Tucker shakes his head. “No, that’s fine. I’ve hung up half my flyers anyway. Let’s go. What about Cupcake?”
“I’ll drop her off at my house on the way.”
Tucker purses his lips but accepts my answer. We head away from the ocean, back toward the lot where I parked my truck earlier. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Tucker plays restlessly with the edge of his faded band T-shirt. Hisblond hair blows in the breeze, and his angelic curls are so at odds with his eyebrow piercing and tattoos that I can’t help but find myself even more curious about him. All I know is that he’s Mark and Brent’s son who was away for many years and has reappeared for unspecified reasons. Brent and I met at River’s coffee shop one day and hit it off talking about cars. But Tucker hasn’t been mentioned beyond passing comments that any loving father would make regarding the success of their child and wishing to see them more.
“Nice truck,” Tucker says as he climbs into the passenger seat.
“I’m so big, it’s easier on my knees.”
Tucker eyes me carefully. “Sure.”
I help Cupcake into the back seat, buckling her in for the ride home. Tucker angles his head away as we make our way toward the house. The silence is almost suffocating. I’ve always been the type to fill awkward conversations, but it’s been hard with Tucker since that morning on the beach. Something about him makes me feel off-footed, in a way where I clam up instead of babble.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Tucker as I park in front of the house.
Tucker nods but doesn’t reply. I carry Cupcake into the house like the spoiled girl she is and get her set up inside in her bed in front of the fireplace. She gives me a sour look, which I’m far too used to now, so I ply her with one of her favorite rawhides. Tucker is still sitting quietly in the running truck when I hop back in. Not sure what I expected. Maybe I’d expected him to disappear while I was inside for those few moments.
I navigate out of my driveway and head the way that’ll takeus over the bridge and onto the mainland. Tucker stays quiet, so I put some music on, hoping to fill the silence. I’ve never been too picky about music; it’s just playlists my streaming app curates for me on constant rotation. Sometimes I’ll listen to a new album by one of my favorite artists, but that’s the extent of my musical knowledge for the most part. Tucker doesn’t seem too happy with the top forty station I’ve decided to put on.
“Want to play something else?”
Tucker scoffs. “No, it’s your car. It’s fine. I’m just not much of a radio guy.”
“Tell me what you want to listen to.”
Tucker hums and points at my phone in question. I nod. He flips through my playlists as I focus on the road, weaving along the salt marsh–lined roads that widen as we approach the infamous bridge that takes us over the intracoastal. Tucker lands on a playlist that I haven’t listened to in a long time, some nineties grunge playlist that has Chris Cornell’s deep voice lofting through the speakers.
“Good song.”
Tucker hums and turns his attention back out the window. He was so bright and lively that morning on the beach. He seems duller now, some of his shine gone. The company is nice though after so many weeks of just me and Cupcake in the beach house. Guitar lessons and the lantern festival will fill my next few months, when I’m not at physical therapy for my knee.
Once we’re over the bridge, the drive goes pretty fast. When we pull up to the music store, Tucker jumps out without a look back. I hop out slower, needing to still be careful with my knee after the surgery. At least it’s not stormed lately, so it hasn’t been as achy as it could be. Ilearned lately that thunderstorms really do fuck with bad knees.
I follow Tucker into the store, squinting into the darkness and the vague smell of incense and wood. Guitars line the walls and the sound of someone playing in a back room fills the air. Tucker is a man on a mission, and I follow behind him, not caring about being recognized at all for the first time in a long time. I forget that outside of Hope Island I’m more likely to be stopped for autographs and pictures. But it’s a weekday and the store is blessedly empty.
I watch as Tucker peruses the guitars hanging on the walls, a thoughtful but intent look on his face. He comes to a stop in front of a basic-looking shiny mahogany guitar.
“This is a good learning guitar. I assume you can afford something nicer than a Yamaha? We can always go super basic, get you a Yamaha, but a Taylor will treat you well for a long time.”
“I trust you.”
Tucker’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, then straighten back out as he grabs the guitar off the wall. He sits on the bench beneath it and plucks a few chords, humming under his breath. He has a lovely voice, and even lovelier fingers as they dance up and down the neck of the guitar. Now I have to buy it, just to hold his image in my head.
He finishes playing and keeps his hand on the neck for a beat, jaw clenched tight, before clearing his face and glancing up at me with a forced smile. “Your turn. Sit down and I’ll set you up.”
I take a seat beside him, and Tucker shifts the guitar to my lap and situates my hands correctly on the neck. The strings hurt a little beneath the pads of my fingers. All the callusesfrom playing football were focused on my palms and have faded since my career ended.
“Definitely a good fit. Let’s get it, a case, and some picks.” Tucker stands and grabs the guitar from me in one solid motion. I watch as he heads toward a rack in the corner, fingers dancing across packs of picks. He grabs a pack and grins at me over his shoulder. “Can you get that case over there? It should fit.”
I pick it up and follow Tucker to the front of the store. The cashier does a double take at the sight of me but stays quiet as he rings us up.
“Want a selfie with me?” I ask before we leave.
The guy grins and stumbles over a yes. He hands his phone to Tucker, who kindly takes a picture of us together, before we head back out into the bright sunshine. A guitar case in my hand, Tucker at my side, the day feels the least lonely it’s felt in a long time.
Tucker stands awkwardly as I put the guitar into the truck. “I’m going to take a rideshare to my next stop, and then I’ll take one back to the island. So, you don’t have to drive me home.”
“I can drive you home,” I say, a little worried about leaving him alone with no solid ride.
