12. Chapter 11 #2
"And she's not even wrong that I'm different.
" The words are coming faster now, spilling out of a wound I've kept stitched shut for years.
"I am. I always have been. I was the girl who'd rather memorize draft stats than learn a smoky eye.
The one who skipped the mall to watch tapes of old playoff games.
And every single person in my life made me feel like that was a flaw.
Like there was something broken in me that had to be fixed before anyone could love me. "
The room goes quiet, just the soft hush of the ocean against the glass.
"Everyone except my dad."
Declan shifts beside me, the leather creaking under his weight. "What happened to him?"
"He died." My voice goes strange and flat, the way it always does when I have to say this.
"It was sudden. A heart attack. He was… he was fixing the garage door.
Just an ordinary Tuesday. He'd called me that morning, and we talked for like twenty minutes.
" I press my lips together. "By that afternoon he was gone.
No warning. No goodbye. Nothing. One day he's there, calling me Jojo, cheering me on no matter what I did, and the next... "
The tears spill over before I can stop them.
Declan sets down his drink.
He doesn't say I'm sorry. He doesn't fumble through some hollow line about how it'll get better.
He just reaches out, wraps one massive arm around me, and pulls me into his chest.
"My mom blamed it on the stress." I wipe at my face.
"And because I was closest to him, it was like I was somehow part of that.
And I've spent eight years trying to prove that his belief in me wasn't a waste.
That I was worth all those nights in the basement.
And I still can't even tell her I did it. "
His chin comes to rest gently against the top of my head as I press my wet face into his shirt.
"She's missing it," he says, his voice a low rumble I feel through his chest. "You know that, right? Every brilliant fucking thing you do, Jose… she's missing all of it. She's missing you."
I shudder against him, a fresh wave of tears cresting.
"That's the saddest thing about parents," he goes on, his hand moving slow up and down my spine.
"Sometimes they think they're protecting you.
They tell themselves they're doing the right thing.
And all they actually do is make it worse.
They build this whole story about what you're supposed to be, and then they can't see you standing right in front of them being something better. "
I go still.
Because there's something in the way he says it, with that edge underneath that sounds almost like anger. It makes me sit back and think…
He's not only talking about my mother.
Is it possible that somewhere behind those stormy blue eyes, he knows exactly what it feels like to be failed by someone? Someone who was supposed to love you?
But before I can chase the thought, he pulls me back into his chest.
"Come here," he murmurs. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"Your dad saw it," he says quietly. "He saw exactly who you were gonna be. And I'd bet everything I have that wherever he is, he's losing his goddamn mind right now. Screaming louder than your friends. Prouder than anyone in that whole building."
A sob breaks loose, and I press my face into his shirt again.
"You think so?"
"I know so." He kisses the top of my head. "Nobody builds what you built tonight without a fire in them. And fires like that don't come from nowhere, sweetheart. He gave you that. It's still burning. He's still in there."
I go quiet, my cheek against his heart, my fist curled in his shirt. The ocean hushes against the windows. The moonlight pools across the floor.
And slowly, slowly… the shaking stops.
For the first time in eight years, the grief doesn't feel like something I have to carry alone.
He brushes a strand of hair from my damp cheek with the back of one finger. "You good?"
"Yeah." I let out a watery laugh. "Yeah. Thank you. For listening. I didn't—I haven't said all of that out loud to anyone. Ever."
His thumb traces my jaw. "I'm glad you said it to me."
I lean my head against his shoulder, and the absurdity of it all suddenly catches up with me.
"You know," I murmur, "a week ago I genuinely wanted to murder you. Like, plan-the-alibi, hide-the-body wanted to murder you."
"A week ago I called you 'this woman' in front of the entire coaching staff." He winces. "I deserved murder."
"You really did."
He shrugs one shoulder, that maddening smirk creeping back across his face.
"And yet. Look at us now. About to spend the night together. Again."
I lift my head and meet his eyes. "Y-you want me to stay the night?"
His mouth curves, but there's nothing cocky in it now. Just heat.
"Josie," he says, low and rough. "I've wanted you to stay since the second you walked in that door. So yeah. Stay."
"Alright, I'll stay." I lean in, my mouth a breath from his. "But this time, we're using your bed. Not mine."
For one heartbeat, he just stares at me, those blue eyes going dark.
Then he moves. One second I'm sitting beside him, the next his hands are under my thighs and he's hauling me into his lap, his mouth crashing into mine like he's starving.
"About goddamn time," he growls against my lips.
He rises off the couch, and drags me toward his bedroom.