Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (22 page)

I can’t face her. My eyes refuse to glance more than once at her. She is crying, fearful, but there are new bricks on my wall, fresh mortar that seals my sympathy.
 

“I’ve got to go.” I am taller than her, my legs longer, my stride faster and she cannot keep up with me as I hurry down the trail.

“You’re still going out with him?” I hear her say.

“Yes. I have to. I have to find out what he knows.”

Then she is running, catches up to me with a few quick jogs. “But Autumn, if Tucker wants you back, he’s not going to care what you say. He’s going to—”

For the first time ever, I slap Sayo’s hand away from me, angry, overcome with betrayal. By her rounded eyes and open mouth, I know she is shocked, maybe a bit scared of my reaction. “I know what he’ll try Sayo, but don’t worry. I’ll be sure to tell you everything that happens. It’s what friends do, right? Tell each other things. Or at least, that’s what they’re supposed to do.”

She doesn’t follow me as I run past her. I can hear her crying, the low sobs that leave her mouth as I move faster and faster away from her. Logic cripples me, makes regret instantly curl tight like a fist in my chest, but I cannot stop, will not. I leave her behind. My best friend, all alone on the mountain trail.

I saw a flyer for the circus on the bulletin board outside of the student union. Tucker picked me up there and when he saw my eyes on that image of the Big Top, the small clip art of clowns, he laughed at me. But, we did avoid the circus.

Tucker didn’t bother asking if I wanted to go. Flaccid balloons or no, I don’t want to be there. He says he knew this. He’s done that quite a bit tonight: a flash of a smile at some mentioned memory, the subtle wink when a familiar song comes on the radio. It’s as if he believes we’ve picked up our relationship where we left off; as though nothing has changed. As though I am remotely the same girl.

Yet he does begin to notice some difference in me as we walk down the courtyard. There are students everywhere. Sigma Chi is having their fall fundraiser and the party extends into the campus. Boys run shirtless, drunk, along the lake. Sloppy co-eds rest on each other as they stumble toward the coffee shop. And Tucker Morrison doesn’t blink at any of them. He believes he has me, or at least, he believes the old me has returned. But when he gets annoyed at a passing freshman who vomits inches from his feet and I do nothing but step back, Tucker’s face wrinkles; confusion, disbelief. What did he expect me to do? His Autumn would have cursed at the sick boy. His Autumn would have said something ridiculous like “Oh, baby, are your shoes dirty? Let’s go home so you can change.” Even the thought of her has my lip curling.

But me? I’m not Tucker’s Autumn and now, with my arms folded and my feet stepping away from the freshman and the wide, amused smile on my face, yes, I believe he’s finally noticing a difference.

“Maybe I should go home and change,” he says, kicking his left foot as though it is covered in sick.

I tilt my head down. “You’re fine. He didn’t get you.” Then I walk away from him, toward the coffee shop.

He trails behind me and I don’t push his hand away when he places it on my back. I haven’t encouraged his attentions tonight and I won’t. But I have to dangle some sort of compliance in front of him. He has answers I want.

When I notice him staring behind us, his attention still on the drunk freshman, I sigh, give my head a shake. “Let it go, Tucker. You were him once.”

His shoulders straighten and his hand moves off of my back. “I never threw up in the middle of campus.”

“No, but you did get sick at the after-match party sophomore year. I thought you were dying.” My eyes slip to his face and I smile at his flinch.

“I felt like I was dying.” He stands in front of me and I wrench back, surprised at his proximity. “You took care of me that night.” He touches the silver cross around my neck, lets his thumb rub over it. It’s something he always did. “You kept a cold rag on my face all night and made sure I slept on my stomach.” I shake my head. “Come on, Autumn, you were good to me.” He releases the pendant and holds my hand. His eyes are so blue, so bright and I can’t help but smile at the memory. But it’s more his action that invokes my humor. He’s doing it again, dredging up the past, painting the memories as though they are the only ones held captive in my mind. I want to agree with him, tell him I remember how good I was for him. I also want to remind him that he was selfish, that my life revolved around his plans, his happiness and the contentment he found in my passivity.
 

Sayo was right.

“I was,” I say, agreeing with his assessment. “I was good to you, Tucker.” He smiles and my eyes immediately go to the small chip on his tooth. “But you weren’t good to me.” The grin leaves his face. I can tell he wants to speak. He wants to disagree, but it seems the memories he’s recalling now, silent, in his own head, aren’t all rose-colored and saccharine, either. “Let’s get a coffee, okay?”

I don’t wait for him to follow me into the shop. And then, I stop short when I see Declan at a table in the corner, Donovan sitting to his left. His laptop is open and he wears earbuds. There are books and papers scattered around them both, their faces are buried in the work, their attention drawn away from the entrance. When I walk in, I hear the muffled scream of his music behind me. I approach the counter, try to avoid his stare but then I accidently graze a chair with my hip when I pass it and I know he sees me. I can feel his eyes heat up the back of my neck, sear into my skin, but I refuse to return his gaze, to see the anger I’m sure transforms his features. The sensation grows thicker when Tucker stands next to me at the counter.

“I’ll have a caramel mocha frappuccino, grande, and she wants a tall latte with extra whip.”

“Actually, I’ll take venti green tea with honey.” Again, Tucker’s surprise colors his face, faint red blushes that tell me he doesn’t know me anymore. At his stare, I smile. “I’m training, remember?” He jerks his chin, but his stare lingers, as though he’s sizing me up, trying to separate my current preferences from those of the girl he knew. We wait for the girl behind the counter to perform her service ballet and Tucker’s attention goes behind me, to Declan, and his smile goes ridiculous, taunting and I can’t help but throw a glare at him. “If you antagonize him, I walk out.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, but there is no sincerity in his words, no real honesty.

The smell of coffee and cocoa fills my nose. A small hint of pumpkin and seasonal scents mingle with the loud whir of the cappuccino machine to blur my senses. It makes my mouth water, but when I hear the flick of a laptop shutting, then smell the familiar aroma of the rugby pitch and cedar, the sensations intensifies. Declan comes within inches of me, so close that if I reach out, our hands would touch.

I don’t shake. I remain perfectly still, but my heartbeat rises, becomes a thundering jumble of beats and palpitations that leave me dizzy. Tucker’s hand in mine, pulling me toward him, doesn’t register, not immediately, not until I hear the door open as Declan leaves. Tucker watches each step Declan takes, as though he anticipates a confrontation, as though his fingers itch for it. But then our drinks are ready and I hurry to grab mine and lead Tucker to a table on the opposite side of the shop. From my seat, I see Donovan’s narrowed eyes, the small twist of his vision shifting from Tucker to me. Then, he shakes his head, returns his focus back on his notes.

This has not been an exciting date. It has not been remotely enjoyable. If there was an adjective I could use to describe these brief hours with Tucker, it would likely be “boring” or “vanilla.” It is formulaic, predicable. There was no thought in the movie we watched. A thriller he’s wanted to see for weeks. There was no originality in the meal we ate, Indian because he had a craving for curry, or the walk we took through campus. Tucker seems to believe that the familiar would rekindle something I gave up a year ago. I tolerate this, him, because I want answers, because I know he hides a secret that isn’t his.

Tucker’s eyes remain on the door, on Declan, who stands outside looking in. I don’t watch him to see what he’s doing, but I know he stares. My skin is still burning, fevered from his scrutiny of me.

“Dick,” Tucker says, finally picking up his drink. He throws his elbows on the table and slurps his drink through the straw.

“What’s your problem with him anyway?” I drink my tea watching his expression. “I mean, I know why Declan hates you, but why does he piss you off so much?”

“He’s got an attitude.” He moves his head, gives his fingers a wave as though that should explain everything. “I tried to help the guy out, but he acted like he didn’t want to take my advice.”

“Maybe he didn’t need your help, Tucker. He’s been playing since he was a kid.”

Tucker moves back in his chair, arms crossed and cup resting in his hand. His eyes narrow as he watches me, scrutinizing, contemplating. “Know a lot about him, do you?”

“Not really, but we have spent time together.”

“I heard.”

“What did you hear, exactly?” When he doesn’t answer me, when his breath comes out tense, I close my eyes, let my tea swirl in my mouth. “You know, men always complain about gossiping women and girls who like drama, but I swear I have never seen bitchier, more emotional people in my life than those running around on that pitch. You’re like hormonal fourteen year old kids in mens’ bodies.”

“I’m not listening to gossip, Autumn. I just know. I can see it.” Another swig from his drink and he places it on the table, leaving condensation on the black tabletop. “The tension was so thick in here a minute ago when he left, I could taste it in the air.”

“That might be because you two were glaring at each other.”

“He’s just pissed at me because I’m here with you. Besides, he’s the one that broke up with you, right?”

“And how do you know that?”

“Word gets around.”

“More gossip on the pitch?”

“I didn’t say I don’t hear it. I just said I don’t partake.” He rests his arms fully on the table, gathers his fingers together. “He threatened me this afternoon.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Tucker is glib as though he didn’t want to mention Declan at all. “It was kind of pathetic, actually, for him, I mean. He tried to get out of volunteering at the library. Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like grunt work.”

“Maybe. I flat out refused. He wasn’t happy and then he tells me, and I quote ‘if you’re a fecking pig to Autumn, I’ll end you.’”

This peaks my suspicion. If Declan really didn’t care about me, it wouldn’t matter to him how Tucker treated me. “What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing. Told him he needed to worry about getting off his suspension and not what you and I do on our date.” Tucker reaches for my hand, but at the same moment, I grab my cup, stare down at the fragments in the bottom. “You’re so different.”

I slowly glance at him, at the small bend of his mouth. “I told you I was.” I finish my tea, set down the cup.

“I thought you were still pissed at me for leaving. I thought maybe that whole speech about you changing was something you said to stop me from asking you out.”

“And now?”

He adjusts himself in his seat as though he needs to be comfortable for what he says next. “You don’t like the same things. You’re not as affectionate. Not to me anyway. And you don’t look at me when I talk.” When I only stare, deadpan, expressionless, he exhales and a small grunt leaves his mouth. “It’s weird. I thought, well, initially, when I came back, I thought things would warm up, that you’d get over it all and we could start things back up. Now though,” Tucker’s head moves, a slow movement that barely shakes, “now I see that you’ve changed. You’re sad.”

I laugh at him and the sound only makes his frown lengthen. “I wonder why that is, Tucker. Could it be that I almost died? Or that I watched my mother bleed to death for hours alone in that car?” I raise my hand, stopping him, when he starts to interrupt me. “Could it be that I was too banged up to go to her funeral? Or that after eight years of being gone, my father decides to return to my life and hasn’t bothered once to tell me what he’s been up to?”  To distract myself from the weight of his horrified expression, I push the teacup around the saucer. It makes a screech with each turn. “My mother is dead and I was sure I was going to join her. I wanted to join her so badly. And if it hadn’t been for my friends,” I blink once, trying to keep my guilt over Sayo at bay, “I probably would have. So yes, Tucker, I’ve changed and I’m not a fount of joy and glee now.” I surprise him by taking his hand. “You were everything to me once. What you said, what you thought, what we did together, at one time, was so important to me.” I drop his hand. “I’m not the same, Tucker because shit happens and you either adjust or you get left behind wallowing in the past. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”