Thicker Than Water by Kelly Fiore Read Free Book Online Page B

pushpin-free bulletin board in the cafeteria when I see a pair of corduroy-clad legs approach.
    â€œIs someone sitting here?”
    I look up. Tucker is peering down at me, one eyebrow raised. I gesture to the bench across from me. He sits and places his tray parallel to mine. I look at what’s on it. Smooth scoop of mashed potatoes topped with mucusy-looking gravy. The canned green beans are more brown than green. There’s an apple in one corner, a carton of juice in the other.
    â€œAre you a vegetarian?”
    He looks surprised. I’m sure he assumed we’d eat together in silence—maybe we’d do that for a few days, a week, before I finally broke down and said something insightful. Whatever. I’m not that determined to continue my isolation. It sort of sucks.
    â€œWhy do you think I’m a vegetarian?”
    I point to his food. “No meat.”
    He looks at my BLT. The bacon—bits, not slices—spills out onto the yellow plastic tray. He shakes his head.
    â€œNo, I’m not a vegetarian. I just don’t eat stuff that looks like something that used to be meat. Like your Bacos there.”
    â€œRight.” I take a big bite of my sandwich. A dollop of mayonnaise smears against my cheek.
    â€œSo, is it an act?” Tucker asks. He takes a bite of his apple.
    â€œIs what an act?”
    He makes a flailing gesture, which I think is an attempt to sum me up.
    â€œThis . . . this person you’re being. All tough and relentless, like you’re wearing armor. Is she real?”
    I shrug. “As real as anyone is, I guess.”
    â€œIs she the same person you’ve always been?”
    I’m starting to feel a little prickly under his scrutiny. I finger my wrist, remembering how I used to wear bracelets to fiddle with when I was nervous. I wonder if they’re still in my jewelry box at home. If I still have a jewelry box. Or a home.
    â€œAre you the same person you’ve always been?” I finally counter.
    It’s his turn to shrug. “I’ve always been a fuckup, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    Tucker stares at me, then his eyes soften a little.
    â€œSo, why are you in here?” he asks.
    â€œDid you not get the message in group? I don’t want to talk about that stuff.”
    â€œLook.” Tucker props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. “I think it’s total crap that you know stuff about me and my life and I don’t know anything about you and yours.”
    â€œI never asked to know about your life. You chose to share it.”
    â€œTrue, but when you agree to go to treatment, you agree to all the shit that goes along with it. That means hearing sob stories from people you don’t care about. It also means you have to tell them yours. It’s like an eye for an eye or something.”
    â€œUh, I wouldn’t call my being locked up here ‘agreeing to go to treatment.’”
    â€œWhatever. All I’m saying is that people are sharing their stories with you because they want to get better. I have a feeling that getting your life back—the life you had— might rely on you trying to get better. Right now, you aren’t trying to do shit.”
    The last thing I want is to get my life back.
    â€œI think you need to be less concerned about me and my progress and more concerned about your own,” I mutter.
    Tucker takes another bite of his apple, chews, and swallows.
    â€œYou know that whole thing Barnes was talking about—about support systems?”
    â€œYeah, what about them?”
    â€œI don’t know. I just think that if you actually talked to the group, then you won’t feel so alone.”
    â€œI’m not alone.” I say it too fast and Tucker almost smirks.
    â€œYeah, you are. You’re just afraid to admit it.”
    He stands up and looks me over.
    â€œIf you ever want to talk, let me know.”
    It’s