33. Skylar
SKYLAR
I’m officially twenty-five today. It should feel monumental.
Today is the day I get access to my trust, the day I’ve been waiting for since I found out about Dave’s surgery.
Yet, somehow, it feels like a normal day compared to everything I’ve been through in the last week.
It turns out I didn’t miss my birthday while I was sleeping in the hospital. I got to go home two days shy of it.
Home.
I mean Declan’s house, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t felt like home for a while now. There’s a stack of cards waiting to be opened on the coffee table and a big bouquet of white lilies sitting on the island in the kitchen. Declan must have laid everything out for me.
There’s also a multi-tiered chocolate cake on the counter, courtesy of Allie.
The accompanying note from her and Emory says she would have made me a wedding cake if I hadn’t married in a Fireball-induced stupor, so this is the next best occasion.
Emory even insisted she helped make the frosting for the fondant roses that frame a white “Happy Birthday, Bestie” message.
Marge sent a tin of homemade blueberry muffins, and Dan sent a quiche. I guess word spread fast in town about my accident.
Sitting down on the couch because I can finally do it without help, I pick up the first card on the stack.
It’s Ashton’s surprisingly neat handwriting, which I would know anywhere.
We were lab partners for a whole year, after all.
I break the seal with my finger and take the card out, reading his heartfelt words.
He tells me he’s proud of me and that I’m one of the strongest people he knows.
There’s no pity or even concern. Just loving words from an old friend who has seen me at my worst…
and my best. The next card is from my mom and Dave.
A pang of guilt twists in my gut. My mom didn’t even find out about the accident until a few days after it happened.
Everyone was so preoccupied with me waking up, they didn’t think to call.
When she found out, she tried to hop the next plane, but there was an issue with the runway and the flight was cancelled, along with several others at the airport.
By the time I spoke to her on the phone, she had been waiting for a new flight for over twenty-four hours.
I told her to go home to Dave and that I was fine, which was mostly true because at that point I was almost ready for discharge.
It took some convincing, and my raspy voice didn’t help, but she finally calmed down enough to tell me she would book a flight for the following week.
I’ll argue with her about that when the time comes.
She mentioned briefly that Dave was moved up to the top of the transplant list, which should be good news, but does it mean he’s so sick that they think he’s running out of time? I was too scared to ask her, and she didn’t volunteer the information.
I open the card and a pressed lily falls out. I've never cared much for flowers, but lilies are my favorite. I read the card and fresh tears form in my eyes, not from my mom’s words which are sweet and beautiful, but from the shaky writing at the bottom.
Every storm runs out of rain.
The words are from a Maya Angelou quote I know well. Dave’s still fighting. He hasn’t given up yet and I won’t either. Today is the day I get the money I need to help him, and since his name was moved to the top of the list, it won’t be long now.
I flip to the next card and see my name scrawled in messy handwriting.
When I open it, I’m shocked to see it’s from Nate, but all it says is, “Happy Birthday, Skylar. Get well soon,” with his signature at the bottom.
He signed it—like actually signed it—as if he were writing out a check.
It makes me giggle. There’s more to him than he lets on.
I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.
“Are you almost ready?” Declan’s voice floats into the living room like a warm breeze. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I can go—”
“I want to,” I interrupt him. “Honestly, this is the best birthday present I could ask for.”
“Okay,” he relents, bending down to kiss me on the forehead. I didn’t get enough of a chance to appreciate his dark hair before I got into my accident. He looks so much like the boy I fell in love with.
The car is quiet but comfortable. Declan threads his fingers with mine, placing both our hands in his lap, and that’s how we stay for the rest of the ride.
This time, I have no fear of driving. I thought I would, considering I almost died, but when Declan helped me into his car right after I was released from the hospital, all I felt was relief.
It takes about twenty-five minutes to get to Baybridge. Most of the wealthy business owners who live in Baybridge have offices in Manhattan with outposts in town so they can work closer to home.
Declan’s father has an office in the center of town, a few blocks away from the Baybridge Inn.
We know he’s here because Claire, Marshall’s assistant, called Declan last night.
She apparently had a change of heart and wanted to help us after hearing about what happened to me, though she insisted she wasn’t the one who sent me that initial text…
or the one that led me to the accident. We were skeptical, so we turned to Nate, and he told us we should trust her.
I’m not sure why or how he knew, but he seemed pretty confident.
When we enter through the large glass door, we’re immediately greeted by Claire, wearing a gray pencil skirt and cream blouse, her dark hair tied up in a twist. Not saying a word, she nods at us to follow her down the hallway, past a wall of degrees and accolades, until we reach a closed wooden door.
She opens it, and sitting at a large executive desk is an older version of Declan, as far as looks go anyway.
He has a few gray hairs scattered through his dark locks, which are only a shade darker than Declan’s.
His features are also sharper and more severe, though perhaps that simply comes with age.
He looks up from his computer at the sound of us entering, irritation scrawled all over his face. “What the hell is this?”
“A fucking reckoning,” Declan spits out.
So much for the slow and easy approach we had talked about.
He walks over to his father with zero hesitation as he draws back and punches him in the jaw so hard, Marshall’s whole head snaps to the other side.
“That’s for treating mom like shit,” he roars, grabbing his father by his shirt and hauling him up.
He drags him over to the wall, slamming his head against it.
“That’s for locking me in a fucking closet. ”
“Declan,” I say softly, but he doesn’t hear me, or he chooses not to respond. I look over to Claire, but she doesn’t offer any, as a sadistic smirk curls her cherry lips.
Declan punches his father in the gut, causing him to double over as he groans, but he doesn’t fight back, either because he’s still in shock, or he knows it won’t make a difference.
Declan has a few inches on him and enough anger to fuel a small country.
“That’s for setting Amelia up with a fucking creep,” he hisses, pulling Marshall back up and pushing him against the wall again.
“Declan. That’s enough. We had a plan,” I beg.
“Nah, Firefly. I have one more. Then we’re done.”
He looks back at his father whose lip is bleeding from the first punch.
“Are you done?” Marshall asks with less urgency than you would expect from a man who is getting the shit kicked out of him. “Can we sit down and talk like rational adults, or do you want to continue to throw your little tantrum?”
“Talk? That’s funny because you’ve been ignoring my fucking phone calls for weeks, but now you want to talk?”
“Son,” he says again.
Declan grabs him by the shirt. “I’m not your fucking son. I’m nothing like you. You’re an abusive piece of shit.”
Marshall flashes a disturbing grin, blood from his lip staining his teeth. He glances at me before looking back at Declan. “Whatever you say, son.” He looks past me to Claire. “I suppose this is your revenge for Nicole?”
Claire’s lips flatten. “You think I give a fuck about your little lapdog? This is because you pushed me down a flight of stairs when I told you I was done messing around with a married man.”
“You always were so dramatic. It was five steps, not an entire flight. You didn’t even have any injuries.”
She laughs, and it comes out a little unhinged. “No, just a concussion from hitting my fucking head on the ground.”
Marshall doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t show any emotion toward her other than irritation. “You’re done here, Claire. I shouldn’t have kept you around after that stunt with the police. Get out of my office.”
That devious smirk slips back into place. “Oh, but then how would you have kept me quiet all this time? Keep your enemies closer, right?”
My mouth hangs open, but Declan doesn’t loosen his grip on his father’s shirt. If anything, he holds it tighter.
The domestic assault charge didn’t involve his mom. That’s not to say that he never did anything to her, just that, unlike Claire, she never called the police.
“Why do you think I went out to lunch with Nicole every Friday? She was shaking like a leaf yesterday. It didn’t take much for her to spill her guts all over the floor right there at the Baybridge Inn.” She turns to me. “They have the best Cobb salad.”
“What is she talking about, Dad?” Declan shakes his father, pulling him away from the wall and slamming him back into it when he doesn’t immediately answer.
“Get the fuck out of here, Claire,” Marshall snarls, but she ignores him, sitting in one of the plush leather chairs in the corner of the room instead.
“No, I think I’ll stay and watch this next part,” she says, pasting on a sweet smile and crossing her legs.