Chapter 65: Lipstick lessons

NATE

FRESHMAN YEAR

MAY

"Hey, Wellman. Give me a hand here, will you?"

Tuck's voice held more than a little frustration as I came into our room, drying off my hair with a towel. He was sitting on his bed, his arms braced on either side of his body so that the muscles popped out. His jaw was clenched, and he was staring at the floor, where a thick hardback book lay.

"Sure. What's up?"

A tic jumped in his cheek. "I was being stupid. Lazy. Went to grab the book on my desk without thinking about it, and it was too far out of my reach. Dropped it." He nodded to the wheelchair at the foot of the bed. "I should've gotten the chair, I guess, but . . ." He trailed off, and I heard what he didn't want to say. Whenever Tuck could ignore the chair that gave him mobility, he did.

I knew how maddening it could be, not to be able to do the simple things other people took for granted. Living with Eli Tucker for the last year had taught me to appreciate what I was capable of doing instead of bro