Chapter 12
Autumn
Tucker’s quiet when we get back into the car.
“You okay?” I ask him as he starts the engine and points us back toward the hotel.
“It’s really frustrating,” he says. “There’s one thing I can do for my family, and that’s keep them safe, and I can’t figure out how to stop the sabotage.”
Oh. Oh, wow.
Tucker puts a lot of weight on what he can do for people and not so much on what he is to people. I know, in my heart, that his family values him for a lot more than just keeping them safe.
But he doesn’t believe that.
I suddenly, irrationally, overwhelmingly want to reach over and hug him. If I didn’t think he’d drive off the road from shock, I might do it.
Instead I say, “You’re a lot more to your family than their security detail.”
He grunts.
I guess the talking is over. Makes sense. That was a lot of words for Tucker all at once, and even more, it was a lot of feelings.
And I can’t help being weirdly…honored…that he chose to use them to me.
I decide that for Tucker’s sake, we will take this conversation back to the realm where he’s obviously most comfortable: Stuff that happens in the real world. “If everyone else has gotten sabotaged when they tried to fulfill their part of the will, doesn’t that mean you probably will, too?”
He sighs. “Yeah. Probably. Unless I can figure out who’s responsible.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes while I think about what it might mean for me and my sister if sabotage comes after Tucker. And whether I’ve made things worse, and not better, for her.
The thought makes my chest feel so tight that I can barely breathe.
“Do you think I’m scary, too?”
His voice is low, with that roughness I first associated with disuse but that I now think might mask big emotion. He doesn’t like it that Sienna called him scary.
He doesn’t want to be scary.
I want to do his question justice.
“Scary isn’t a word I would have used,” I tell him honestly. “I think it’s really cool that you’re doing this for your sister. And for me.”
“I’m doing it for my sister,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to feel a little curl of disappointment in my belly. “Sorry. I know that—I shouldn’t have said that last part.”
A grunt. I sneak a look at him. Something in him has hardened, like he’s pulled an exoskeleton back on over some of the soft parts he showed me. I wish I hadn’t pushed.
My phone sounds. It’s my sister, and I swipe to answer.
“Autumn!” It’s a screech. “Jane can’t get on a standby flight! She’s stuck in Portland! And there are no rental cars available!”
Something clenches in my stomach. The old fear that Summer won’t be okay, that there’s nothing I can do to make her okay. And then I remind myself that this is now, that Summer’s been fine for a long time, and that this is a problem I can solve.
“Deep breaths,” I say. “We can figure this out. Did you call the rental places in the city, too, not just airport ones?”
“There’s some kind of huge convention going on, and everything is booked,” she says. “Autumn, what am I going to do? What if she’s not here for the welcome party tonight?! What if she’s not here for prom!?”
I know it’s because of what happened with Summer’s first, original prom that the possibility of Jane not being there for their prom sends a cold shoot of panic into my gut.
Sometimes it’s like Summer’s fear is twined around my own.
Like if she falls apart, I will too, like I’m the only thing holding both of us together.
I open my mouth to promise her I’ll make it right, I’ll sort it out, I’ll fix it all.
But before I can say anything, Tucker says, “We’ll go get her.”
“What?” I ask him, relief already blooming in my stomach.
“It’s not that far. Three hours. We can get her and be back here by the time the party starts.”
“Did he just say what I think he did?” Summer demands.
“Tucker, are you sure?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.”
I stare at him for a moment longer, trying to figure out what would make him offer to drive six hours to pick up my sister’s fiancée from the airport. When he said that none of this is for me; it’s all for Hanna.
“Yeah,” I tell Summer. “He did.”
“He’s head over heels for you,” Summer says, and I can hear the shift in her voice, too, the huge washing-clean of relief. “That guy will do anything for you and your family. You two are adorable.”
“We’re just—”
But what purpose will it serve to downplay Tucker’s role in my life now? Instead I laugh and say, “He’s pretty great.”
When I hang up with Summer, Tucker says, “I am, aren’t I?”
I roll my eyes. “Did you hear every word of that?”
“Yes.” He flips a quick smirk in my direction.
I try not to blush red hot all over my body and fail. “Obviously we’re doing a good job with the faking.”
“Obviously,” he says.
Another silence, in which I try, mightily, not to imagine what it would feel like to have a guy like Tucker be head over heels for you. A guy who probably never falls, toppling like a three-hundred-year-old oak.
“We need music,” he says.
“What do you think the chances are that we agree on any music at all?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I like everything.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Mr. Grumpy?”
“Mr. Grumpy, huh?”
“It’s my private nickname for you.”
“Flattering.”
“Tell me you think it’s unjust.”
Tucker’s lips press together. He grunts. “Try me.”
“Dua Lipa, ‘Levitating.’”
“Sure.” A shrug.
“Lizzo, ‘About Damn Time.’”
“Yup.”
“Harry Styles, ‘Watermelon Sugar.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you just trying to be agreeable?”
“I don’t do agreeable.”
This, I believe. “There’s no way you like all the music I like. It’s not possible.”
“I told you; I like most music.”
I’m sure I can come up with one that he’ll hate. It feels like a challenge now.
“ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen.’”
“Who doesn’t like ‘Dancing Queen’?”
“Most straight men,” I say and then feel like an asshole, remembering his murmured conversation in the bathroom last night.
“I guess I’m not most straight men,” he says.
It’s practically confirmation that I’m right about his bathroom lover. I double down on my intention not to covet the gay, attached guy.
“Aha,” I say. “Plain White T’s, ‘Rhythm of Love.’”
“That song is romantic genius.”
I stare at him until he breaks, a subtle twitch at one corner of his mouth.
“You’re so full of shit!” I say.
“There’s a driving playlist on my phone if you want to cue that up.”
I take his phone, hold it up in front of his face to capture the facial recognition, and navigate to his playlists. The first one is called “Driving Playlist.” The second one is called “Elizabeth.”
I don’t let myself think about who Elizabeth might be; it’s none of my business. Instead I hit the little triangle on his playlist and fill the car with his music. And in fairness, it’s pretty eclectic…and includes “Dancing Queen.”
I have a lot of questions, and I’m probably not going to get a lot of answers.