Chapter Seven

Today

He wants to assault me with getting-to-know-you prompts, as though we were meeting for the first time at book club, but I want to ask him a million questions starting with, " How dare you ?"

But I don't. I have no reason to be the bigger person. Tucker has amends to make, questions to start answering, explanations to spell out on a corkboard with yarn and photographs and proof. Not me.

After the plane reaches altitude and I relax into my seat, the only words spoken between Tucker and I are:

"You look beautiful."

" Shut up ."

I try to pretend he's not there. It doesn't work. A traveling circus props up a carousel behind my closed eyes, tormenting me with memory after memory, most of which I feel on a sensory level. His touch, his smell, his voice. It's just like clowns to pop up in your nightmares and refuse to get out of town.

Tucker shakes me awake. I didn't realize I was even asleep, my waking thoughts so intertwined with my dreams.

When the plane lands, the woman beside him edges quickly in the aisle, giving Tucker room to collect my bag. When the doors open, he stands in the aisle, waiting for me to walk out in front of him. I don't move. I want to be far away from him. I wave him forward. When he's tired of holding up the line, Tucker grabs the sleeve of my sweater and hoists me to my feet.

"Stop breathing down my neck," I demand, walking toward the exit.

"Then grow a little." He thrusts my bag in my arms.

Crossing the Miami airport, I bolt. One of his strides equals two of mine, but he doesn't pursue. At baggage claim, I stand beside a Christmas tree decorated with mini palm trees and flamingoes, and Tucker stands on the opposite side.

When my suitcase rounds the conveyor belt, I scoop it up, and my phone buzzes a second later. Johnny's outside, he's just texted us. I walk toward the exit where a series of cars wait. A black SUV honks at me, a blonde-haired man with a wide grin waving behind the wheel.

He has a lot of explaining to do.

"What's up, babe?" Johnny jumps out of the driver's side. I let go of my bags and he scoops me up around the waist, swinging me in a circle, hugging me tight. He sets me down and slides his glasses back up.

Unlike with Tucker, I always see Johnny as the version I met when we were five. His wide, toothy grin and straight, fair hair. He has always been stocky, he had muscles in second grade, and he only ever looks short when he stands beside Tucker. His mom has a photo of us three, eleven years old, shoulder to shoulder in descending height, and the top of Tucker's head was cut off so my face could be seen.

Johnny grabs my suitcase. "Where's Tuck?"

I open the passenger side door. "He's supposed to be in Savannah."

My luggage is slid across the back seat and the door shuts. Johnny stands beside my seat. "It's the guy's birthday."

"It's my birthday, Johnny." I search his face for any sign of remorse or shame. "How could you just spring this on me?"

"Because if I said he was coming, then you wouldn't come."

"Because I don't want to see him!"

Johnny's freckles squint when he disagrees. "That's not true. You do want to see him. And we can't keep dancing around divorced Mom and Dad, making sure the two of you are never reminded of each other. It's exhausting, Ell. Enough time has passed that the two of you need to be normal. I promise this week will be just like it was before. He promised, too."

My version before is different than Johnny's recollection. He sees Tucker and I throwing food at each other, betting each other to make inappropriate comments on a grocery store microphone or fighting about what movie we should go see. He chooses to remember fifteen-year-old Tucker and Ella. My before included mouths, hands, tongues - all things only Tucker and I know about.

I ask, "He knew I was coming?"

" Yes . He said he wanted to see you."

"To apologize?"

"I don't know about that…"

"To explain himself at least?"

Johnny's expression says he doesn't think there will be an explanation. "He promised he wouldn't be a jerk and that everything would be fine."

I cross my arms. "Well, it's not fine. And a little head's up would have been great."

Johnny sways his head, trying to decide how at fault he feels. Before he has the chance to explain, he says. "Ah, here he is."

Tucker comes toward us, tugging his suitcase behind him, breaking into his annoying grin. He and Johnny hug. "What's up, man?"

"Good to see you!"

"Long time."

I hop into my seat and announce, "Don't act like you haven't seen each other in years, I know you guys hang out without me."

They freeze. Tucker says, "He lives on the other side of the country now. We aren't meeting for a beer on Thursdays at Mulligans. Cut me some slack." He reaches into the open door and pinches my nose.

I'm annoyed that he can act so casual about this. I hate that he doesn't care.

Tucker goes to open the back seat, and my frustrations ramps up, so I hurriedly reach back and hit the lock. He tugs on the door handle. I shut my car door and Johnny gets back behind the wheel, hitting the unlock button. I lock it again. Tucker flips me a middle finger through the window, and I throw him a satisfied smirk. Johnny unlocks the car again, but this time Tucker opens my door.

"What are you -"

Tucker pulls my right hand arm behind his neck, ducks his head, and wraps his bicep around under my legs. He hoists me out of the car, upside down on his shoulder.

I grip the shirt on his strong, lean waist and demand through grit teeth, "Put me down."

"You gonna keep acting like a brat?"

" Elijah !"

He opens the back door with his free hand and relaxes the hold on the back of my knees. I push off him and he slides me almost to the ground. We meet face to face. He pauses, his arm hooked under my butt, one hand on my rib cage.

Johnny hits the car horn. "Guys, we are in public. And people are waiting on us."

Tucker's eyes drill into mine, and I'm awash with that same feeling I got when Hattie mentioned him over the phone.

Stomach pain, dry mouth.

Half of me wants to slap him in the face and the other half of me wants to wrap my arms around his neck. I never felt safer or more grounded than when Tucker held me. I want to tell him that I've missed him. I want to tell him a million things.

"Let me go, Eli," I mutter, my voice clogged.

"Yes ma'am," he murmurs back, letting my shoes hit the ground.

There are two Tuckers. The one who is my friend and the one who is not.

This person in front of me is the latter.

"How was the flight?" Johnny asks when I climb back into the passenger seat.

"Long," I answer.

"I thought it was like two hours from Charleston?"

"Longest two hours of my life."

Johnny clears his throat. "So, I take it you two didn't see each other at Christmas?"

"No." I look out at the road ahead as we drive out of the airport. It's bright, sunny and warm. I left the rain and forty-degree temperatures back home.

"And I assume you didn't talk on the plane?"

There's silence in the backseat. So, I answer again, " No ."

Johnny relaxes in his seat and says, "Well, we've got about an hour's drive to Key Largo if anyone wants to clear the air now."

Tucker sniffles and leans forward. "No, I'm good." His hands tap on the console beside me.

I spin around. "You are unbelievable."

He blinks but doesn't respond.

"This is fun," Johnny sighs. "The three of us back together again. You two fighting. I was feeling a little homesick, but I think I just missed this ."

As we continue down the highway, I take stock of the blue ocean just beyond the road and the strip of sand beside the pavement. Johnny's bare arms are pink from this morning's sun and the temperature reading on the screen says it's seventy-nine degrees, so I peel my sweater off. I fix the straps of my brown tank top and tuck the edge of the built-in bra under my boobs.

The side of my face feels hot.

I glance at the back, where Tucker's eyes stare sidelong at my nipples. I wait for him to meet my face. He jolts, caught out.

"Sorry," he grumbles, looking out ahead.

I hold my hand backward.

He gives me a high five.

"My bag ," I argue.

"You need your butt cream now?"

"I'm going to change my pants."

"In the car?" He shakes his head. "We're not ten years old anymore, I'm not closing my eyes so you can change into your bathing suit."

"I'm changing into shorts, and yes, you are. Give me my bag."

He sets in on his lap and unzips it.

"Tucker!"

He brushes my hand away. "I'll get it for you. What do you want?" He holds up my bikini top. "I hope we don't see any children at the beach, Jesus Christ."

"Do not go through my stuff!" I tug on my seatbelt.

"What is this?" He holds up a bag with my menstrual cup.

I push off the floor of the car and reach hands back to strangle him.

He moves my bag out of reach and holds me off with one hand. He swings a pair of underwear around, before digging further. His face lights up. "Found your condoms! Who do you plan on fucking this week?"

"They're packets of Advil, you dick !"

I unbuckle my seat belt, and Johnny grabs the back of my pants. "Ella, sit down!"

I scramble to the backseat as Tucker snorts a laugh. I fall into his lap when the car slows down. He holds my underwear out of reach, so I crawl up his body to snatch it back, my chest pressing into his face.

He lifts my knee. "Ow, ow, that's my penis, that's my penis -"

I knee him harder in the groin.

"Ella!" He tosses me into the seat beside him. " Damn ." He covers his crotch and passes over my belongings.

Johnny calls back, "Hey animals, I'm not getting pulled over because you two can't get your shit together."

"He started it," I grumble, my hand pressed into the back of the driver's seat. I pull out a pair of shorts and start unbuckling my jeans.

Tucker snaps, "This is why people say we have a weird dynamic."

"I haven't spoken to you in seven years, so I don't know what people say about us. Frankly, there is no us ." I sit sideways in the seat next to him and fling my sneakers off.

Johnny adds, "Serena used to say that if you two didn't keep your hands off each other then we might actually seem like a normal friend group."

"Tucker and I were never friends," I remind. I rest my legs across his lap, and Tucker turns his head in the opposite direction when I start wiggling out of my jeans. "Pull on my pant leg."

He says, "Yes, I've never had a friend ask me to do that before. But I've had to help you undress on more than one occasion." He tugs on the bottom of my pants while staring out of the window.

"What?" Johnny laughs.

I replay the words Tucker just said.

I can think of a few harmless occasions where Tucker has had to help with my clothes – Halloween costume, snowsuit, ballet tutu – but one suggestive event comes to mind, and I hope Johnny doesn't make the connection that's flashing through my brain.

I know Tucker's eyes have found their way to mine. I know they have. I can't look at him.

"He's joking," I lie. I push my jeans down my thighs and Tucker tugs on the other end. Hattie's voice rings in my ears.

"You can't act like this in front of them, Ella," she would always say. "They're not your girlfriends. They're boys . You can't walk around half-naked or say whatever you want. You're going to make it weird!"

I had one strange excuse.

"I don't act like that in front of Johnny," I told her. "Just Tucker." As if that made it okay. Because Tucker and I…not friends.

I try to steady my breath. My bare legs are sprawled across his scratchy jeans and his hot hands rest on my shins. My legs are toned and lean, thanks to a lifetime of dance, a hobby my mother insisted upon because of my friendships.

"You have to stay in ballet," she said. "You need to be around girls. You need to learn to act like a lady."

Of all my female friends, I don't have a single one who would hold my ankles and peel my socks off because they know I'll be putting on flip-flops next. None of my female friends would ask, "Why are you so tan?"

Lori taught Tucker to treat me with modesty. I bore witness to it. He tried, really hard, but I never made it easy.

His eyes cast over my legs, my underwear, the tank top riding up past my belly button. He shakes his head, emitting a silent laugh, and says exactly what I'm thinking: "We are thirty fucking years old."

"I know," I grumble. I hand him my jean shorts. "And it's a spray tan."

He gets my feet through my shorts, and I lift my butt to wiggle them on. I sigh, sitting upright in the seat. "Okay." I climb back into the passenger seat and Tucker's hands press against my butt.

"Hands off my ass."

"Ass out of my face ."

When I settle back into my seat and buckle back in, Johnny glances over.

I demand, "What's that look for?"

His brow is furrowed, and he's biting his bottom lip. "You two," he says, picking up his water bottle from the cup holder. "Some things never change."