12. Declan
DECLAN
She’s still a little pale by the time we walk into my house, but she’s not shaking anymore, so that’s good.
I’m not sure exactly what set Skylar off, but I could see the panic in her eyes when I pulled off the road.
I’m such an idiot. For someone who can read people with my eyes closed, I should have seen the signs.
Her car is in the “shop.”
She wanted to walk to my house.
I thought she was being stubborn, and I was so busy licking my wounds over the fact that I borrowed a whole-ass truck because I thought she would be moving more shit to my house.
Like furniture-sized shit. But no, all she had was one suitcase, barely big enough to fit enough clothes for a week-long trip, let alone to move in with someone.
This is all temporary to her.
I didn’t even realize what was going on until I looked over and saw the fear on her face. The problem is she’s the one person I can’t fully figure out. It’s always been this way. It’s like she has some sort of shield up against my mind-reading powers, and it’s really fucking annoying.
“This is…bigger than I expected,” she observes as she hops out of the truck. I bite my tongue so I don’t accidentally make a lame dick joke and remind myself that she literally just had a panic attack.
She’s right, though. This house has way more space than I need, but the housing market was in my favor when I bought it a few months back, so I got a great deal.
Also, I couldn’t help the subtle “fuck you” of it being a hundred more square feet than my parents’ house—or should I say my father’s.
He always liked to remind us all that it was his.
His money, his house, his company he built from the ground up (with seed money from my grandfather, who is now cursing the investment).
Not that my dad even knows about this place.
For all he knows, I’m still couch surfing since he kicked me out six months ago.
Considering my mom and sister know where I live, he could easily find out about it.
He just doesn’t give a shit about me. Plus, he would have to actually talk to them.
I walk around to the passenger’s side, reaching out when I notice Skylar is still a little wobbly, but she bats my hand away. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I throw my hands up in surrender as we make our way to the front door.
As soon as I open it, her eyes go wide. Skylar is no stranger to wealth.
She lived in a house just like this. We both did.
Yet, growing up in one of the wealthiest towns in the Northeast and attending one of the most prestigious high schools didn’t seem to have the same effect on her as it did most of the girls I knew.
It’s why I’m so surprised about what she’s willing to do in order to access her trust fund.
“It’s nice” she says softly, taking in the large open-concept kitchen and living area.
It’s “luxury new construction” whatever the fuck that means, so everything is top-of-the-line, Wolf appliances, Calacatta marble countertops.
I don’t really care about any of that shit.
I liked the privacy and the fact that it was move-in ready.
“Thanks.”
Throwing my keys down on the entryway table, I watch as Skylar’s eyes continue to wander. “Everything is so…neutral. No more black walls with band posters plastered to every surface?”
“You haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” I don’t mean for it to come out as suggestive as it does, but when that little blush materializes on her cheeks, I'm not mad about it. “My sister did all the decorating,” I add.
That earns me a smile. “How is Amelia?”
“You know Amie. Nothing can keep her down. She’s in her last year at Blackwell.”
She nods, her smile fading a little. Blackwell College is not far from here. It’s where Ashton and I went, along with a lot of the kids from Baybridge Prep. It’s where Skylar was supposed to go until she switched schools at the last minute and moved to California.
“You can stay in her room if you want,” I tell her. “She lives in an off-campus apartment, but she crashes here every once in a while. She’s been pretty busy with her internship, though, so I doubt she’ll be here in the next couple months.”
She’s walking further into the living room now, looking at the lone picture frame above the mantel.
It’s of my mom, Amelia and me a few years ago when Amie dragged us to the Grand Canyon the summer before she started college.
She put it up so my house didn’t look like a model home. Her words, not mine.
I give Skylar a brief tour of the rest of the house before showing her the bedroom she’ll be staying in.
She’s quiet the whole time, taking everything in, but that damn shield is still in place, and I can’t figure out what she’s thinking.
Is she still nervous from the drive? Sad because I brought up Blackwell?
Angry? Regretting everything that led her to this point? Probably all of it.
“You’re welcome to use anything you want.
Everything in the kitchen, the movie room.
” Her eyes flick up to mine, jungle green irises burning into me.
Is she thinking about all the movies we watched together, huddled in her bed, Red Vines stashed between us?
Or did she block that out of her memory? Did my words that day erase everything?
“Thanks,” she mutters as we walk past Amelia’s room. “Is this it?”
“Yep, the sheets are fresh. My cleaner came last week, and there should be plenty of closet space. Amie keeps a few spare things in there.”
Her gaze lands on the giant walk-in closet. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” When I don’t immediately leave, she adds, “I need to make a call, so…”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll um give you some space.” God, I sound like a fumbling idiot.
She starts to close the door, but my palm shoots out, connecting with the wood before I can think better of it. “Skylar?”
“Yeah?”
“What happened to your ring?”
She blinks. “My ring?”
“Yeah, the one I made that night.”
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie. She knows. Or she did until I noticed it on her nightstand when I went to get her suitcase and slipped the band into my pocket.
“I thought maybe you should wear it if we’re going to stay married.”
Her body tenses, and she tilts her head to the side. “It’s not real, Declan. The ring or any of this.” She gives me one last infuriating furrow of her brow before she slowly closes the door, the snick of the lock echoing in the hallway.
It’s not until later, after she’s stayed in that room all day, sneaking out only briefly to grab food from the kitchen—a banana and granola bar at lunch, a slice of the pizza I ordered at dinner, that I realize just how fucked I am. She’s never going to love me again. Not after what I did.
That’s how I know it’s wrong when I turn the handle of her door, hope soaring in my chest when I find it unlocked.
I know it’s wrong when I watch her soft breathing, her scarlet locks shifting with the rise and fall of her chest. I know it’s wrong when I take the ring out of my pocket and slip it on her finger. I know it’s wrong, but I do it anyway.