Chapter 12 Declan
DECLAN
Igrumble because, of course, I didn’t intend for my phone to blare the moment I walked into the dining room. That makes for grand entrance number two. Not exactly the foot on which I want to restart things with Maggie.
However, I’ve been getting calls all day. People wonder where I am, why I left town, and compliment me or criticize me for #BruiserButt.
Coach wants the other guys to keep a low profile, but the incident on top of the team’s notoriety, and my prominent position in the spotlight, make keeping off the public’s radar nearly impossible.
What delayed me was an interview and photo opportunity with a local children’s charity connected to the Touchdowns for Teens program that I fund.
Likely, Maggie thought I was late because I’m irresponsible or self-centered, but I’d been doing outreach.
Sure, I soak up attention and like to have a good time, however, I’m a man of my word.
I’m also a person who always goes the extra mile.
A kid connected to the local branch of the charity had been in a terrible accident and subsequently endured several surgeries.
When I stopped by earlier, he’d asked me an important question.
He’s struggling, so I couldn’t just give him a quick, superficial answer and leave it at that.
I had to show the boy how to keep going when his hope flagged.
We took a walk around the block. I pointed out the natural beauty surrounding us, and the impressive technology that’s often taken for granted—cars, electricity, mobile phones.
The fact that he can walk again. The former provided inspiration.
The latter highlighted the fact that everything that exists comes from somewhere—from creativity and the minds of people. People like the kid.
I wanted to show him that, despite his struggles now, God has a plan for him. That anything is possible. The world is at his feet. He’s back on his. He has a second chance to live. I know that lesson all too well.
I told the kid that he needs to find his thing and go after it like his life depends on it. It just might.
I was supposed to be at the dinner assessment at seven, and because I took the extra time with the kid, I’m ten minutes late. I get that in this situation it’s a big deal, but she didn’t have to run out of the room just when I arrived.
Dropping my napkin on my chair, I follow her. When I reach the door, she’s on the other side of it, eyes closed, and drawing a deep breath as though she’s at her wits’ end.
The words I’m sorry are on my lips when she blinks her eyes open. Up close, and in the flickering candlelight, summer gold and threads of amber fleck her hazel eyes. They contain a soft sadness—something I want to turn into joyful laughter.
We stand there a moment, staring at each other like the hallway is a secret place where we can start over...again.
I think back to meeting Maggie for the first time, and like a scrapbook flipping forward in time, all the years of our friendship after that. It abruptly stops when our communication became little more than occasional calls and regular texts.
How’d I let that happen?
My heart thuds hard and then, like I’ve been hit with a defibrillator’s paddles, it jump-starts.
Thump, thump.
My hand involuntarily presses against my chest.
Maggie’s voice is husky when she speaks. “We have to role-play as if we’re meeting for dinner. In this scenario, you arrive first, then I come in. Please demonstrate how you’d greet a dining companion.”
If it were an option, I’d rather throw the rule book out the window and show Maggie a lovely evening for real. As friends, of course. Instead, I say, “So I can’t use water guns this time?” I flash a winning smile.
“Definitely not.” Her tone is firm, absolute.
My phone vibrates again. I ignore it.
She points to the table. “Ready for a do-over?”
“Definitely.”
I sit down and wait for her to come in as if she’s arriving to meet me at a restaurant. The way her hips sway, her hair swooshes, and how her eyes hold mine as though I’m in a crowded room and am the exact person she’s been looking for transfixes me.
Those hazel eyes make me want to rethink my life. Run for president. Be a better man. Win every football game—even the ones I don’t play. There’s depth and possible secrets, but nothing that could dampen the strange crackling inside.
When we’d re-met earlier, I noticed that even though My Oh Mags was flustered, she’d hardly looked at me. Maybe she’s embarrassed about the Cinderella Spill as if I’d ever, or could ever, criticize her for that. Perhaps she’s feeling awkward since we haven’t seen each other in so long.
Neither possibility lands quite right. Could it be something else?
However, now her eyes don’t leave me. The intensity buffeting between us glues me to the spot. What’s happening?
When she arrives at the table, she dips her head slightly toward the chair opposite mine.
I fumble, confused for a moment, and then realize that we’re role-playing.
It’s not just a casual get-together with My Magpie and me as mere friends.
I’m supposed to get to my feet when a lady enters the room, pull out the chair, and act like a gentleman—instead of a beast who had a temporary break from reality and was practically drooling over Maggie Byrne.
While I ensure she’s settled into the spot, my phone, now on silent mode, vibrates again.
It intermittently continues while she guides me through the dinner lesson.
When the server fills our glasses, brings the first course, salads, and the entire time Maggie prompts polite conversation, it vies for my attention.
Ignoring it and trying to ease the strange tension between us, I reply to Maggers with my typical bravado, earning an ever-darkening expression of disapproval.
When she excuses herself to the ladies’ room, I glance at my phone to see who has been trying to get ahold of me. A vaguely familiar number blinks, sending an uncomfortable feeling slithering under my skin. When Maggie returns, I set my phone on the table.
She sits and when I look up, her eyes are damp and her cheeks are slightly pink. She remains quiet after the server checks on us.
My phone jitters on the table along with my leg beneath it. I wonder about the call from back home. More importantly, why does My Maggie-rific seem upset and suddenly quiet? My manners are fair to middling, minus the cell phone etiquette, so it can’t be caused by our lesson.
I take a sip of cold water as silence laces between us. Did I do something wrong? Is she homesick, missing dinner with her boyfriend, or some other important event?
“Before, you called Florida home,” I say.
“Home?” she repeats like I’m speaking a foreign language.
Did the call earlier, a reminder of the place I grew up, cause my accent to come back? “Yeah. Do you consider that home? Where you grew up? Somewhere else?”
Maggie lifts and lowers her shoulder slightly as though she doesn’t want to talk about herself—quite a contrast to the Maggie I remember and the women I usually spend time with. Then again, in this setting, the roles are different. She’s the coach. I’m the student.
“I’m making conversation. Hoping to score good marks on your evaluation later.
As for me, I’m not sure if my home is Ireland, Boston, or someplace I haven’t been to yet.
I don’t mean where my house is. I have several of those.
I mean, where I feel like I can—” My phone buzzes again as though warning me not to say more.
A place where I could leave the persona at the door and be myself with people, or a person who won’t judge me for my past or my mistakes.
Where I can be myself and not play a role other than husband—though that’s probably a long way off despite Coach Hammer’s suggestion.
Maggie lifts one sharp eyebrow and then jots something down on a piece of paper in her file. “You’re quite attached to that thing, huh.” She angles her pen in the direction of my phone.
“Staying connected.” As I give it a jiggle, the falsehood of my words fills my mouth with a sour taste.
Her shoulders lower on an annoyed exhale.
“Since when do you care whether I’m on my phone or not? It’s the primary way we’ve stayed in touch over the last few years. As I said, it’s a way to stay connected.”
“But I’m right here and, according to chapter three, section b of the Guide to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette, it’s impolite to put your phone on the table and even ruder to be on the thing during dinner.”
“My apologies, my lady,” I say, thickening my accent as if I’m a gallant knight.
Maggie would ordinarily crack a smile at my joking. I expect her to break character, but her expression tightens and she stares at me like I’m testing her patience.
Even though she’s scolding me, a crackling inside suggests that I want to hear more of her voice. To chat and carry on like we used to. I have to trust that we will when my thirty days in reform school are up. But for now, I remember that this job means something to her.
Not only that, but maybe she’s changed...or something between us has changed.
A deep desire to make her smile and laugh fills my inner dashboard. That’s nothing new. But the lights and dials go wild. Fear of losing her makes me put on the brakes.
I lean in and whisper, “When you’re not working, can we be friends?”
“Of course. But when I’m on the clock or in this building, I’m the teacher. You’re the student. If we can do that, we’ll get through this.”
But a third option speeds into my mind. It comes with that crackling sensation. The coach’s rules flash like invisible sirens.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. For now, I’ll play my part. But the boundaries of what that is blur because it’s not against the rules to be best friends, and the definition of that term is broad.
But I make a last-minute change in play and will be a stickler tonight, so no one suspects a thing...and so I don’t reach across the table and plant my lips someplace I might regret.