11. Skylar
SKYLAR
Declan’s lacrosse hoodie is still bright forest green, having only faded slightly over time.
I guess that’s what happens when you don’t wash clothing.
At first, I slept in it every night. When I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was him holding me, his hand brushing up against my stomach instead of my own.
At some point, I realized that the more I wore it, the more his scent mixed with mine, causing it to fade faster.
So I put it away in my closet, only allowing myself to breathe it in after a particularly tough day.
Eventually, I left it alone, shoving it in the back of a drawer so I wouldn’t be tempted.
Still, it moved everywhere with me. To college, my mom’s house where I lived for a few weeks after I graduated, and then back to Connecticut.
Now, as I stuff it into my suitcase, I can’t help but think about the day he gave it to me, the cruelty of his voice, the words that sliced through my heart.
I jam the rest of my winter clothes in the suitcase.
I’ve been up since three a.m., tossing and turning for hours before I finally gave up and started packing.
Just the essentials. It’s only six weeks, I tell myself.
Then I’ll be back here in my quaint little Main Street cottage with signed divorce papers in my hand and enough money to pay for Dave’s surgery ten times over.
It will all be worth it.
As I’m about to pull a pro wrestling maneuver on my suitcase to get it to zip, there’s a knock at the door.
Abandoning my task, I open the door to a fresh-faced, bright-eyed Declan posted up against the doorframe, legs crossed at the ankles.
He’s wearing dark jeans, a gray Henley that covers only a portion of the rose tattoo snaking up the side of his neck, and his signature leather jacket and black lace-up boots.
A lock of dyed blonde hair falls into his face, and he shakes it away before taking his lip ring into his mouth and biting until it pops back out.
“Where is your car parked?” he asks.
Not what I was expecting, but it is a valid question.
Since I live in the middle of town, I don’t have a driveway and there’s only street parking.
I’m about to respond with something snarky when my stomach dips, anxiety working its way up my throat like bile.
I was so worried about what it would mean to move in with him that I completely forgot Declan doesn't live downtown. Meaning, I’ll not only have to get into a car today for the first time since the accident, but I’ll have to drive myself to work every day.
Not just to work, but to the grocery store, my favorite coffee shop, and physical therapy appointments.
I’ll have to actually get my car from my dad’s house where it’s been ever since I drove there for dinner and left in an Uber to go to a party that night.
I don’t even go to parties, but I was attempting to live a little. Too bad it ended up costing a life…
One freakout at a time, Skylar. It’s Saturday.
I don’t need my car until Monday. All I need to do today is get into a passenger seat.
Except that’s exactly where I was when the accident happened.
God, why did he have to take off his seatbelt?
Why didn’t I see the deer sooner or get my voice to work quicker?
Now actual bile works its way up my throat. No, I can’t do it. I’m not ready.
A throat clears, forcing my gaze up and into warm whiskey eyes. “It’s in the shop,” I lie. “If you wouldn’t mind taking my suitcase, I’ll just walk to your house.”
Declan laughs, and it’s surprisingly light with only a hint of a rasp toward the end. He steps around me, walking in the direction of my bedroom like he owns the place.
“What are you—”
Before I can finish my sentence, he has somehow gotten my suitcase closed and zipped and is wheeling it out of the house. “This all you’re taking?”
“Yes, but—”
Ignoring me, he rolls it down the front porch stairs, the wheels thumping on every step. Then he lifts it into the bed of…a white pick-up truck, which I was not expecting. His shirt rises up enough to reveal the dimples encased in his lower back—God help me.
“You have a truck?” I call from the doorway, where I’m clutching my sweater to ward off the cold.
“Nah. I borrowed it from Luke. I just thought…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
I go back inside to grab my purse and jacket, snatching my favorite blanket from the couch before I give my cozy haven one last look.
A wave of sadness washes over me, but it’s not like this is a permanent move.
I can come back anytime I want. I’ll have to get my mail and make sure my pipes aren’t freezing, though that assumes I’ll get over my fear of driving.
Speaking of which, Declan is idling on the side of the road in front of my house, smoke drifting out from the driver’s side of the truck.
“What’s your address?” I ask when I reach the open window.
“Funny,” he snorts, stubbing out his cigarette in the cupholder.
Not sure Luke is going to appreciate that.
Or Declan smoking in his truck in general considering he has an infant.
I look in the back of the truck. There’s a bunch of tools and some bike equipment, but no car seat.
Maybe he only uses it for work. “Get in the truck, Skylar.”
“No. I told you I’m fine walking.”
He runs a thumb over his brow. “I live seven miles from here. You gonna walk seven miles?”
“Yep. Walking is great exercise. Good for the heart.” You know what’s not good for the heart? Declan Astor. Even so, I can’t help the dumb smile that crosses my face. It happens sometimes when I’m nervous and don’t know what else to say.
Declan stares at me for a moment like he’s trying to work out a riddle before his lips turn up into a grin. His is anything but dumb. It’s knowing, beautiful, and then in an instant, it’s gone. “I’m not going to ask again.”
Just like that, all of my fear melts, giving way to the beast inside, known simply as rage. “Fuck you,” I spit before turning around and walking down the sidewalk.
The engine of the old truck sputters as he pulls up next to me, matching my pace, which is a brisk walk at this point.
“Skylar.”
“I’m not getting in that truck.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, Declan. Maybe because that’s where I’ve decided to draw the fucking line. I couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as you for the last six years and now suddenly we’re married and moving in together? It’s a lot.”
He sighs. “I know.”
I stop, my chest burning from sucking in cold air, sweat sticking to the skin beneath my thick wool jacket. Looking down at my slush-covered boots, I curse the heavy, stiff soles that are already blistering my heels. There’s no way I’m making it seven miles. Plus, I don’t even know where he lives.
Without giving myself time to back out, I rip open the passenger-side door and climb into the truck.
I immediately put my seatbelt on, checking to make sure it’s tight enough.
Declan’s gaze is like a bolt of electricity.
I can feel it pulsing between us before he turns and pulls out onto the street.
All the while, my heart is thrumming behind my ribcage, threatening to beat clean out of my chest. Whether it’s from the tension or my fear of being in a car, I honestly can’t say, but as we turn onto the next road, the feeling slowly dissipates.
By the time we enter one of the wealthier neighborhoods in Emberfield, my breathing is almost back to normal.
The car ride is silent but not entirely unpleasant.
I tell myself it’s because I faced my fears and not because Declan’s soft humming and the way he taps his fingers on the wheel are strangely comforting.
We’re turning onto another back road lined with maple trees when out of the corner of my eye I notice a rustle in the bushes, like there’s an animal behind them. My hackles immediately rise, my mouth going slack as my voice fails me. “D-declan,” I finally manage to grit out as he rounds the corner.
He looks over as fear floods my insides. “Skylar?”
“D-don’t take your eyes off the r-road,” I stutter, my breath coming in ragged spurts.
Checking his rearview mirror, he pulls off onto a dirt patch on the shoulder. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”
I don’t. I can’t.
“Skylar.” Something warm brushes against my back, and I realize it’s his hand. “Can you breathe with me?”
I shake my head, and he leans in closer, rubbing circles on my back.
“Just try it. In…” He inhales deeply. “And out.” He exhales, his hot breath fanning across my cheeks.
Finally, I look up, mimicking his breathing, gulping a deep lungful of air before blowing it back out. We do this a few more times until my heart slows and my shaking hands finally go still.
“I’m sor—” I start to say, but he immediately pins me with a look.
“I haven’t been in a car since the accident,” I admit instead.
He nods. No judgment, no questions, just a nod.
I shouldn’t care that he hates when I apologize.
I shouldn’t remember that he used to make me say three things I wasn’t sorry for every time I did, and I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what my answers would be.
Because right now, despite my panic attack and the fact that I shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him, I’m not sorry I got in this truck.