Chapter 21 #2
We continue until the sun has gone down, leaving one floor lamp illuminating the space.
I remember the beginning of the summer when I came in to help him.
I thought the lights were off because he didn’t want them on—like some reclusive vampire character.
But now I realize it was because he got so enraptured with what he was working on that he didn’t notice until it was completely dark.
When the sun has finished setting, Declan’s voice sounds from behind me, tentative and grave. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I reply without turning around, brushing a section of wood with stain.
A few seconds pass without a sound, and then slowly, he says, “What were your last few moments with Lottie like? If you don’t mind me asking.”
My hand pauses its pass on the wood like I’ve hit an invisible wall. A well of emotion rises in my chest, and not because the question is too emotional to answer, but because he was the first one to ask it at all.
“Oh,” I say, voice already shaking. “Yeah, no, I don’t mind you asking.
” I rearrange my legs beneath me in a crisscross position and dip my brush into the stain again.
“You know, I was writing about this the other day, actually.” I glance at him, and he nods for me to go on, like he can sense my trepidation.
“It really struck me how mundane our last handful of conversations were. Because, at first, there’s all this pressure to ask all the right questions.
You’re so aware that it’s your last chance to learn anything and everything from them.
So, I spent a lot of time asking her to go over every decade of her life.
I asked her about times that were most significant or transformative, and I was so meticulous about writing every answer down.
But then the last time I spoke to her, we talked about stupid things.
Like, the dress I was obsessed with wearing in middle school, and if I was going to eat the leftovers in the fridge or get takeout that night.
We small-talked. And it really stressed me out, thinking that I was wasting her last moments talking about these random, inconsequential details.
But now, I think she was happy to be talking about those things with me, because that’s what loving someone is.
It’s sharing the tiny, stupid, mundane things about your life, because they’re everything to the people you love. ”
A warm tear slides down my cheek as I hold the image of Lottie’s wan face on the mechanical bed. I look down to collect myself and swipe it away, and don’t notice that Declan has moved from his spot to sit next to me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, wiping the tear with the back of my hand.
“It’s just, I don’t know how to explain the feeling.
But the whole thing—her getting sick, her dying, felt like this unexpected, violent shift in my life that turned everything upside down.
And yet, somehow, it was all so infuriatingly routine.
It just felt so cruel that it was so life-changing to me, but not for anyone else.
Everyone was acting so normal. The hospice care nurses.
The lady in the purple pantsuit they sent to tell me she was dying.
The people at the funeral home who held the door open for me.
Even my best friends. Everyone was acting so painstakingly casual.
And it made me want to throw something at the wall to shake them all up in the way I felt shaken up.
The way I feel shaken up.” The words tumble out with the force of my emotion behind them, and I feel self-conscious now that they’re laying between us.
“I’m sorry. That probably sounds selfish.
Obviously, everyone else was acting normal because people die.
That’s just a fact of life. And I was somehow expecting everyone to feel the desperation I felt, but that’s not possible because—”
Declan places his hand on my wrist. “I know exactly what you mean.”
I look down at his hand. Up into his eyes. They’re open to me, like he’s offering a bridge he wants me to walk over.
“I felt exactly the same way after the accident. The anger. The frustration. The confusion. No one responds in the way you want them to. And you can’t blame them, because they don’t know what you want.
But, at the same time, it’s infuriating because everyone’s just thinking about how awkward they feel about it, instead of caring about how much you need them to be brave for you.
None of my teammates reached out for the first three weeks.
Three weeks. And when they did? It was some fake bull crap about how I was gonna get back on the field soon. ”
“You’re kidding me,” I scoff.
“Unfortunately not.” He laughs, shakes his head.
The sentiment rings true. Platitudes were somehow the go-to encouragement in light of tragedy, yet all they did was remind me how far my experience was from the person saying them.
Because if they were any closer, if they had ever felt something remotely similar, they’d never say something as useless as that.
“Did they even ask what bones you broke? How long you’d be out?”
He shakes his head no.
“Why does it seem so obvious and yet, no one just asks how you’re feeling about the whole thing?” I plead.
“They think it’s rude. They think they’ll be reminding you of it like it’s something you can forget about. Or they just assume everyone else is checking on you. Which ends up leaving you with no one checking on you.”
That lands like a blow to my chest. I blink a few times.
“Is that what’s happening to you right now, Blair?” he asks in a softer voice.
I press my lips together as hard as possible, but the corner of my lip wobbles and everything unravels. A choke of a sob breaks free from my throat.
I would feel more embarrassed if Declan didn’t look so unsurprised.
“Come here,” he whispers and pulls me into his chest. I grasp his middle from the side.
Our bodies press together in our seated positions on the wood floor, and it feels like the past four and a half years never happened.
He places his chin on my head, and I breathe in the comforting scent of him between disjointed breaths.
“It’s okay,” he says gently, rubbing my back and placing his other hand on my head. “It’s okay, Blair. I’m here.”
His gentle words cause me to cry harder.
Because against everything I’d expected from coming home, he was here, with me.
Not an ounce of him seemed uncomfortable or panicked.
He was patient and understanding and calm when I was anything but.
When it felt like everyone else had disappeared into their busy lives, he was here, catching me.
“It will take time,” he coaxes, petting my hair with a soothing pressure. “I know it seems unbearable now, but in time, it won’t feel so impossible.”
Time.
It was the inevitable chasm I needed to cross in order to heal from this pain. But it also dawned on me that time was the one chasm between Declan and me, and in this moment, I knew it had done nothing to erase what I once felt for him.
The realization dries up my tears, and my breathing eases into a steadier rhythm. I wipe the hair from my face and look up at him. He looks down at me, gentle eyes searching mine, only a slight lean away. They flit down to my lips once, and they part by reflex.
“Blair,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what?” I rear back, but his strong arm is still holding me.
“Be your friend.” It comes out fast, like he’s scared for me to hear the words.
My eyes frantically search his face for a sign, but his eyes are full of dreadful longing, and he makes no move to lean away from me.
“I don’t want to be your friend either, Declan,” I whisper.
Something flashes in his eyes, like he’s passing through the realm of disbelief to awe and wonder, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
His lips taste the same. It’s the first conscious thought I have when our lips meet. But then, his hand drifts from my hair, around to cup my jaw like he needs to feel all of me to make sure I’m real, and I don’t think anymore.
His hand on my lower back presses into me like a plea. “Come here,” he whispers into my mouth, and I laugh by his ear as he helps me climb on top of him, paintbrush tossed to the side.
When I settle on top of him, he doesn’t rush in for more like I expect him to. Instead, he brushes front pieces of hair behind my ears, letting his eyes study me like he’s been waiting for the chance.
“I miss you, Blair,” he says gently, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone.
“Don’t miss me anymore. I’m right here,” I whisper, voice cracking.
I bend down to reach his lips and the kiss is less hungry this time. The first kiss felt like grasping hold of a fleeting moment. This one feels like coming home.
Our bodies meld like the memory foam of our skin, and blood, and muscle is made up of the outline of each other, and after a few minutes, I pull back to look at him, our noses still brushing. “I’ve missed you too, Declan. But what is this? What are we doing?”
“What we should have been doing four years ago,” he replies without missing a beat.
Our voices are hushed tones in the lamp’s glow. Like if we talk any louder, we’ll realize what we’re saying and revert to not saying anything at all.
“And why weren’t we?” I plead, not letting myself trust this yet.
“You know why,” he says, his voice softening, eyes melting into mine.
I take advantage of the opportunity to stare at him.
His swollen lips and searching green eyes, and something new above his left eyebrow, so small I never noticed it until now—a tiny scar.
I brush my finger over the raised skin, swallowing the regret of our past.
What I would give to have been there for him in recovery.
His eyes dart between mine, reading the fear in them.
“I was friends with you for twelve years, Blair. And then I had none of you at all. But I can’t do it again. I can’t be your friend and pretend like I’m not picturing my life with you.”
My face tingles in disbelief. All I ever wanted was to be wanted by him. Even when I hated myself for it.
“Then don’t pretend anymore,” I beg in a broken, barely audible voice. “Why would you pretend?”
“Because I thought you were leaving for New York soon. And I want you to stay, but I thought it would be like the college fight all over again. You wanting to pursue your dreams. Me standing in the way. Asking you to stay for me. I didn’t want to lose you again.”
I sigh, searching his entire face in disbelief. “Did you ever consider that I wanted to leave because I couldn’t bear the thought of living here if I could only be your friend?”
His brows furrow.
A shocked chuckle escapes me.
“You didn’t see how much of my indecision with the cottage came from it being across the street from you?”
Declan’s mouth parts to speak but nothing comes out, like he’s so stunned by the realization that a cough of a laugh escapes instead. “I must be daft, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I chortle. “And British.”
The corner of his mouth curls.
“Declan, why would I not be thrilled to be given a beach-side cottage?”
“Because it wasn’t what you planned. Because you’ve been dreaming of this job and moving to New York for years. You can see my confusion, right?”
“Yes. Totally, I do. Because all of those things are true. But the truer thing, the little detail I had to leave out when talking to you, was that I couldn’t stand living in Seabrook if it wasn’t going to be with you.
” The words are irreversibly out, and I am weightless, untethered from anything solid as I wait for his response.
“Then let’s stop pretending.” He brushes his thumb under my eye, wiping away a tear I didn’t feel. Then he presses a kiss to the soft skin of my cheek. The right and then, slowly, the left. The grazing warmth of his lips sends tiny fizzes exploding through my nerves, and I shiver.
“Come to my dad’s charity gala with me,” he whispers.
“What?”
“It’s soon, and we can dress up, eat a meal, dance together. Consider it our second first date.”
“Wait, wait.” I shake my head, pushing myself off his lap and settling beside him. “Everything I said was true, but I still don’t know if I’m leaving at the end of summer yet.”
He pauses, passes a hand fleetingly over his mouth in consideration.
“That’s fine. Honestly, I’m willing to do this with you if you want to, Blair.
I’ve let enough come between us to know none of it was worth not having you.
Distance or not, you can take all the time you need to figure it out, but if I’m that big a part of your consideration, we might as well start now. ”
My brain can hardly process the words coming out of his mouth being reality. And perhaps it is my inability to process this being real that makes me so bold. I grab the hand fiddling over his jaw.
“I’ve done enough friendshiping with you for a lifetime, Declan.
And enough living without you, too. If I haven’t made my intentions clear, I’d like to never do either of those things ever again.
Please.” I try for ironic, gripping his wrist dramatically, but the words are true.
He barks a laugh at my delivery, and I feel an electric bolt of satisfaction.
“And now that I know that”—he kisses me between the words, cradling my head with the hand I was holding—“I want to make my intentions very clear.” His eyes bore into mine like he’s been set free from invisible shackles.
“I want you. And I will do whatever it takes to make you remember why you wanted me.”
My heart takes off without permission from my brain and I let it.
There’s no running after it now. “I can get on board with that,” I whisper, and picture myself accepting the award for biggest understatement of the century.
A satisfied smile blooms across his face, and I press my lips to his to taste it.
Little does he know, remembering why I want him isn’t the hard part. It’s trusting that I should.