason. He's single now. You should go for it."

I'm both sad and angry at the same time, about the suggestion and the eye contact. It's a challenge. He's trying to say he doesn't want me, and I should va-va-voom elsewhere.

"Is that what you want? For me to be with Ritchie?" I ask.

"If it stops you from embarrassing yourself like this then, yeah, maybe."

"Okay." I cross my arms. "Ritchie's very attractive. And he's very nice."

"He makes a lot of money."

"Point Ritchie." I check to see if any of this conversation alters Tucker's body language. "Maybe I'll make a move when we get back. I mean, he already kissed me, and it was a good kiss. You might end up sleeping on a twin bed tonight."

He doesn't say anything.

I taunt, "Is that what you want? Me and Ritchie having sex in the bed you slept in the other night?"

" Stop ," he bites.

"There would be no pillow walls," I continue. "Just hands and tongues -"

"Enough!" he caves.

I bite back a smile. "That bothers you?"

Tucker gives me a guilty, frustrated look.

"Good. I was starting to think you turned into a robot. And I'm not interested in Ritchie," I answer pointedly. "It wouldn't work with Ritchie. I'm too me for someone like him." I glance out of the window. "Hey - what was it like in jail?"

He twitches. "Too. Fucking. Soon."

"Fine." I don't really want to know, I just want to rattle him like he's trying to rattle me. I relax. "How do you feel about turning thirty?"

"The same I feel about you wiggling your boobs at me. It doesn't mean anything. I mean, I basically am thirty. It doesn't feel different than yesterday or tomorrow will feel. It's just a number."

It must be easy for him, a man, to not feel pressured by age. No one is asking him when he'll find someone, why isn't he dating, or making passive-aggressive comments like, "Oh you have plenty of time," as a response to your age reveal, even though you never expressed concern over having time to do anything.

The implication being that I will run out of time to have children. Or to find a husband. That my body will be undesirable, unable to perform, and I'll cease to have value as defined by society. Turning thirty is a woman's burden. Men have their whole lives to turn thirty.

I say, "I have to start over."

No one is ever concerned about you running out of time to achieve your dreams. It's acceptable to let those things pass you by. But as I inched toward an age where I may no longer be at my peak dancing ability, I found myself seeking out those goals I put aside.

When she found out I was auditioning for a new company, Gracie said, "Why bother? You only have a few more years of dancing left. You're going to have to move. Wouldn't it be easier just to find someone, settle down and live out the rest of your days in Atlanta?"

Aloud, I muse, "I have to pack up all of my stuff. I have to live without seasons."

"You'll figure it out."

"I'll have to make all new friends and find a whole new routine. I might hate my neighborhood and have to move. Like every year until I find the right place. And maybe even then I'll hate living there." I look out of the window. "Most people our age are laying down roots. They're established. I'm thirty and I'm starting all over."

Tucker asks, "But is it going to make you happy? Following through with your goals?"

"I think so."

"Ella - are you happy ? It's a yes or it's a no."

"I'm glad everything is so black and white for you," I retort. "It's not for me. I'm happy to dance with my dream company, but I'm unhappy about a lot of other things. Confused. Frustrated."

His eyebrows furrow. "As long as you're following your dreams, then you're going to be happy. In everything. Just keep going after what you want. You don't need to compare yourself to anyone else's life."

"Easier said than done."

"Some people just have different goals than you," he says. "Or they give up on their dreams completely and choose the safest route to stability, whether or not they're happy. They could have white picket fences and be fucking miserable."

"What about you?" I ask him, "Are you happy?"

He lifts a shoulder. "As happy as I can be."

"Did you finally figure out your dream?"

He turns into the boat rental place and his knuckles whiten. "I had to let my dream go." He pinches his lips. "I've got white picket fences. A guy who repairs vintage glass windows. A team of people who don't mind sweeping forty-year-old mice skeletons and scrapping wallpaper for days. And a Lowe's credit card."

"I thought flipping houses was the plan?"

"It was the plan, but not the dream." He parks the car. "I can't have the dream. Because I can't afford to lose it."

I hate that mindset for him. I hate that he can't be completely and utterly happy, even if I'm not in the picture.

I ask, "Were you ever close to getting it?"

He closes his eyes and palms his forehead. He whispers. "God yes. I was so fucking close."

I wish he would tell me.

"Eli," I start, reaching for his knee.

Tucker focuses on my hand. "Stay here. I'll come get you when I'm done."

He walks toward the building, and I observe him in the real world. As happy as he can be, is where most people operate. I wish I could accept that level of contentment. I wish I didn't need to realize my dream, then all of the uncertain aspects of it wouldn't exist. I wish I didn't love Tucker, that I could live in his rejection, and I could move onto a relationship less fragile that required less of myself.

Thirty, single and childless, I feel small, childish and vulgar. Tucker's an adult. He long since looked the part, but his casual confidence radiates when he walks into a strange building to talk to people about driving their boat. Adults give up on their dreams because it's practical and reasonable, they find areas of life with which to be content.

I'm afraid I'll always be destined for a life of rental apartments and saying "fuck" in mixed company.

I want him, for so many reasons, including this fact. We were vulgar together. I didn't have to be ladylike and delicate to make Tucker like me. I could measure my words and behavior around Johnny but be as wild and free as I wanted around Tucker. I could help him find new dreams. I could figure anything out with him by my side.

He said it: he took care of me.

He swept me off my feet time and time again, and I want to show him I can do that, too. I didn't know I loved him then, but I know it now and I understand why I'll never be a picket fence kind of girl. Because nothing is good enough when your dream exists and you choose not to reach for it.

I never reached for Tucker. He always grabbed my hand. If I don't try to love him as a thirty-year-old woman who knows him better than a soul alive, then I'll always regret my silence.

He steps out of the building and waves me toward him. I grab the car keys and meet him on the dock where he points to a wrinkled old man sitting on a cooler, smoking a cigarette, as tan as leather. "He's kinda cute."

I roll my eyes, adjusting my straps. I'm trying to woo you here. He's busy pawning me off on Ernest Hemingway's muse.

Tucker takes my hand and helps me into the white fishing boat. "Untie that, will you?" We untie the knots, and he starts the boat.

"Do you know where we're going?" I ask.

Reversing from the dock, he says, "Yeah. Back to the house."

"You know how to get there?"

"No, Ella, I'm going to drive us out into the sea until we run out of gas, just to see which one of us God wants to take next." He speeds up slightly, motoring along down the waterway.

That sounded hostile.

Above the sound of the boat motor and the waves, I question: "Why do you sound angry?"

"Because," he snaps. "I think I'm destined to always be a little angry. This whole dream conversation fucking pissed me off."

He closes his eyes for a second. He stands, despite the seat behind him, next to where I'm sitting, his hair whipping backward. I wish I had something for my hair. It's flying behind me, and I know it'll feel twisted and dry and full when we reach the house.

Tucker glances at me for a second. "Why is your dress so god-damn tight?"

I look down, catching the angry pinch in his cheeks.

Maybe this plan hasn't backfired at all.

"Hey, Tucker, can I ask you something?" I say.

"I'd rather you didn't," he grumbles.

I ignore this. "I told you that you were my best friend." He meets my eye. "Was I ever yours?"

After a beat, he answers, "By your definition…yeah. I guess so."

"Then can you just tell me the truth about everything? I know you're holding something back. I know when you're keeping secrets."

He laughs lightly. "No. I won't tell you the truth."

"Why?"

"Because it'll give you too much power over me." He finally sits. "And you have no idea what it looks like when I'm holding something back."

Tucker's satisfied with that answer. I look ahead, feeling defeat, when he says, "Do you remember when you planted lemon seeds and peach seeds and avocado seeds in your backyard? Because you wanted an orchard?"

"No," I answer.

"Well, I do." He says that like it's meaningful. He remembers something that I don't. He goes on: "Do you remember that dog you found at the park and you took home and kept in your bathroom?"

"Kind of."

"Do you remember what you want you wanted to name it?"

"No, but I remember that it was not actually a lost dog, but I in fact stole someone's dog while they were in the bathroom because I assumed they tied it up and walked away."

He slows the boat down, I can hear him more clearly. "Chunk. You wanted to name it Chunk. You thought it could be our fourth Goonie." He shakes his head. "I know that you don't remember the time before your accident because of trauma, or whatever, but I don't have that, Ella. I don't have the luxury of forgetting."

Tucker's shirt billows in the wind. The sun bounces off his glossy eyes as he says, "I remember everything."

I take my shot. "Then you remember the last time we spoke to each other?"

"Of course."

"And…?"

He bounces his knee. Anxiety ripples through his body. "That's the point, Ella. I remember everything . You have no idea how much." He speeds the boat up again and asks, "Can we not talk anymore?"

I want to say no - talk to me. But there's this other part of me that heard his words. I won't know what led me on that road and what it felt like to break my arm, leg, skull. Tucker has to live with that for the rest of his life. He's done nothing but care for me for most of my life.

As much as I want to shake the truth out of him, I respect him. I love him. I don't want him to suffer. If talking about the wedding makes him suffer then I can give him one quiet boat ride.