New England air, the smell of home. Tucker breathed it in like he hadn’t breathed in months.

Tucker Pillsbury liked being home. He loved his mom, loved his family, loved his little childhood home in Maine, and was extremely attached to everything in his life. Being on tour meant you didn’t really get to be home, because you were somewhere new every other day. That was one of the only reasons he didn’t like touring.

But No Place Like Tour was over, and he was back in Cape Elizabeth for the time being. There was something different in the air, though. Something changed.

That was probably you.

Tucker knew you. Or he used to. You’d been one of his closest friends during high school. He knew you had been struggling, back then, with issues he never found out that much about. He knew you’d fled the town as soon as you graduated, and went to college somewhere else, and never returned.

But you were back now. At first, he had been all like, oh, cool, that’s nice, would be nice to see her again. But then some rumours — all of which he’d heard from his mom — had speculated. Divorced, fired, burnt out, bankrupt, scandalised.

Tucker was interested to find out the real reason, but his desire to go see you was squashed out by his nerves. A lot — he meant a lot — had changed since they were eighteen. Almost ten years ago, that would be. He’d grown from the aspiring rapper in his bedroom to worldwide-ish pop star. You were, well, he didn’t even know what you were.

Fate had different opinions than him, apparently. Tucker had gone out for a drive to the rocky shore, late at night, and as soon as he got out of his car, he could see the back of your head. It was weird, but he had a feeling that he would be able to recognise you anywhere.

As usual, when in the moment, his impulsiveness wins out over his nerves. “Long time, no see,” he calls out, praying you’ll turn around. He could barely remember your face.

And you do. There you were, ten years older, ten years wiser. Every feature on your face exactly how he’d remembered it. Not that he was doing much remembering about you.

In the darkness of the night, you both were still those eighteen year old kids.

But as he approaches, and you stumble up to meet him halfway, he can begin to see the new qualities of your face, the scars, the faint lines, that proved that ten years had gone by.

Tucker didn’t know what you were going in for — handshake? Hug? — but when you reach each other, you don’t do either. You stand there and stare at him, study his face. Almost like an evaluation.

He hoped he was passing.