Just Friends(33)

“Wow,” I mumble. The answer shouldn’t surprise me, and yet it does.

Every piece of new information is a jagged reminder of the life he’s forged beyond my scope. Evidence of the distance between us.

The muscles in his back sway as he removes the pencil from behind his ear and presses it into the paper.

“When did you learn to build things like that?” I ask, curiosity spurring me on.

There’s a sizable pause.

“After the accident,” he says finally. “When I was on bed rest.”

My heart rate kicks up as I try to figure out an appropriate response. We’ve never discussed the accident, never had the chance to, but he continues for me.

“Do you remember when I got a few scholarships for engineering?” he asks, gaze unmoving from his notebook.

“Yeah. Of course,” I say, voice losing bravado.

“I still had some interest in building, so I did some studying at home. Tinkering with my hands helped distract me from the fact that…” He pauses and starts again. “From not being able to run anymore. Train. Play football and all that.”

It’s the first time either of us has ever acknowledged the suddenness with which his life was changed that night. I’m shocked at his willingness to discuss it, with me of all people, but he relays the information coolly, unbothered by both the events he’s discussing and the person he’s discussing them with. His unshakable calm has remained intact, it seems.

“That makes sense,” I reply, eyes staying trained on the birdhouses. “Well, they are very impressive. I could look at them all day.”

“Thanks,” he replies, voice strained.

The brief discussion of his past is more disorienting than the small height I’m balancing from, so I lift the paintbrush to the ceiling.

“Do you mind turning on a light?”

Declan looks up. “Yeah, of course. Sorry about that.” He flips the overhead lights on and then strides back to his notebook.

“So, why are…” He stops mid-sentence and starts again. I’m surprised you’re back in town.”

My paintbrush pauses mid-stroke.

“Yeah,” I huff. “That would make two of us.”

I return to glossing the ceiling, mulling over his forwardness. His sudden interest in speaking to me. But then I recall that he’s always carried on conversations in this way. Not wasting time with filler, always cutting through the fat and going straight for the meat of a conversation. It’s just been a while since I’ve been a part of it.

“It was a surprise for you, too?”

Is he fishing for the reason I came home? I thought he knew.

“Umm, yes. Definitely a shock.”

“And why’s that?”

“Lottie’s illness ramped up out of nowhere. We thought she had stage two lung cancer. They were treating her accordingly, and then when she wasn’t responding to treatment, they took another scan and realized it was stage four.” I feel the familiar ball of tension form in my throat. The memory of the phone call that changed my life. “My mom told me two weeks before graduating Pepperdine. I got here as fast as I could. And I’m glad. I got to spend some good quality time with her. Collected as many stories from her life as possible.”

I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling, not risking a glance down to see his reaction.

“I’m so sorry, Blair,” he replies, voice softening. “I’m sure she appreciated that more than you can imagine.”

I nod. “Thanks for saying so.”

A beat passes.

Oh gosh. Please don’t let him be one of those people who gets awkward talking about difficult—

“And you’re working here because…” He trails off, waiting for me to fill in.

“I had to defer my job.”

“Your job in New York City, working as an author?”

Oh. He remembered.

It takes me a second to realize he assumed New York City from my rambling about it in high school. Not from any concrete knowledge of my life now.

His words feel like a punch to the gut. But also, much too intimate. He’s the only one I trusted to tell. It feels like he’s brandishing a weapon by reminding me.

No one else in my life, not even my mom, knew that being an author had been my biggest dream. The one that was so true to my soul that it felt like treason to say it out loud. It was vulnerable to admit your dreams. It gave people a detailed map of how and where to hit you to make it hurt the most—painting the red X on your back for them.

But what bothered me most about the whole thing was the fact that I hadn’t written a single line of prose in years, until after the funeral a week ago. Lottie’s death had me scrambling for purchase, and writing felt like getting traction under my feet.

“Hah,” I chuckle weakly. “New York City, yes, but…” I trail off, voice hardening. “Writing isn’t—” I stop and try again. “That’s not my dream anymore.”

My gaze falls from the ceiling, settling on one of the metal ridges on the ladder. I hear Declan’s work boots echo off the wooden floor. He stands below me, crosses his arms, and looks up.

“What do you mean it’s not your dream anymore?” he asks, eyes locked on mine.

“Because,” I continue. “That was a child’s dream.”