We Are Us

My mouth suddenly dry, I can only nod.

Sadie doesn’t have that problem. “Where are you going?” she asks.

Tucker offers a mischievous smile. “I’m sure she’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

My sister only scoffs as we walk through the door. “I doubt that.”

Halfway to his car I slip on the walkway, my heel coming out from under me. Tucker catches me by my elbow. “Gotcha,” he says.

It’s not just the ice that has me feeling off balance and tentative. It feels like Tucker and I are entering strange, uncharted territory. We moved from mutual avoidance to stilted cordiality when Dean Johnson brought us together to work with TeenCharter. And now, it seems like Tucker wants to move beyond that, too.

But I don’t know what beyond will look like. What kind of relationship am I willing, or even capable, of having with him?

After sliding into Tucker’s low car, the steady thrum of the engine buzzed through my veins as he merges onto the highway. Two hours later we are on the Henry Hudson Parkway, then in Manhattan.

Tucker navigates the crowded city streets with the ease of a veteran cab driver. Meanwhile, I act like a typical tourist, pressing my forehead to the window and admiring the skyscrapers pointing their steely tips at the sky.

He is comfortable in his role, and I am almost, or at least pretending to be, comfortable in mine. But the truth is—I’m scared to death I’m making an even bigger mistake today than I did that night.

“Here we are,” Tucker finally says, pulling up outside the most iconic hotel in New York.

I blink at him. “The Plaza?”

He flashes a playful grin. “Don’t all girls grow up wishing they could be Eloise, at least for a night?”

My wishes had been so much more complicated than having the run of this enormous Manhattan landmark, but I nod in spite of the knot of anxiety twisting my stomach. “Of course.” Am I stupid to trust Tucker? Did he reserve separate rooms?

My thoughts are coiling their way around my throat, cutting off my air supply, when a uniformed bellman opens my door. “Good afternoon, miss.”

“Good afternoon,” I manage to whisper, feeling lightheaded.

My boots tread silently on the red carpet covering the entrance stairs, a doorman ushering us inside.

Immediately, the noise and grittiness of New York City fall away. It’s as if I’ve walked into a French chateau, or at least what I imagine a French chateau would look like. Endless marble, crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas, gilded everything.

I barely notice when Tucker says, “Wait here,” and leaves me standing in the center of the enormous lobby. My neck cranes up at the ceiling as I turn in a small circle.

He comes back a few moments later, a discreet envelope in his hand. “Ready?”

And just like that, I’m back to reality.

Are there two key cards in there? “Um, Tucker.” My feet are rooted to the floor. Even though we’ve just spent two hours in the car together, I ca

There’s a flash of hurt on Tucker’s face, but it fades almost immediately. “Of course. I understand.” He hands the envelope to me. “The room number is on the front. My parents’ place is just a couple of blocks away. I was going to walk up with you before heading back home to change, but if you would rather—”

Suddenly, I feel ridiculous. Tucker invited me here for a fresh start, and I want that too. “No. It’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize— I thought—”

I stop talking as Tucker’s arm lands on my shoulders and he steers me toward the elevator bank. His touch sends my senses into overdrive—a disconcerting mix of pure panic and unexpected pleasure. “I’ll only stay a few minutes.”

We take the elevator to the fourteenth floor and walk halfway down a corridor painted the color of butter and adorned with gilt-edged paintings. Chandeliers, smaller than the ones in the lobby, hang from the ceiling at even intervals.

Tucker opens the door to my room and I step inside, standing awkwardly by the dresser. He brushes by me and sinks into one of the chairs by the window, pulling out his phone. “We have options for tonight.”

“Options?” I’m staring at the wide bed that dominates this room, but I’m remembering a different room, a smaller bed.

It’s soft. Too soft. My stomach lurches, and I edge forward, lowering myself to the floor, needing to feel something solid beneath me.

Tucker looks at me quizzically. “You okay?”

His face breaks apart into two, then fuses back together. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Tucker’s real voice takes the place of the echo inside my head. “New Year’s Eve parties.”

My mouth is dry, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. “Oh, right. Okay.”

“Or, if none of them sound appealing, we can go for a walk, like you said. See the tree, even go ice skating.”

Tucker glances up from his phone. “You don’t want to see the ball drop in Times Square, do you?” At my pause, he adds, “I mean, we could. If—”

“No.” Times Square is packed with drunk tourists on New Year’s Eve. It’s the last place I’d want to be. “Anywhere but there.”

We share a smile and I take my duffel bag from where Tucker left it by the door, setting it down on the bed. Unzipping the top, I begin pulling out the clothes I brought. Once the mattress is obscured, I feel a little better. “Does Wren know I’m here?”

Tucker shrugs. “Du

I pretend to pay attention as he itemizes the various invitations. But when he asks, “Do any of those sound good?”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Which ones?”

“Um.” I make up an answer. “The first and last sound great. Really fun.”

He sets his phone aside and stands. “What’s wrong?”

Me. Him.

Not every story has a happy ending. And not everyone deserves a new begi

What if, no matter how badly Tucker wants to be the hero of our story, he’ll only ever be a villain?