Just Friends(51)

I clamp my lips together until they’re white, emotions getting lodged in my throat. It’s the first time I’ve heard someone other than my mom talk about her since she’s passed.

“That’s why I have to leave,” I choke out. “She’s everywhere.” You’re everywhere, I don’t say out loud.

He takes another step toward me. Instinctively, I take a step back, but my back meets the bedroom wall. “You don’t have to leave,” he says, but it’s too soft. It comes out more like a plea.

He scans every inch of my face. Eye to eye and down to my lips. I can hear my shaky breath as it escapes.

But I do have to leave, and I can’t tell him why. Declan, to me, became like a blade buried deep in my side. Over the years, we fused so completely that removing him from my life seemed life-threatening. And then he was ripped away from me overnight, and I’d been trying to clot the bleeding ever since. How would I survive being near him again when the original wound never healed?

I dip out of the bedroom and escape to the living room. He follows, returning to inspecting the house without missing a beat.

He saunters up to the bookshelf like he was in the middle of a long walk. “No way,” he huffs. “A copy of Divergent? It really is like this house is yours,” he says, reaching for it.

“It’s a popular book,” I deflect, hoping he doesn’t find the page I scribbled our initials on.

“What was it you said when the movie came out?” he asks like a dare, flipping through the pages.

I already know what he’s referring to by the teasing lilt in his voice.

“You don’t look anything like Theo James now,” I say.

“Right, yeah. Of course not.” He feigns innocence, shaking his head with an ironic, puckered expression. I chuckle. I’m grateful he’s distracted enough to put the book back on the shelf. “So, what I’m hearing is that I did look like him, though? At one point in time.”

“That one point being as a kid, perhaps. Just a little bit,” I allow.

“Hey, I’ll take it. To have looked like him at all is an honor.”

He squats down, inspecting the cracks snaking along the wall before pacing the living room floor. At the sound of a deep creak, he retraces his steps, bending to press his fingers against the spot. Without warning, he begins jumping up and down, his work boots echoing off the floorboards. I laugh from the shock of it.

“Pier and beam. That’s great,” he mumbles to himself.

I shouldn’t find it intoxicating to watch his face harden in concentration as he inspects the wood floor, as he flicks light switches on and off, as he strides into the kitchen to test the water and stove. The look on his face is so boyish, focused. I remember being obsessed with figuring out how to become the object of that focus. And I had always been a high achiever.

“Still gas powered. That’s nice. I don’t like all the electric stoves they put in homes these days,” he comments.

“How do you know so much”—I gesture at the oven he just tried—“about all this? Houses? Building?”

“What? Turning a stove on and off?”

“No,” I spit indignantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

I can feel him grin. He turns around, hands resting behind his back as he leans on the kitchen sink. This man looks like he was born to lean on things.

“I learned a lot. From the coffee shop,” he says, eyes holding mine.

“The coffee shop,” I repeat, feeling left out of something obvious.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums. “This house is amazing, Blair. Lottie left you quite the gem.” He moves on swiftly, exiting the kitchen. There’s one small bathroom and a laundry machine closet on the other side of the house.

“Yeah, I agree. She’s very quaint, but… very nice,” I call to his back as I sink into the living room couch. “So, you don’t see any glaring problems with it?”

“Eh,” he says, voice calm. “Minor touch-ups are probably the only thing you’d need, but they seem mostly cosmetic, which is awesome. The foundation seems sturdy, and I don’t feel any uneven spots. All the doors are opening and closing smoothly. That’s just my opinion from the naked eye, though. You’ll know for sure after getting the inspection done.”

That eases the pressure in my chest a little.

“Right. The inspection,” I repeat, my obvious lack of knowledge revealing itself.

“Oh, that stuff is easy. I can help you out.” He slides the doors to the laundry unit closed and joins me on the living room couch, weight shifting the cushions as he plops down beside me. He throws his arms out, draping the back of the couch, careful not to graze my shoulders. “So, where’s your head at?”

I stare at the TV in front of me, trying to ignore the way it feels like an invisible wall of heat is lighting up the skin on my back where his arm hovers, just a slight lean away.

“My head is all over the place if you want me to be honest,” I say, dread lacing my voice.

“And I do.”

I glare at him facetiously and then look back at the coffee table in front of me, wondering if Lottie’s hands touched every item decorating it.

“I mean, this place is beautiful, obviously. Seabrook is beautiful. And now I have a house here that is truly unbelievable. Like in the literal sense. I-do-not-believe-this-is-real-yet, unbelievable. But I’m not taking it for granted. At least, I think I’m not taking it for granted.” I exhale. “It just wasn’t what I planned. Throwing away everything I’ve worked for the past four years feels reckless to me. I’m trying to figure out if I can feel what I thought I’d feel there, here.”