We Are Us

I pick my weapon back up. “Only if you decide to switch teams.”

This time, when Je

Shit. From the corner of my eye, I see Tucker drop out of a tree. I swivel, pointing my gun in his direction and firing. Tucker rocks backward, his chest splattered with yellow, just as a green paintball from his gun slams into my upper arm.

We’re playing the game with seven lives, which means we can get hit seven times before we’re out. But after each hit, we have to walk back to home base, and wait three minutes before returning to the field.

“I’ll be back,” I say to Je

“You’re leaving?”

I shift so that she can see the paint covering my arm. “I won’t be long, but in the meantime,” I point at a shed behind us, “head over there. And don’t a

She nods and I wait for her to reposition herself before standing up. “Dead man walking!” I yell, shouldering my gun and heading back to home base.

Home base is a bench positioned beneath a metal overhang, near the entrance to the course. Shawn and Terrell, two of the TeenCharter boys, glance at me briefly before returning their attention to the clock.

“Good shot,” Tucker says when I show up just as he’s sitting down, rubbing his chest.

My arm is already aching where he hit me, but I don’t admit it. “Yeah, you too.”

“I’m free!” Shawn yells a few seconds later, rushing out onto the field without a backward glance. Terrell follows behind not long after.

“You know, I tried to convince Wren to come with us today but she was pretty adamant that paintball isn’t her sport.”

“Wren?” I try and fail to picture my former roommate wearing dirty coveralls and safety goggles, hiding behind trees and crawling through mud. “This is hardly her scene.”

Tucker’s lip twitches. “Even if you tried baiting her with that line, I don’t think she would have come.”

I shrug. “Guess she’s smarter than I am.”

“That’s not true, Poppy. Wren is just… well, she already knows who she is. She doesn’t have to prove herself to anyone.”

“Are you implying that I don’t know who I am?”

“No. Well, not exactly.”

“You don’t even know me!” When it comes to Tucker, my emotions are on a hair trigger.

“Because I fucked things up the first night we hung out. I hate what happened as much as you do.”

My eyebrows lift so high I feel them disappear into my hairline. “I doubt that,” I say, every syllable dripping with disdain.

“Fuck.” Tucker lets his head fall back and sighs. “There’s something about you. I’ve never met anyone else who makes me get everything wrong, every single time.”

I release a hoarse chuckle. “It’s a gift.”

He brings his head level again and turns to me. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re open to different people, different experiences. You’re still trying to figure out your path while people like me and Wren, well, ours was laid out before we were even born.”

“And you think that’s a bad thing? Please. You have no idea how lucky you are, Tucker.”

He shakes his head. “Lucky? It’s like wearing a goddamned straitjacket.”

My head twists back to him like it’s on a swivel. “Are you seriously expecting sympathy for the silver spoon jammed in your mouth when you were born? Or your perfect pedigree?”

“No,” Tucker practically growls. “I’m not looking for sympathy from you or anyone else. But I didn’t realize I had to filter my experiences and opinions through your lens, Poppy. If you’re only interested in hanging out with people who are just like you, then I have news for you—you’re just as judgmental as Wren.”

Tucker’s words land heavily and sit like stones inside my chest, the truth of them an unexpected weight.

Is that why I’ve always had a hard time making friends—because I’m only comfortable with people who are just like me?

I’d found one when I was thirteen, practically in my backyard. Gavin and I were so alike. My mother an addict, his father an alcoholic. Years in the foster system. Abandonment issues. Trust issues. Growing up with barely two nickels to rub together.

I scratch at the paint drying on my face. “You’re right.”

Tucker remains expressionless for a moment and then, to my surprise, he grins at me. “It killed you to say that, didn’t it?”

“It kind of did,” I admit, fighting a smile of my own.

Tucker taps his temple. “In here, we’re our own worst enemies.”

The timer goes off, putting an end to our conversation. I sprint out onto the field without another glance at Tucker. Out here, battle lines are clear, the rules of the game defined. Tucker Stockton is my enemy and I spend the rest of the hour shooting at him.