Chapter 27
MAGGIE
Ifind my way to the small apartment adjacent to the main house. My bags are on a table by the door. I didn’t bring much, since I wasn’t sure how long we’d be in Ireland, which may have been a mistake.
Doesn’t Declan have football-related off-season events back in the States? Or did the coach clear the calendar during the guys’ etiquette rehab?
The strange thing is, the Declan I’d first met and the man I’m presently with at a townhome in Ireland are two entirely different people.
One is thoughtful and sincere. The other is carefree and cocky.
All things considered, he gets an A+ for today manners-wise, but I’m not always sure which guy I’m going to get.
Distress creeps toward me as I try to distract myself with the décor in the house.
It’s modern meets minimalist with tech gadgets and top-of-the-line appliances.
Some people might be impressed by his jet, yacht, and this multi-million-dollar home, but I see the end of the friend I knew and someone who has the potential to lose sight of what’s important.
How far has he traveled down the road of selfish, self-serving lavishness without thought or care about relationships and connections in a never-ending quest for more?
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that a million isn’t enough. Five million doesn’t do the trick. Boats, planes, none of it satisfies. Instead, it’s the ruin of all that’s good and true.
After the long day of travel, my battery is low and I have to admit, the bed looks pretty cloud-like.
Being a frugal bugle these days, I convince myself it’ll save Declan money to stay here instead of at the hotel—even though he doesn’t seem bothered by blowing cash on a gold-plated Lego set.
On my way up here, I passed a game room where it gleamed on a shelf along with an antique billiards table and an old-school pinball machine.
I change into leggings and my favorite oversized Bruisers’ sweatshirt. Declan gave it to me when he made the team. My stomach grumbles with hunger, signaling I’d better head to the kitchen.
There, he stands in front of a pantry cabinet and watches me approach. I try to make sense of the pinch between his eyebrows and the softness in his eyes.
“You’re in the kitchen. Cooking. Wonders never cease and all that,” I say, surprised to find him donning an apron that says Kiss the Cook.
The little bluebirds inside warble.
Declan shifts from foot to foot. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I didn’t want you to go hungry.”
“Nice place.” My voice is flatter than I mean it to be.
“You don’t like it,” he says more as a statement rather than a question and spins his finger in our general vicinity.
I clear my throat. “It’s tasteful, but it’s peculiar that you’ve never been here.”
“You’re wearing the same expression you did on the jet.”
He knows me so well.
“It’s not Boston,” I say.
“No, we’re a long way from there. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Is it the Legos that have your lips twisted like you ate a lemon?”
I tip my hands, weighing the possibility that he’s warm.
“I always wanted a set growing up.”
“Gold Legos?”
“Well, no. But why get plastic when you can have precious metals?” Without waiting for my response, he moves to the stove with his back to me and stirs something.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that’s a cauldron and you’re mixing up some strange brew, but it smells amazing.”
His muscular shoulders shake with a laugh. “I hope you like traditional Irish stew. Actually, I can’t say that since I’m cutting a few corners and making the quick version. Don’t tell Aunt Maureen.”
Previously, he’d worn suits at the Blancbourg school. Now he’s in a black T-shirt and blue jeans. A full sleeve of tattoos covers one arm, with several dotting the other.
I approach him tentatively, not feeling confident that the air between us is clear, despite his words of forgiveness. Could I forgive him if he’d done the same? The answer floats into my mind. Yes, of course. We’re best friends.
He turns, holding a wooden spoon aloft with his other hovering to catch drips. “Taste this, it’s delicious, if I do say so.”
I step closer, and he feeds me a bit of the broth.
“I’ve eaten at many of the finest restaurants in the world and nothing compares to a home-cooked meal. When I was a kid, they were few and far between, so I’ve come to appreciate the simplicity—” He breaks off. “You don’t like it? Did I add too much thyme?”
“I thought there were sanctions against you entering kitchens.”
“There were. They’ve been lifted.” The tremulousness in his voice suggests that’s not true, and there’s a story there. A dark one.
Declan set places for the two of us at a farmhouse-style table with him at the end and me to his right. He serves the soup and some freshly baked artisanal bread.
After smoothing his napkin on his lap like a proper Blancbourg student, he says, “Okay, two truths and one lie.”
I flinch. “Can we skip the lying part?”
“I suppose. Then it’s just telling each other truths.”
“I think we should only tell each other truths. And the truth is this stew is blowing my mind.” I grin around a bite.
“Thank you. Who goes first?” Declan asks.
“Let’s do rock, paper, scissors.”
This time, I win the best of three rounds.
“Where do I start?” I ask.
“How about at the beginning? We kept the past out of the present when we met. Mine broke out of its cage. Your turn. Do you have siblings?”
“Only child.” And a mistake, a burden at that, according to my parents.
“Me too. Well, I never met my father, so there could be other Declans out there.” He chuckles.
“I think one of you in the world is enough.” My lips quirk. At least one is enough for me. More than enough.
He laughs. “What’s your first memory?”
I puff my cheeks on an exhale as I think. “Looking into the cold dark lens of a camera after somersaulting. I wanted to show my parents, but they—” They caught it on film like everything else. Granted, we were on the set of Friends of the Family.
Declan’s face falls as if he senses my loneliness. “First job?”
“Honey Holiday,” I blurt because there’s no holding back now.
“Is that like a sweets shop or a doughnut place?”
I grunt. “Not quite. How about you?”
“Football.”
“Football as a profession, but back up. What was your first job before that?” I ask, relieved to shift the focus off myself.
“When I was a hooligan on the streets of Dublin, no one would hire me. When I got to Boston, Aunt Maureen scheduled me to have an interview for locker cleaning duty at the Bruiser’s stadium.
” He leans in. “No joke, I’d never even seen an American football game.
I was loyal to the true and rightful national sport of my home country.
You would call it soccer. I call it football.
Some people call me a traitor.” He laughs again.
“How many matches did I sneak into? All of them. Served me right to be cleaning toilets in the locker room of the best football team in the world—even if it was the other kind of football.”
“God certainly has a sense of humor.” I go on to tell him about some of my recent jobs, which were only slightly more glamorous than cleaning locker rooms. I leave off the part about my riches to just short of rags story because my childhood was the opposite of his in many ways.
“I want to hear what being Cinderella was like.” Declan’s voice is soft, providing me with an opening to spill the “Spill.”
“I really could’ve used a fairy godmother.”
“That bad?”
“After all was said and done, I’d much rather visit the park than work there. My dip in the fountain kind of took the magic out of things.”
Our bowls are soon empty, but we remain at the table, heads almost together, talking for a long time before moving to the living room, where Declan stokes the fire and then drops onto the sofa, where he angles to face me.
He picks up each of my hands, inspecting them.
“I see that you’re not wearing a ring. Is there anyone special in your life? ”
I squawk a laugh.
“Why is that funny?”
“First of all, if that were the case, you’d know. But who’d want to date me?”
Declan’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth falls open. “Who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful, smart, confident—apparently, except when it comes to your date-ability.”
My cheeks heat. “Declan, who’d want to date a woman who can barely keep a job and who—” I want to say more, but hold back.
I can’t tell him about my family—it’s a stretch to even call them that—and the infamy I’ve tried to live down.
“I dated a little, but mostly I’ve been single. I do better with friendships.”
“Lucky for me,” he says. “So, no one notable?”
I squish up my face. “Let’s say there have been some disasters. Have you ever heard of Sly the Single Guy?” I wince because I’m still a resident of embarrassment-burg. Not enough time has passed for me to laugh off the epic mistake.
“Yeah, he had a popular YouTube channel about being a bachelor.” The pinch of confusion around Declan’s eyes smooths with recognition. “You dated him? Seriously? How would that work if he was a single guy?”
I draw a deep breath and then exhale. With it escapes the entirety of the story I’ve barely shared with anyone—not even Etta Jo.
“You know that I don’t pay much attention to social media and pop culture, so I didn’t know who he was besides Sylvester.
Things got more serious and we collaborated on a mobile cupcake shop.
I bought the van and everything. It was my entire savings.
I even considered living in it if I had to, but with the oven and everything, I wasn’t sure I’d fit.
” I smile at the bittersweet memory. I’d been so eager to make my endeavor work.
“I vaguely remember you telling me about opening a cupcake shop on wheels.”
“This was during the playoffs, so you were preoccupied.”
“What happened? Why aren’t you a mobile cupcake shop queen?” Declan asks.
“Sylvester said he believed in my success and wanted to partner. He was supposedly investing his half of the funds to get it outfitted to work like a food truck, but with cupcakes.” I smile because I’d been so excited.
“I had big plans to cater to people in the parking lots at various theme parks, waiting in lines for the buses, and so on. Maybe even at football games.”
“That’s a cool idea.”
“Sylvester took the van one day and disappeared.”
“Disappeared like he got lost on the way home or—?”
“I thought I could trust him. The purchase was in his name because I hadn’t established my credit.
He was exposed as not being a single guy and his channel was demonetized.
And he lost all his money in a bad bitcoin deal.
He took my funds and the van to pay back his debtors. It was such a stupid mistake.”
“What are you saying, My Magic Maggie?”
I hang my head. “He sold the van. Ran off to Mexico with some girl. Talk about pathetic.”
“I hope you mean he’s pathetic and not you.”
My shoulder lifts because it sure feels that way.
My inner troll gets loud, giving supporting evidence as to why I don’t deserve cupcake success or love.
“I was so gullible. Should’ve taken precautions.
Been business savvy.” There is a little more to the story that I decide to keep to myself—it turns out Sylvester was using me for my connection to my rich and famous parents, but when it became clear that I no longer had much of a relationship with them, he cut ties.
“You were trusting. Nothing wrong with that.”
“In reality, I invested myself in a guy instead of my future.”
“But when you find the right one...” The corner of Declan’s lip lifts and he absentmindedly links his pinky with mine.
At those words, the bluebirds in my belly devour a vat of cupcake frosting and then take flight. I try to get them to calm down, but the way Declan is looking at me with intensity and tenderness sends those birds on a sugar high.
“Did you press charges?”
“I tried but didn’t have a case. His credit was slightly better, so the loan was in his name, but it was my money we spent for the down payment.”
And I didn’t want to bring attention to myself or see a headline that read something like Former Child Star Honey Holiday Gets a Sour Deal. I’ve managed to mostly erase my image from the record of popular culture and want to keep it that way.
“You shouldn’t give up on your dreams,” he says.
“It’s not worth it.”
“It’s always worth it. You’re worth it, Maggie,” he says and then kisses the top of my head before padding up the stairs. “Let me know if you need anything. Goodnight.”
Stunned, I remain on the couch in front of the fire. Only, it’s like Cinderella’s bluebirds lift me into clouds of fluffy buttercream. I’m buzzing from head—where Declan had kissed me—to toe.