Just Friends(14)

His previously light demeanor seems to fade as he reads the text on his phone.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah. I just—” He runs his hand down his face, blowing out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just—classic Randall stuff. Nothing is ever enough for the man.” He uses his father’s first name like they’re less close than they are.

“What happened? What did he say?”

“It’s nothing new. He’s just lecturing me on the chores I didn’t do to his liking, and then there’s a list of items I need to help my mom with, and on top of all that, he’s sending paragraphs about how we need to have a serious chat tonight about the importance of every game leading to championships. As if I’m not already spending every waking hour stressing about that while trying to keep my grades high too.”

I go quiet at his frustration. Despite my efforts to fight it, I feel a twinge of jealousy that his father cares enough to bother him so much.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “He only asks so much of you because he believes in you, though. Right?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Declan scoffs. “It just never ends with him. Right when I think I’ve finally done enough to earn his approval, he gives me a list of critiques instead.”

“Maybe he seems harsh, but I think he’s proud of you. Even getting a long text like that shows he spends tons of time thinking about you. I wish I had that.” I add the last part without thinking.

Declan pauses and turns to look at me. “Is this about something else?”

He looks into my eyes like he’s noticing my fragility for the first time. It catches me off guard and I find myself unable to respond.

“I know we never talk about your dad, but we can,” he offers.

I’d avoided discussing my dad with Declan for years now. Early on in our friendship, he came over to my house and asked if my dad was at work. I told him, “No. I haven’t seen him in a while.” And that was that. He never brought it up again, and neither did I. The longer we went without discussing it, the harder it seemed to start.

At my silence, Declan steps toward me.

“Are you okay?” He places a gentle hand on my arm. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’d love to know more about your dad if you’re comfortable talking about it.”

That one simple statement made me feel a lifetime closer to him. Sometimes, Declan simply being who he was felt like a character attack on everyone else. He just existed and in comparison, everyone paled. People were an average amount of friendly or thoughtful, and then Declan came around and convicted them all of mediocrity by being the type of friend he was to me.

Everyone in Seabrook knew I lived with my mom and great-aunt, but no one ever asked where my dad was. I came to the conclusion that they didn’t care to find out. Or that if they did ask where my father was, the explanation would reveal some character flaw I had no control over. I felt I owed Declan the truth simply for being the first person to ask for it.

“Yeah, uh. I’m comfortable talking about it. I mean, I think it’s about time you finally knew the full story.” My heart leaps to my throat.

Declan’s eyebrows soften with tentative hope, and the look is so sweet that it feels possible to go on. We wordlessly agree to start walking again. I let my thoughts race back to the night that changed everything for my mom and me.

“Keep in mind, I was probably four and a half years old. So, everything is pretty fuzzy,” I start, too nervous to glance over at him. I see him nod in my peripheral vision. “It was nighttime, and I remember hiding under my covers because I heard screaming in the kitchen. Or, I think it was my dad screaming at my mom, mostly. That went on for a while. And then the front door slammed, and it was silent.”

Declan doesn’t speak but I can feel his gaze on me. I keep mine pinned to the exact point where the ocean meets the sky, not really seeing as I continue.

“Sometime later my mom crept into my bedroom and made me pack some things in my tiny, pink, sparkly suitcase. And then we were on the highway in the middle of the night.”

I rush through certain parts of the story. The insignificant things are the most vivid in my memory. Like telling my mom I was scared of the dark from the back seat, so she offered her hand for me to squeeze while she drove. I could still remember the way her eyes flickered to me through the rearview mirror every few seconds. “Do you remember your great-aunt Lottie’s beach house?” she asked. “We’re going on a little vacation there for a little bit, okay?”

“We drove over to Seabrook and here we are. Just me, my mom, and Lottie, as you know,” I finish quickly, trying to sound upbeat.

I leave out the subsequent events. The ones that really made an impact. Like when two months in I started to realize it wasn’t just a spontaneous trip to Lottie’s beach house. Or the conversations I overheard from upstairs when my mom would rant to Lottie about how my father promised she’d never have to work a day in her life, and yet, here she was, living off the kindness of her aunt and taking care of me alone.

How I’d ask my mom if my dad wished me a happy birthday or wanted to see me, and she would roll her bottom lip into her mouth to nervously bite while she figured out how to let me down gently.

Or when I was six and my mom was trying to juggle working at the convenience store. She couldn’t afford summer childcare, so I’d sit in the back room of the store on an upside-down crate and watch her work all day. She tried to hide it, but she had this nervous, always-about-to-burst energy about her.