DECLAN
“Skylar, I know you’re in there. Open the door.”
I rap on the wooden frame with my fist again.
Finally, I hear shuffling on the other side and the sound of a lock disengaging.
The door opens a crack, warmth and light spilling out into the frozen night.
I can see a sliver of her auburn hair and the green flecks in her eyes through the slit, but not much else.
“What are you doing here?” She doesn’t sound mad, more surprised than anything.
“Can I come in?”
She opens the door a tiny bit more, allowing me to see that she’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt that comes down to the middle of her thighs. The same one I picked out for her when I walked her home the other night. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, a few strands framing her face.
“What do you want, Declan?” Now there’s a slightly irritated lilt to her voice.
It’s also at this point that she’s illuminated enough for me to see the redness surrounding her eyes, which are swollen and glassy.
“Why were you crying?” It comes out as more of a demand than a question, making her lips purse in defiance.
“I wasn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me, Skylar.”
She scoffs. “Or what?”
I let out a deep breath, attempting to soothe the mounting anxiety in my gut. It doesn’t help, but it buys me a second to soften my approach. “Or nothing, Sky. Can I please just come in?”
To my surprise, she opens the door wider and moves aside to let me past. “Will you tell me what you’re doing here now?”
I cross over the threshold and stand next to the couch.
There’s a show paused on her TV—some reality bullshit by the looks of it.
I didn’t peg her for a fan of that stuff.
The Skylar I knew refused to watch anything made after the nineteen sixties and kept books of sonnets on her nightstand, but I guess we all have our guilty pleasures.
Turning around to face her, I run my hand up the side of my head. “I’m returning your text.”
“You’re…what?”
“None of the dates you sent work for me. Guess we’ll have to find a different lawyer with better availability.” Spying a frame on the mantel above the fireplace, I walk over to get a better look. “I think we can do better than Joseph Jonas anyway.”
“You came to my house to tell me this?” She snatches the frame I’ve picked up, moving it out of my reach.
It’s a picture of her and Ash at a diner after our high school graduation.
I remember watching her mom snap the picture, acid burning in my gut as she forced a smile.
Most Baybridge Prep students went out to fancy dinners with their parents after graduation, but Skylar’s mom insisted on taking her and Ash to their favorite spot—a greasy twenty-four-hour diner between Baybridge and Emberfield.
It was our favorite spot until it wasn’t.
I’m not sure why I followed them there. Maybe it was the hope that I could see with my own eyes that she was okay, or maybe it was the flask of whiskey I downed during the ceremony.
Either way, I got into the black car that was supposed to take me to my own fancy dinner—a facade carefully constructed by my father to appear doting—and told the driver to take me to the diner instead.
I never went in. I waited and watched outside like a complete creep until they left.
“Do you not understand how texting works?” Skylar’s voice breaks through the stark memory.
“I’m not much of a texter,” I admit as I move on to the next picture on the mantel. This one is of her with her mom and another man. Not her dad. Maybe her mom got remarried? “I prefer face-to-face interactions.”
Skylar takes that one from my grasp too. “Your fingers literally almost fell off because you texted so much in high school. Your phone was glued to your hand.”
“Things change.” I let the words hang in the air for a moment, hoping that she’ll pick up on the hidden meaning. I’ve changed. She’s changed. Her eyes ping-pong between mine for a brief moment, and then she reaches out, moving all the picture frames away from me.
“Well, when you didn’t answer about the dates, I made an executive decision and chose one. Which I sent you. Which you ignored.”
Her movement draws my attention to her bare wrist. “You got your cast off.”
She looks down. “Yes. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Why were you crying?” I ask again.
“Seriously? Can you focus on one thing at a time?”
“I am. Tell me why you were crying.”
“I told you, I wasn’t.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a scream and a growl, stepping around me so she can flop down on her couch. Then she presses a button on her remote, and the show she was watching starts back up. I sit next to her, picking up the remote and pressing pause.
“Are you serious?” she fumes.
“We were in the middle of talking.”
“I decided the conversation was over.” She goes to grab the remote again, but I hold it out of her reach.
“Oh my God. I can’t do this. I have to figure out another way.”
My brows knit together. “Another way for what?”
“Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Skylar,” I warn. “Tell me what the fuck is going on or…” Her eyes widen. This is not the time for threats. She doesn’t deserve to be threatened after everything I put her through. I switch tactics before I can think better of it. “Tell me, and I’ll go to the appointment.”
Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “You’re bribing me? Like I’m a five-year-old?”
“It’s better than the alternative.” I shrug.
She looks around the room as if a celestial entity is going to swoop down to save her from having to utter her next words. “The thing is—” she finally grits out. “If I tell you what’s going on, we may not need the appointment.”
Well, that gets my attention real fucking quick. Not wanting to appear too eager, I keep my mouth shut, giving her the space to speak when she’s ready.
She eyes me nervously before letting out a deep sigh that ends in a frustrated whine. “Something has come up. Well, a few things. Anyway, the bottom line is that I have a trust that I can access when I’m twenty-five, which is in a few weeks. Six weeks, to be exact.”
“April 13th,” I blurt.
Her eyes drift to mine, the little specks of gold in them shimmering. “Yes,” she confirms.
I’m sure she didn’t expect me to remember her birthday, but how could I not?
It’s engraved in my brain like every other number associated with her.
How old I was when we first met—thirteen.
Her favorite sandwich at the beach shack—number five.
How many times she’s seen Casablanca—thirty-two.
The time on her cloud-shaped clock when we kissed for the first time.
It was just a peck goodnight, but it counts.
Before I can stop it, my mind races with the memory.
“Declan?” Her voice is soft and sleep-drunk as she glances at the clock. “It’s two in the morning. What are you doing?”
“Nothing, Firefly. Go back to sleep.”
She seems content to rest her head back on the pillow as I climb the rest of the way through her window until she notices the thick red liquid dripping down my lip.
“Oh my God. You’re bleeding.” She shoots up.
“It’s just a scrape.” I look down at my worn Chucks.
“Skateboarding.” I disappear into her bathroom to survey the damage and wipe away the blood with a damp towel.
I’ll replace it in the morning. Once I’m cleaned up, I join her back in the bedroom.
She’s lying down again, her auburn hair draped across the white pillowcase, but she leans up higher as if to get a better look, squinting as the moonlight filters in through the curtains.
I see the moment she sees it—the big, ugly bruise blooming beneath my right eye.
I’m sure she doesn’t doubt that I was out skateboarding at this time of night.
I’ve done crazier things, but she knows that I look down at my feet when I lie.
Though, my lies are not usually directed toward her.
No, those are usually reserved for convincing girls to go down on me in the bathroom during passing period or hook up behind the bleachers. I’m a sucker for the classic spots.
“Dec.” Her voice is laced with concern, and it both breaks and fills my heart at the same time.
“Shhhh. It’s nothing.”
I slide my sweats down, kicking them off before hopping into her bed in my T-shirt and boxers.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. That’s the furthest we’ve gone. Forehead kisses. That’s a normal thing to do with a friend, right?
“Declan.”
“I just—can we not talk about it right now? I’m so tired. I promise I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Okay, but you know what that means.”
“My lacrosse hoodie.” I don’t skip a beat.
She quirks a brow, encouraging me to keep going.
“The green one,” I sigh.
Satisfied, she shifts over to make more room for me.
I don’t miss the way she winces as I grunt, trying to get comfortable.
My ribs hurt like a bitch. Serves me right for getting into it with a college freshman.
I couldn’t help myself, though. He was such a smug asshole, and I was already primed from my dad getting on my case again.
After he told me for the umpteenth time what a disappointment I am, I considered coming straight here, but it was late, so I skated to the party I heard about earlier. I ended up here anyway. I always do.
It’s summer break, so all the college kids are home and throwing ragers at whoever’s parents are in Paris or Monaco.
I might only be sixteen, but I can hold my own in a fight.
I’ve had enough practice. Skylar doesn’t like when I’m hurt, though.
I see the worried looks from across the field when I take a hit during lacrosse games.
Sometimes her hand even goes to the same body part where I’m hurt.
I get it.
Her pain is my pain too.
My breathing slows as I relax against her, but I can feel her heart beating wildly through the hand I have splayed across her chest.
“Sky, I said we’d talk tomorrow,” I mumble into the pillow.
“I didn’t say anything,” she protests.