Chapter 5
5
OLIVIA
T he universe may have unfairly blessed Tuck McCoy in many, many ways, but there’s one talent it’s clearly declined to bestow on him: singing ability.
After enduring Tuck singing along to two Taylor Swift songs in a row—very loudly, might I add—I’m surprised my ears aren’t bleeding.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an awful singer?” I ask once The Other Side of the Door comes to an end.
Tuck turns to me and flashes a wide smile, his teeth a pristine, dazzling white. “Yes. Many times.”
“You’re doing this just to torture me, aren’t you?”
He balks. “You mean you’re not a Taylor Swift fan?”
“She’s fine, I like her, but …”
“ Fine ?” Tuck exclaims like he can’t believe his ears. “What do you mean fine ? She’s a genius!”
I’m taken aback by Tuck’s enthusiasm. “Geez, I never would have taken you for such an ardent Taylor Swift supporter.”
“We call ourselves Swifties , thank you very much.”
“How did?—”
“Oh! Hold on.” He reaches for the volume knob on his stereo to turn up the volume. “After this song. It’s one of my favorites.”
For the next four minutes, I’m forced to endure Tuck singing along to Taylor Swift’s Speak Now .
When the last off-tune note from Tuck’s throat finally fades away into the air, he turns the volume back down. “What were you about to ask?”
“How did you learn how to work on cars?” But then another thought occurs to me. “Or were you just pretending to know what you were doing to screw with me?”
Tuck lets out a booming laugh, and I’m ashamed to admit how deep in my core I feel the vibration of it. “One of the businesses my dad owns is a car dealership. He used to make me work summers in the maintenance department. I picked up a thing or two.”
“Hm,” I hum, surprised; and impressed with Tuck’s dad for not wanting his son to grow up idle just because he was born wealthy.
“Surprised I’ve got some blue-collar skills?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer, making no effort to sugarcoat it.
Tuck chuckles again. “Yeah, my dad’s kind of a hard ass. All about making me learn the value of hard work. I’d say it halfway worked. I’m all good with working hard when it comes to something physical. Academics, on the other hand,” he tilts his head, “that’s another story.”
For a couple minutes we continue to drive in silence, until Tuck asks, “You’re into those artsy movies right?”
“Artsy movies?” I repeat, amused by the phrasing. “Sure, I guess I am.”
“Yeah. My roommate Sebastian is, too. I watched this one he recommended the other day. Some Italian title.” A low, thoughtful hum rumbles from him while he searches his mind. “ L’Avventura , I think it was called?”
My brow leaps up my forehead in surprised. “ You watched L’Avventura ? Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Lockley,” Tuck drawls. “I wanted to expand my horizons.”
“Well? Did you like it?” I’m genuinely interested now.
“It was …” Tuck peters off, like he’s searching for the right word. “It definitely, um …” Again a thoughtful pause, before he finally comes out with, “Alright, I admit it, I hated it. It was so fucking boring!”
“It was not boring!” I retort, defensive of a film I admire. “It was thoughtful, introspective, philosophical, innovative …”
“You’re just throwing out euphemisms for boring .”
“Well, what’s a good movie in your opinion, then?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m an 80’s action movie and 2000’s romcom guy. Maybe not the most sophisticated choices, but after giving sophisticated movies a try, I’m comfortable sticking to what I like.”
“2000’s romcoms?” I repeat, caught off guard again.
We’re stopped at a light, so Tuck takes the opportunity to turn to me and flash another toothy grin. “I’m really surprising you today, aren’t I?”
He kind of is.
“I won’t lie. I assumed you’d be too much of a macho meathead to be open about liking Taylor Swift and romcoms.”
“Not me. I am who I am and I’m comfortable enough with my masculinity to like what I like. When you’ve got biceps like these,” he flexes one arm, drawing my eyes to the bulging muscle, “and certain, let’s say, other masculine assets, you don’t need to worry about what other people think of you to know that you’re all man.”
I’ve been so sure Tuck is cut from the same cloth as my ex, but that mindset is a million miles away from how Ryan looked at things.
He cared a lot about what other people thought about him, and especially cared about no one thinking he’d be into something girly .
When we’d hang out and watch Netflix together, every time I suggested we watch something like Gilmore Girls or Bridgerton, he’d look at me like I asked him to take a walk around the block naked with his underwear on his head.
“Wow, Tuck. That’s a great way to approach life,” I feel compelled to admit.
“I’m winning you over, aren’t I?”
“Let’s not get crazy,” I reply without missing a beat, drawing another laugh from him.
After a couple beats of silence, Tuck asks, “By the way, is something on your mind? Something, I don’t know, bothering you?”
I quirk my eyebrow and turn my head to him. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Just seems like something’s troubling you.”
“Like what?”
Another shrug. “You tell me.”
“So on top of being a Swiftie and an auto mechanic, you’re a mind-reader now, too?” I quip.
“I’m a man of many talents.” He takes advantage of being backed up at a stop sign to turn to me and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively. “ Many talents.”
After rolling my eyes, I stew on his words for a minute. Of course, he’s right. I do have something on my mind. But Tuck McCoy is the last person I should be opening up to.
As true as that is, the words still come to my mouth, almost involuntarily. “I have sort of a dilemma.”
“Hmm,” Tuck hums thoughtfully, encouraging me to say more.
“I mean, it’s not really a dilemma. I have two options, and I already know which one I’m going to take. It just sucks turning the other opportunity down. My dad just called to offer me a solid role in a big production of a great play, Last Bus Out , running over the summer. It would be the best opportunity of my career so far. I’d be acting in front of my biggest audiences yet, major critics would come to showings, and I’d be sharing the stage with one of the best stage actors in the country. But I’ve already accepted an internship at an accounting firm for the summer.”
“ Last Bus Out ,” Tuck repeats, chewing on the words. “Sounds like some artsy play where the entire thing happens during one bus ride and it’s nothing but the passengers talking to each other.”
“That’s … exactly what it is, actually,” I say, a bit astonished at his accurate guess.
“So, you’re taking the role and you feel bad about letting your internship down,” Tuck says, like it’s obvious.
I furrow my brow. “No. I’m sticking with the internship.”
“What?” Tuck asks, surprised. “But you said this play would be the biggest thing that’s happened for your career so far.”
“Acting isn’t the only potential career I have to worry about. Making it in acting is always a long shot. I need to make sure I have fallback options in case it doesn’t pan out, and this internship is important for that.”
“Fuck that,” Tuck replies, stridently. “You’re too damn talented to pass up a big opportunity to make sure you have fallback options .”
Disdain is thick in his voice when he says those last two words, and it makes annoyance rise in my chest.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I retort.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I huff. “It’s supposed to mean that you don’t have to worry about what happens to you in life. You’re going to be fine no matter what. More than fine. You can just play hockey and goof off about everything else, and the worst-case scenario is your dad gives you a high-paying job at one of his companies. Me, I have to work to set myself up with a life that can provide me economic stability. That requires making sacrifices.”
“You think I don’t make sacrifices?” His question comes with a bite. “You think I haven’t had to work hard to make it to where I am in hockey?”
“I’m sure you’ve worked hard. But you don’t understand that sometimes people can’t throw every practical concern to the side to do what they really want to do. Sometimes they have to buckle down and make disappointing decisions for the benefit of their future, because their future isn’t already determined.”
“My future sure as hell isn’t determined,” Tuck says, mirroring my own combative tone now. “I want to play professionally. You think my family’s money can buy that opportunity for me? No fucking way. I have to work hard, give it my all every single game, study footage, assess my own weaknesses, and practice nonstop, just for a shot at a real pro career.”
“Exactly. You’re able to give hockey everything you have, because you don’t have to worry about what happens if it doesn’t work out.”
Tuck blows a raspberry. “Yeah, right, I don’t have to worry about not achieving the dream I’ve had since I was a kid. You know, just the thing I’ve been working my body to the bone for, dealing with aches and pains and injuries, the thing I sacrificed summer vacations and a social life for while I was growing up. Yep, no big deal if it turns out it was all for nothing. Since I’m some rich boy , that’s all that matters, right?”
I feel a twinge of guilt in my chest—but that only makes me more frustrated, because I didn’t say any of that. Tuck’s putting words in my mouth.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and looking out my window. If I look at Tuck right now, I’m only going to get angrier. How is he making me feel bad just for telling him that he’s giving me advice from a privileged perspective?
“Well, here’s what I mean. You only live once. People out there would kill for the natural talent you have on the stage. I don’t know shit about acting and even I can see it when I’ve gone to your plays. You owe it to yourself to see how far you can go with it, and you need to take every opportunity available to you to make it happen.”
Yeah, I’ve seen what happened to my parents who followed Tuck’s advice. A life of struggle and stress because following your dreams isn’t always guaranteed to pay the bills, no matter how talented you are.
“My street is on the left here,” I say, side-stepping Tuck’s last comment. I’m done with this conversation.
“I know,” Tuck grouses, turning onto my narrow street and rolling to a stop in front of my house.
I take a deep breath and push past my frustration with Tuck to say, “Thanks for the ride. And trying to help with my car.” The thanks seem necessary, but there’s no warmth in the words.
“Sure.” The same coldness of my voice is mirrored in Tuck’s.
Maybe I slam the passenger side door a little too hard when I hop out of his car. And maybe I walk a little faster up my walkway than I usually do.
I definitely let out a heavy, ragged huff when I shut the door behind me.
The frustrated feeling in my chest lingers. I keep playing back my conversation with Tuck.
I don’t know why it should bother me. Of course I had a bad experience with Tuck. Don’t I always? He and I are utterly incompatible, even as acquaintances.
But … before we had that spat, I was kind of, actually, sort of … heaven help me for admitting this … enjoying our conversation. For a brief moment.
I guess there’s a lesson in that: nothing good can ever come of letting my guard down with Tuck McCoy.