He makes me happy is the simple truth of it. He makes me forget, and right now nothing in the world sounds better than breakfast on the beach with him.
23
Chloe and I used to go for strawberry-smothered waffles at a hole-in-the-wall Seattle diner to pig out after early weekend practices. It was our tradition. I’d give her my whipped cream; she’d give me her bacon. I try not to dwell on this as Tucker promises to load my bike into the back of the Woody while I change.
I swap my suit for dry clothes in the small locker room, then brave my appearance in the cloudy mirror. Wet ponytail, bare face, sweats. I never would’ve gone out looking so unpolished before. But Tucker must not mind—he’s the one who suggested breakfast.
It’s hard to keep that in mind when I climb into his car. He looks like Poseidon. Self-consciously, I fluff my ponytail.
We drive north through Bell Cove, past the Green Apple Grocery, A Good Book, a zillion shops selling kites and paintings and shirts. The streets are quiet, misted by the light fog that has rolled in off the ocean. When we pass the turnoff to the animal shelter, I can’t help but think of the tiny gray kitten, alone and unwanted.
It’s not long before Tucker parks in front of a café on the northern edge of town. Sun-bleached paint on rustic driftwood labels it The Sandbar Bistro. We follow a hostess in a denim skirt through the beach-themed interior and out to the patio. She seats us inches from the sand. Tucker has to shoo a seagull from his chair before he falls into it. When the waitress arrives, I suggest he order for both of us. He does: blueberry-stuffed crepes, sausage, and orange juice.
“Breakfast of champions,” he tells me when she places our plates in front of us shortly after.
“Are you working today?” I ask after a bite of spicy sausage.
“Later. I’m helping my dad this morning.”
It’s strange to imagine him at home with his parents. Possibly siblings. He’s such a bright individual force, it almost seems like there wouldn’t be room enough in a house for anyone but him. “What are you guys doing?”
He grimaces. “Painting the fence.”
“Sounds kind of like what you do at Lucy’s.”
“Yeah, but I get paid to help your aunt.” He busies himself smoothing whipped cream over his crepes. His voice is low when he says, “Plus, you’re always at Lucy’s.”
I flush. This isn’t the playful Tucker teasing I’m growing accustomed to. It’s tentative. Sincere. “What’s your dad like?” I ask him.
His eyes become guarded, the doors to his world swinging shut. “He’s okay.”
“Your mom?”
“Out of the picture.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means that it’s always been my dad and me. He’s a loner, basically. His parents live in Fort Lauderdale now, and his sister and her family moved to Malibu—part of why I chose to go to school there. I know pretty much nothing about my mother. Her parents died when I was in middle school, within a year of each other. That’s the extent of my family tree.”
A weight settles on my chest. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that others suffer hardships. My grief is so ardent, so concentrated; it’s hard to fathom that any one person could feel the anguish I experience daily.
Maybe Tucker has to some extent.
I rest my fork on my plate, feeling unmoored. The drifting girl.
He must realize, because he reaches across the table to touch my arm. I wonder, for the millionth time, if he caught wind of Chloe’s story last year on the news or through the grapevine. He must have heard; the tragic death of a teenage girl has to be a big deal in a town as small as Bell Cove.
Still, even if he knows Chloe’s story, he probably doesn’t realize it’s my story.
The warmth of his hand is bleeding into my skin, and I want to cry. More than that, I want him to comfort me. But it’s easier to breathe through the bloom of emotion, to wait in awkward silence while seagulls swoop through the billowy clouds, until the hurt withers enough to become manageable.
Tucker pulls his hand away. “You okay?”
I nod, unnerved by how much I miss his touch. “I’m good.”
It’s clear he believes otherwise, but to his credit, he lets it go. He smiles, and the morning fog dissipates. Rays of sunshine heat my back, drying my pool hair.
It’s a relief when he fills the quiet. “My dad’s been married and divorced three times since my mother disappeared, all before I turned ten. He’s been single since my last stepmother got the hell out of Dodge, and now all he does is sleep, work, and watch ESPN. How’s that for dysfunctional?”
“All families have weirdness, though. I bet he does the best he can.”
“When he’s present, that’s probably true.” He shrugs. “How’s your breakfast?”
I take a bite of crepe; the blueberries taste summery sweet. “Really good.”
“What about your parents? Are you gonna tell me about them?”
I shrug, chewing, trying to summon a safe answer to his loaded question. “They’re cool,” is the best I can come up with. I tack on another nugget of truth. “It’s pretty quiet around my house, too.”
Tucker and I have more in common than I expected. Loss. Isolation. The whole swimming thing, which is kind of huge. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy with him, why I feel more comfortable with him than I have with any other person since Chloe died.
“I bet your dad’s lonely when you’re in California,” I say.
“He’s lonely for sure, but not because I’m away.” The fall of his smile tells me there’s more to the story. I hate this new veil of secrecy surrounding him, clouds blotting out an otherwise brilliant sunrise.
I take a sip of orange juice and steer us to a safer topic. “Tell me about water polo.”
“You’ve never played?”
“Nope.”
“I can teach you.”
“No, thanks. I swim because it’s solitary. Besides, water polo looks borderline violent.”
He flares back to life. “It’s totally violent. It’s crazy what goes on underwater, where the refs can’t see. That’s part of the fun.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He laughs, and somehow, I’m grinning, too. “Do you really think you’ll come back to the pool?” he asks while we wait for the check.
I look into the vastness of his eyes and say, “I think so.”
24
“Where’ve you been?” Lucy asks when I walk through the front door midmorning. She’s in tattered jeans and an oversize plaid button-down that’s seen better days. She’s piled her hair into a messy ponytail, and her cheeks burn crimson.
“I went for a swim. I left you a note.”
She follows me down the hall to the kitchen, tugging on the hem of her shirt. “Yeah, I found it hours ago. You’ve been at the pool all this time?”
“No, but—”
“Your parents trust me to take care of you, Callie. To keep you safe. You can’t disappear for the better part of the morning, especially if you leave your phone sitting on your nightstand.”
“Sorry,” I say, glib, dumping my backpack in the laundry room. “I didn’t think to take it to the pool, and I didn’t think you’d care if I got something to eat after my workout.”
“I care a hell of a lot. In fact, I can’t think of anything worse than discovering my niece has gone missing.”
Chloe.
I turn to face her, and, God, she looks agonized. “I’m sorry,” I say with sincerity now. “Next time, I’ll check in.”
She blows out a big breath, as if she’s been holding it in all morning. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” And then: “You went to breakfast?”
“With Tucker. I ran into him at the pool.”
“Oh. How was it?”
“Okay. I’m out of shape, but swimming felt good.”
“No, breakfast. Was it a date?”
How is she able to swing so effortlessly from conc
ern for my safety to an attempt at creating a girlfriend moment? “It was a meal.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Uh, yeah. Later today, when he comes to work in the yard.”
“Oh, Callie,” she says, like she can’t believe how dense I am. “I think Tucker—”
“Please don’t say he’s pining for me while he pulls weeds.”
“I don’t think he’s pining. But I’ve noticed the way he looks at you. What if whatever’s going on between you two turns into more? Are you ready for that?”
She’s talking around Isaac—around what happened last summer with Isaac. And truthfully, no, I’m not sure I’m ready for more. I’m not even sure I deserve more. But I think I want more.
“We’re just friends, Aunt Lucy.”
“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I hope you had a good breakfast, because I need your help moving furniture in the Victoria. And I’ll love you forever if you’ll assist with wallpaper removal after.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, traipsing up the stairs behind her.
* * *
The Victoria overlooks the garden, and I get an occasional peek at Tucker as he places paving stones along a meandering path. I linger near the window, holding the steamer to dreadful wallpaper, paying little attention to what I’m supposed to be doing.
“That ought to do it,” Lucy says, nudging me aside to tackle the wet paper with her scraper. She peels back a long strip with little effort. “Well. Soaking the paper with steam for over an hour sure makes the removal process easy.” She glances out the window, spots Tucker, and turns an I-told-you-so look on me. “Enjoying the view?”
I wave the steam wand in her face. “Perfecting my technique.”
We both look out the window again, but the garden’s empty.
The front door slams, and Tucker’s voice echoes up the stairway. “Hello?”
“Up here,” Lucy calls, waggling her eyebrows.
His footsteps thud up the stairs, and before I’ve had a chance to tame my hair or wipe the sweat from my forehead, he’s in the doorway. I glance down at my grubby clothes, the very sweats I wore this morning to the pool. To breakfast. Damn it. Why didn’t I take ten minutes to shower and change before joining Lucy?
Tucker grins, oblivious to my vanity. “Making progress?”
“Oh yeah,” Lucy says, waving toward the bare wall we’ve uncovered. “Callie’s perfecting her technique.”
I shoot a glare at her before turning my back to resume steaming, as if this is a job for which I’m salaried. Hopefully my ass isn’t covered in dust and tacky wallpaper.
“I’m gonna take a break,” Tucker announces. “If that’s cool.”
“Go for it,” Lucy says.
“Mind if I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen?”
“Help yourself.”
There’s a beat of quiet, but I know he’s still in the room because I feel his presence the same way I’ve felt the sun’s heat. The steamer hisses, spitting beads of water onto my arm. I try to blot it dry on the front of my shirt, but I drop the wand in the process. I bend to pick it up and knock my head on the windowsill as I straighten.
Holy hell.
“Cal?” Tucker says. “You up for a walk?”
I spin around, rubbing my head. “Um…”
Lucy nudges me.
I pass her the steam wand. “Yeah. Okay.”
We swing by the kitchen to grab waters before heading outside. The morning clouds have burned off and the weather’s beautiful—perfectly summer, I decide as we cross the lawn.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” I say, pulling my hair off my neck and into a twist. “Where are we headed?”
“There’re some trails that weave through the woods, around the hilltop. Sound okay?”
I nod as we step under the canopy of trees, shoes padding over moss and pine needles. The temperature drops about ten degrees. Everywhere I look, there’s green—underfoot, shielding the sky, dripping from tree bark—and I’m reminded of the last dream I had, following Chloe through the forest.
Tucker finds a trail, winding through shrubs that reach out to snag on our clothes. He makes a left, and we ascend a steep hill.
Isaac would surrender a limb to mountain bike out here.
“How do you know these trails?” I ask Tucker.
“I used to come up here when I was a kid, especially during the summer, when I wanted to get out of the house. The trails were trampled by a lot of Stewart kids, I guess. We’ll stop soon, but if you kept going, you’d find this, like, meadow. There’re flowers this time of year—poppies, I think.”
Poppies: beauty, eternal life, loyalty, slumber, death.
A shiver scurries down my spine.
The incline evens out, and we come to a clearing where a huddle of flattened boulders waits. Winded, I sit on the largest, the stone cool and smooth. Tucker plants himself beside me, closer than a friend would probably sit, but I don’t mind.
He bumps me with his elbow. “Nice, yeah?”
“Yeah. Bring a lot of girls out here?”
He grins, and I find myself envious of the way he glows from within, like his soul is a 100-watt lightbulb. “Nah. I haven’t been out here in a long time.”
“How come?”
“When my dad figured out this was where I was spending my time, he told me I wasn’t allowed to come anymore.”
“He was worried you’d get lost?”
“He didn’t want me near the Stewart property. Not then, not now.”
“But you work on the Stewart property—what used to be the Stewart property, anyway.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t know that.”
“Seriously? What does he think you do all day?”
He pulls at a long blade of grass. “Yard work for a lady who’s new to town. I’m not lying, and he’s not exactly involved, so it’s no big deal.”
“What’s he got against the Stewarts?”
Tucker splits the grass at its seam. “The Stewarts always had a shitty reputation in Bell Cove. They were drinkers and shady businessmen, not afraid to knock around their wives, supposedly. My dad’s never wanted me mixed up in it.”
“But Lucy owns the house now. He’d really be mad if he found out you work for her?”
“He won’t find out.”
I spend a moment musing this new layer of the mystery that is becoming the Morgan family, then ask, “Your dad grew up in Bell Cove, like you?”
“My mother, too.” He touches my knee, lightly, only for a second, but I feel the contact down to my toes. “Sorry about being a downer at breakfast—my family and everything. I didn’t ruin our first date, did I?”
“Who said this morning was a date?”
His eyes go wide with feigned offense. “It wasn’t? Because I wouldn’t’ve picked up the check if I’d realized.”
A giggle billows out of me. The urge to tamp it down isn’t immediate, which is strange and disconcerting but not entirely terrible, because Tucker seems pleased.
“Tell me why you came to Bell Cove this summer,” he says. “Not just to help Lucy, right?”
I can’t figure out if he’s trawling for information or if he wants me to validate what he’s already heard. I hesitate, running a hand over the moss covering the lower part of our rock before realizing I can give him this. I can tell him what instigated my trip to Lucy’s without discussing the whole sordid story. “Okay, no, I’m not just here to help Lucy.” I inhale a woodsy breath, sifting for words that’ll explain my wrecked home life. “My parents … They’re going through a hard time. And my dad—well, he caught me doing something I probably shouldn’t have been doing, and he threatened to send me to this, um … summer camp. Lucy’s was the alternative.”
“Wow,” Tucker says. “I have so many questions.”
“I figured you would.”
He takes that as an invitation. “What’d your dad catch you doing?”
“Smoking out in my bathroo
m.”
His laughter is a surprise. “Really? You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You know, every time I think I’ve got you pegged, you end up doing or saying something totally unexpected.”
“Glad I amuse you. I’m actually running low. Do you know anyone I can buy from?”
“Probably, but—” He studies me a moment, brow crinkled. A breeze rustles the branches overhead. I listen for the sound of distant ocean waves as my face becomes insufferably warm.
“Tucker,” I say when I can’t stand his silent scrutiny another second. “What?”
“It’s just … You don’t really want to buy more.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugs. “I just know. You don’t need it.”
I want to be irritated by his assumption, by his certainty, by the way he thinks he knows me so well after a couple of weeks. I want to argue. Yes, Tucker, I do want to buy more, and thanks for minding your own business, but I can’t, because he may not be wrong. This morning, when I needed an escape, I swam. That worked out okay.
Still, I’m not ready to make a grand declaration about how I’ve taken my last hit.
“So…,” I say, nervous out of nowhere.
Tucker smiles, teasing. “So, no, I won’t give you my dealer’s number.”
I roll my eyes and move to swat his leg, but he captures my hand and folds it between both of his. Instinct tells me to pull away. He’s the only person who can coax laughter out of me, and hand-holding—hand-holding!—blurs all kinds of lines. If this doesn’t work … If something goes wrong and I lose the friendship we’re building, it’ll be so hard to bounce back.
But then he weaves his fingers through mine, all slow and sweet. His skin is warm, his palm feels nice against mine, and the way he’s looking at me … It’s not the way a boy looks at a friend.
It’s the way a boy looks at someone he wants: eyes searching, lips parted … longing.
He squeezes my hand. “Is this all right?”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice to remain steady. But it is all right. Better than all right.
“So, Lucy’s,” he says, “superior to summer camp?”
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