Chapter 11
You still use those?” I hear myself ask.
The tiny bell above the doors chimes as I walk into the coffee shop at seven p.m. Declan is bent over the counter, pencil behind his ear. I follow his gaze to see a small notebook open before him.
He doesn’t look up; the pause of his foot tapping is the only clue that he’s heard me. It’s so dark in here, I think to myself. The glow of a floor lamp is just enough light to see his shadowy figure. He’s lurking in here like a vampire who doesn’t want to be seen.
“What, pens?” he says finally, without looking up from his notebook.
“No. The journals.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course,” he replies like it’s obvious.
Okay. That’s all I’ll be getting from that then.
He used to carry a leather pocket journal that would fit in the back of his jeans, so at odds with the football equipment spilling out of his bag.
I’d always assumed that he was planning certain routes or plays, but I’d poke at him, joking that he looked like a tortured poet from decades past, always ready for inspiration to strike.
He’d just laugh one of those evasive laughs and change the subject.
I never did find out what he was writing in them.
He’s certainly not plotting football routes anymore.
“If you want to get started, the ceiling needs a top coat. You’ll have to use the ladder to reach it, if that’s okay?” he asks, gaze staying pointedly down.
“Yeah. Sounds good. I put ‘pretty good at using a ladder’ in my application so,” I reply, deadpan.
He doesn’t offer so much as a polite chuckle.
Ouch
I drop my bag and walk to the center of the coffee shop where the ladder stands at attention, bucket of clear varnish ready beside it. Balancing the bucket in one hand, I lift my foot to the first rung and breathe out, trying to silently encourage myself.
If I take any longer to climb this thing he might notice, so I push off and climb the rest of the steps with as little thought as possible, ignoring the way my heart rate speeds up. I make the mistake of looking down, and the tiniest squeal escapes my throat.
“You good?” he calls from below.
“Yup! All good!” I call back, but my voice wavers slightly, giving me away.
“I would uh— I would take that job but I can’t…” He trails off, gesturing at his leg.
The one that has a limp.
“Oh! Oh, no worries at all. I love ladders. Love it up here.” I look around, trying to hide the lie with my acting skills.
I finish my climb up the ladder and look down again, noticing that I can see his notebook from this height.
It’s not fully in focus, but I make out a sketch of…
a birdhouse? I look around and realize the floor is covered with a litany of them, taken down for painting the ceiling I suppose.
They were the ones hanging from nearly invisible string from the ceiling earlier today, exactly like the blueprint in his sketch.
Reds, yellows, greens, and blues. Every single one is painted in a color-blocked fashion. Whimsical really. Some small and some large, all with silver clockwork-looking wheels placed on the sides.
“Did you make those?” I call from above, completely in awe. I’ve forgotten my fear of heights at the sight of them.
He looks up at me for the first time, eyes following my finger to the various wooden creations.
“Oh. Yes.” He clears his throat, returning to his drawing. “I did.”
“Wow,” I mumble. The answer shouldn’t surprise me, and yet it does.
Every piece of new information is a jagged reminder of the life he’s forged beyond my scope. Evidence of the distance between us.
The muscles in his back sway as he removes the pencil from behind his ear and presses it into the paper.
“When did you learn to build things like that?” I ask, curiosity spurring me on.
There’s a sizable pause.
“After the accident,” he says finally. “When I was on bed rest.”
My heart rate kicks up as I try to figure out an appropriate response. We’ve never discussed the accident, never had the chance to, but he continues for me.
“Do you remember when I got a few scholarships for engineering?” he asks, gaze unmoving from his notebook.
“Yeah. Of course,” I say, voice losing bravado.
“I still had some interest in building, so I did some studying at home. Tinkering with my hands helped distract me from the fact that…” He pauses and starts again. “From not being able to run anymore. Train. Play football and all that.”
It’s the first time either of us has ever acknowledged the suddenness with which his life was changed that night.
I’m shocked at his willingness to discuss it, with me of all people, but he relays the information coolly, unbothered by both the events he’s discussing and the person he’s discussing them with.
His unshakable calm has remained intact, it seems.
“That makes sense,” I reply, eyes staying trained on the birdhouses. “Well, they are very impressive. I could look at them all day.”
“Thanks,” he replies, voice strained.
The brief discussion of his past is more disorienting than the small height I’m balancing from, so I lift the paintbrush to the ceiling.
“Do you mind turning on a light?”
Declan looks up. “Yeah, of course. Sorry about that.” He flips the overhead lights on and then strides back to his notebook.
“So, why are…” He stops mid-sentence and starts again. I’m surprised you’re back in town.”
My paintbrush pauses mid-stroke.
“Yeah,” I huff. “That would make two of us.”
I return to glossing the ceiling, mulling over his forwardness.
His sudden interest in speaking to me. But then I recall that he’s always carried on conversations in this way.
Not wasting time with filler, always cutting through the fat and going straight for the meat of a conversation.
It’s just been a while since I’ve been a part of it.
“It was a surprise for you, too?”
Is he fishing for the reason I came home? I thought he knew.
“Umm, yes. Definitely a shock.”
“And why’s that?”
“Lottie’s illness ramped up out of nowhere.
We thought she had stage two lung cancer.
They were treating her accordingly, and then when she wasn’t responding to treatment, they took another scan and realized it was stage four.
” I feel the familiar ball of tension form in my throat.
The memory of the phone call that changed my life.
“My mom told me two weeks before graduating Pepperdine. I got here as fast as I could. And I’m glad.
I got to spend some good quality time with her.
Collected as many stories from her life as possible. ”
I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling, not risking a glance down to see his reaction.
“I’m so sorry, Blair,” he replies, voice softening. “I’m sure she appreciated that more than you can imagine.”
I nod. “Thanks for saying so.”
A beat passes.
Oh gosh. Please don’t let him be one of those people who gets awkward talking about difficult—
“And you’re working here because…” He trails off, waiting for me to fill in.
“I had to defer my job.”
“Your job in New York City, working as an author?”
Oh. He remembered.
It takes me a second to realize he assumed New York City from my rambling about it in high school. Not from any concrete knowledge of my life now.
His words feel like a punch to the gut. But also, much too intimate. He’s the only one I trusted to tell. It feels like he’s brandishing a weapon by reminding me.
No one else in my life, not even my mom, knew that being an author had been my biggest dream.
The one that was so true to my soul that it felt like treason to say it out loud.
It was vulnerable to admit your dreams. It gave people a detailed map of how and where to hit you to make it hurt the most—painting the red X on your back for them.
But what bothered me most about the whole thing was the fact that I hadn’t written a single line of prose in years, until after the funeral a week ago. Lottie’s death had me scrambling for purchase, and writing felt like getting traction under my feet.
“Hah,” I chuckle weakly. “New York City, yes, but…” I trail off, voice hardening. “Writing isn’t—” I stop and try again. “That’s not my dream anymore.”
My gaze falls from the ceiling, settling on one of the metal ridges on the ladder. I hear Declan’s work boots echo off the wooden floor. He stands below me, crosses his arms, and looks up.
“What do you mean it’s not your dream anymore?” he asks, eyes locked on mine.
“Because,” I continue. “That was a child’s dream.”
“Yes. It was.”
I stare down at him. He stares back; a challenge held in his hard eyes. “It was a child’s dream because you were a child when you dreamt it. Doesn’t mean it was an invalid one.”
My eyelids flutter wildly in rapid succession. An expression I’d only ever seen on TV and didn’t think existed in real life. A glop of clear goo threatens to drip from my paintbrush, giving me an excuse to tear my gaze from his and back to the ceiling.
“Sure… but, it was childish,” I rebut. “I mean, just completely outlandish. Thinking I could make enough from the stories I wrote, let alone be able to support my mom while doing so.” I scoff, a self-conscious, evasive sound. “It was much too risky of a bet.”
“Sure. But a lot of good things are a risk,” he replies, voice firm but low, like he’s disappointed by my conclusion.
“Well,” I sigh. “I guess it just wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
A lot of people take risks and fail, you know.
We just don’t hear those stories as much.
Clearly. Because they’re not big enough to tell the tale.
They’re holed up behind a cash register like my mom.
” The words tumble out before I have the chance to vet them.