Chapter Seven
TUCKER
Idon’t know what I was thinking last night, walking to Charles’ house in the rain.
The thunder had seemed distant, the clouds not too ominous, so it had seemed a safe bet.
But then the skies had opened halfway there, and I’d given up trying to beat the storm, just walked right through the rain until it drenched my bones.
Then Charles stared at me with those wide brown eyes, lips bunched at the side in concern, and I couldn’t do anything but let him take care of me.
He made me a gluten-free dinner. Nobody does that.
Nobody besides my dads have ever done that.
Who the fuck is this guy?
He’s won Super Bowls. Why is he making me gluten-free pizza and paying me to teach him guitar?
Someone has obviously put something in the water here.
I grumble and drag my feet as I head toward the tourism board storefront. Already the storefront is full, which is irritating in itself because surely everyone is going to turn around to look at me the moment I open the door. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and push inside.
River’s loud laugh greets me, instantly settling my nerves. Jesus, half the town is here. But somehow my gaze instinctively seeks out Charles, and there he is, right beside my parents. Traitors.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I whine, flushing when all they do is stare at me.
Dad makes a constipated-looking face. “We didn’t say that. We asked if you wanted to ride together.”
“You asked if I wanted to ride into town together but didn’t specify what for.”
“Oh well.” Dad smiles at Charles as if to say this is Tucker. “We aren’t going home after anyway, so it works out.”
“Okay.”
“Did you drive?” Pop asks, eyes shrewd and knowing, as if he’s expecting me to say I walked ten miles into town. As if the Camaro we fixed up together in high school isn’t always just sitting, waiting for me to return to drive it when I’m back in town.
“Yes, Pop.” I hold out the reusable grocery bag to Charles, who just raises one eyebrow in question. “The clothes from last night.”
Dad’s eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. Oh, this gives the wrong impression for sure. “Clothes?”
“I got caught in the rain,” I hurry to explain so no one can think any particular sort of thoughts, since we’re among half the town. There’s always listening ears around. “I wore some of his clothes home.”
Charles’ smile is far too soft. “Thank you. You could’ve kept them.”
“Shirt was really soft,” I grumble under my breath, just as River stands up on a chair at the far edge of the room. I skirt over toward him in an attempt to get away from Charles and my parents, only for Charles to follow behind me like an overgrown puppy.
“Listen up, everyone!” River shouts with his hands cupped around his mouth.
“We owe a successful lantern festival to Ms. Marcia after handling it on her own for forty years. All the lanterns have been ordered, the festival is in two and a half months, but we haven’t sold nearly as many tickets as we could by now.
So, tell everyone you know on the mainland to buy tickets.
Two and a half months from today it’ll be all hands on deck to unpack the lanterns and have volunteers at the oceanside park.
” River points at the four clipboards on the counter.
“Sign up for different roles here. That’s it! ”
“Meeting could’ve been an email!” Gilbert shouts from the back.
“Kill yourself!” River shouts back, and the entire room erupts into laughs.
“That seems extreme,” Charles says gravely.
“They hate one another,” I say in lieu of any further explanation, because explaining River and Gilbert will take far more time than I’m willing to spend here. I nudge his big bicep with mine. “You better sign up.”
Charles gives me a very scathing look that absolutely doesn’t do anything for me. “I’m going to help sell out the evening, I don’t need to sign up for anything else.”
“Well, if doing two things is too hard for you…” I scratch my chin as I lean over the clipboards, trying to pick one thing for myself. Ah, ticket scanner. Perfect. I sign up and look over to see Charles still staring at me. “Hello?”
“Don’t you participate?”
My eyebrows furrow. “Well, duh, but I can do that after scanning tickets. Want me to sign you up too? Or do you want something more exciting like cleanup crew?”
“Ticket scanner is fine,” Charles agrees softly.
I write his name under mine, then move over so other people can scratch their names down on the paper.
Charles has the reusable grocery bag hooked on his shoulder, and I catalog how different he looks today from last night.
His hair is still a little too long, just past his ears, hanging loosely in his face.
The scruff on his jaw is a little more tamed today, like maybe he cleaned it up so it looks more well-groomed beard instead of a-couple-of-days-past-shave due.
“Are you coming tonight?” I ask conversationally as people mill around us. “To the bonfire,” I say, in case he had any other thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. I’ll be bringing my guitar.”
Charles’ face does something very complicated. “Do you take requests?”
“No.” But then I think about it and say, “Maybe.”
“No Nolan Hastings for the crowd?”
River catches my eye and wiggles his eyebrows, making my cheeks warm as I swing my gaze back to Charles. “No, not for tonight. Maybe some Goo Goo Dolls though.”
“Good music.” Someone bumps into Charles and he moves a few inches closer, straightening up to avoid pressing into me. “Sorry.”
He smells like summer rain and being outside after a storm.
My stomach does a little tumble at his proximity, at his warm smell, before I lock it down so far, no emotion can get out of the jail cell.
I back up away from him, nod once, then flee the storefront.
Taking a big gulp of the salt-laden air, I walk as fast as I can toward River’s coffee shop.
The closed sign hangs on the door, so I lean against the wall, hoping that no one walks this way after the impromptu lantern festival meeting.
A few people do, but not my parents, and not Charles, thankfully.
Fifteen minutes later, River strolls toward me, sunglasses perched on his nose, orange-and-yellow cardigan over his shoulders, black curls wild on top of his head.
“Chicken shit,” River says as he unlocks the coffee shop. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask, seriously affronted. How dare he.
“Charles was looking at you with puppy dog eyes and you were an asshole.”
“I just got out of a ten-year relationship.”
River snorts so hard I think his brain might come out his nose. “You and Anthony have been done for years,” River says with so much hate that I can feel the air almost catch fire. “That man was a giant piece of shit and you stayed with him because you hate yourself.”
“Hey,” I say lamely, actually a little hurt.
“Now you’ll push Charles away when he gets close enough because he’s kind and sweet and perfectly lovely and you don’t think you deserve that.”
“River!” I shout because I’ve had enough.
River takes off his sunglasses and stares me down, but I don’t let on that he’s gotten to me. Nope. River might know me better than most people, but he doesn’t get a free pass at making me feel like shit. Or, well, pointing out my shit.
“Are you playing at the bonfire tonight?” River asks, ever the expert at changing the topic.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you there with bells on.”
I leave the coffee shop without saying goodbye.
Now I kind of wish I had walked because the walk home might do me some good.
But I’ll just have to go home and find something to do until the bonfire later.
Maybe stare at the ceiling. Eat a huge bowl of cereal.
Something, anything except think about the way Charles had looked at me and the haunting truth of River’s harsh words.
I end up spending the rest of my afternoon at the tattoo shop. After I dyed my hair, I realized I still have an open spot on my forearm, and I have the perfect idea. Thankfully, Scott’s cousin’s girlfriend is a tattoo artist, and she squeezed me in with the custom design.
“Like that placement?” Susie asks, black-purple eyebrow raised in question.
I wander over to the mirror, turning this way and that to confirm the tattoo is in the perfect spot.
I nod over at her, then hop back onto the table.
I got my first tattoo on my eighteenth birthday.
I’d wanted to get one at sixteen, the parental units had even signed the form, but I’d chickened out.
Then when I turned eighteen, Pop took me into Charleston for the day and got me my first flash tattoo.
A teal butterfly on my left thigh. Is it the best tattoo in existence?
No. But it reminds me to keep going on days that I don’t really want to.
Susie buzzes away quietly, and I settle in under the familiar feeling of the tattoo needle.
I’d gone a little wild in my early twenties, ending up with a collarbone tattoo, left arm sleeve, thigh tattoos, and my right calf done.
It kind of looks like art is working its way down my body horizontally.
The sunrise sleeve on my right arm is my favorite though.
I’d taken a picture to an artist in Boston when I was desperately homesick, and they’d tattooed a gorgeous Hope Island sunrise on my arm so I can always carry it with me.
“All done,” Susie says about an hour later.
I smile softly over at her, and she smiles back, and I feel like maybe she understands me when I spot the cardinal tattoos on her bicep.
The birdcage is a fine line, with a bird escaping, its shadow on the opposite side.
I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath, letting all the shit go I’ve spent too many years holding on to.
I’m free, and there’s no going back. Not ever again.
Maybe I’ll allow the sunrise wishes to finally work.
One day.