Just Friends(32)

I’m robbed of speech. There’s frustration in not being able to communicate how much his words mean to me. I’m grateful words aren’t the only way to communicate.

I kiss his temple, softly at first, and then move to his cheek. After that, I kiss his forehead and slowly drift down to his nose.

“Please, Blair,” he grinds out.

“Please, what?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Please,” he begs. “Kiss me now.” Yearning coats his expression so intensely that it looks like he might die.

I let out a full-bodied belly laugh. His unhidden longing is disarming in a way I can’t resist.

I still, elbows bending beneath me, causing my full weight to lower on top of him. I prop up my upper half, shuffling my forearms in the sand beside his face. In the time it’s taken me to readjust, Declan’s face is filled with even more anguish.

“End me now,” he says, as if to himself before impatiently curling his fingers around the nape of my neck and pulling me down to meet his lips.

The kiss is hungry and searching, and I feel everything with a new level of intensity. I become aware that this is the point of no return. The one that starts and ends my ability to enjoy anyone or anything else with this much fervor.

This moment, with the waves lapping gently to shore, and the deep darkness, is too perfect. Completely on our own, the stars as our only witnesses to the moment I’ve dreamt of for years.

Declan, who I never imagined reciprocating my feelings, is beneath me. Opening himself up to me in rare and precious ways, finally letting the mysterious curtain drop between us.

It fills me up so quickly that, for a moment, I feel weary. Unsure that I can trust something so perfect to stay.

“You’ll always come first.” I repeat the sentiment he offered me earlier, holding on to the promise with a grip that hurts.

The truth is, I have more faith in the probability of his leaving than this moment being the catalyst of his staying.





Chapter 11


You still use those?” I hear myself ask.

The tiny bell above the doors chimes as I walk into the coffee shop at seven p.m. Declan is bent over the counter, pencil behind his ear. I follow his gaze to see a small notebook open before him.

He doesn’t look up; the pause of his foot tapping is the only clue that he’s heard me. It’s so dark in here, I think to myself. The glow of a floor lamp is just enough light to see his shadowy figure. He’s lurking in here like a vampire who doesn’t want to be seen.

“What, pens?” he says finally, without looking up from his notebook.

“No. The journals.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” he replies like it’s obvious.

Okay. That’s all I’ll be getting from that then.

He used to carry a leather pocket journal that would fit in the back of his jeans, so at odds with the football equipment spilling out of his bag. I’d always assumed that he was planning certain routes or plays, but I’d poke at him, joking that he looked like a tortured poet from decades past, always ready for inspiration to strike. He’d just laugh one of those evasive laughs and change the subject. I never did find out what he was writing in them. He’s certainly not plotting football routes anymore.

“If you want to get started, the ceiling needs a top coat. You’ll have to use the ladder to reach it, if that’s okay?” he asks, gaze staying pointedly down.

“Yeah. Sounds good. I put ‘pretty good at using a ladder’ in my application so,” I reply, deadpan.

He doesn’t offer so much as a polite chuckle.

Ouch

I drop my bag and walk to the center of the coffee shop where the ladder stands at attention, bucket of clear varnish ready beside it. Balancing the bucket in one hand, I lift my foot to the first rung and breathe out, trying to silently encourage myself.

If I take any longer to climb this thing he might notice, so I push off and climb the rest of the steps with as little thought as possible, ignoring the way my heart rate speeds up. I make the mistake of looking down, and the tiniest squeal escapes my throat.

“You good?” he calls from below.

“Yup! All good!” I call back, but my voice wavers slightly, giving me away.

“I would uh— I would take that job but I can’t…” He trails off, gesturing at his leg.

The one that has a limp.

“Oh! Oh, no worries at all. I love ladders. Love it up here.” I look around, trying to hide the lie with my acting skills.

I finish my climb up the ladder and look down again, noticing that I can see his notebook from this height. It’s not fully in focus, but I make out a sketch of… a birdhouse? I look around and realize the floor is covered with a litany of them, taken down for painting the ceiling I suppose. They were the ones hanging from nearly invisible string from the ceiling earlier today, exactly like the blueprint in his sketch.

Reds, yellows, greens, and blues. Every single one is painted in a color-blocked fashion. Whimsical really. Some small and some large, all with silver clockwork-looking wheels placed on the sides.

“Did you make those?” I call from above, completely in awe. I’ve forgotten my fear of heights at the sight of them.

He looks up at me for the first time, eyes following my finger to the various wooden creations.

“Oh. Yes.” He clears his throat, returning to his drawing. “I did.”