Just Friends(56)

I stare at his pained expression, trying to make sense of my warring emotions.

“I’m so sorry for walking out on you during that fight, Declan. I didn’t think that was the end. I thought we would just take a few days to cool down and then work it out like we always did.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “I’ve thought about it almost every day since. I never would have done that if—” I shake my head. “There was no way for me to have known that was the last time I’d see you. You have no idea how sorry I am for that. I’ve spent every second of the past four years feeling sorry about that. I wish I would have done a million things differently. But I’m not the only one to blame.”

His jaw muscle ticks. “You just left. You walked out. And it was from me telling you to follow me to college, which I regret now, of course. But I don’t think you understood that I chased my football career because I loved it, yes, but when it came to you, I only loved so much because it could provide for us. That was my way of loving you; being able to provide for you. But you took it like a slap to the face.”

“I didn’t take it like a slap to the face,” I retort.

He presses his lips together. “You practically accused me of being your father.”

I flinch at his words. “I know that sounds harsh, Blair, and I’m sorry but—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I did do that. But I think we both know by now it was more about me not becoming my mother than you being anything like my father.”

Declan blinks at me, unsure if my words are an olive branch. They were intended to be.

“But regardless, I wanted to save us. I was willing to do long distance. I was willing to make it work. But you didn’t even want to try. It seemed like the requirement to be with you was giving up my dreams to follow yours or nothing at all,” I say, voice surprisingly calm despite the emotion rising in me.

“That’s not true, Blair. Not at all.” He straightens in the driver’s seat, leaning over the center console. “I believed I was supporting your dreams by chasing mine. You were going to give up being an author because of the money. I was trying to solve that by going and making the money! And look, you went your way and…” He trails off, but the unspoken words have already left their mark.

“And what? Here I am in Seabrook working for you?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he says, regret weighing heavy on his face. “I wanted to make your dreams come true. And then I lost mine overnight and I couldn’t imagine facing you. It felt like the ultimate confirmation of my failure, so I just—I couldn’t. But I get it. Those were horrible reasons to block you out and I understand why you couldn’t forgive me—”

“Who said anything about not forgiving you?” I ask, rearing back. “I don’t blame you for a second for feeling like that, Declan. Even if I completely disagree with your logic. I just wanted you to let me in when I was at your door and ready to sit at your bedside. I would have done anything you needed if you would have opened that door.” I scoff. “Or at the very least, I’d have liked to… I don’t know. Get a text back?”

“What do you mean?” he says, eyebrows furrowing.

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’?” I counter. “I would have forgiven you for anything Declan. It’s you.”

His eyes home in on me like he’s trying to read the subtitles of a foreign film.

I look around inside the car with a quickening heartbeat, trying to understand why he looks so confused, but nothing has changed. We’re still cloaked in darkness and the flickering neon glow of Murphy’s Drive-Thru. “What… what’s wrong—”

“Then why didn’t you ever write me back?” he asks, eyes widening.

“What do you mean, write you back?” I ask slowly, a pit opening in my stomach.

He sighs, throws a hand over his face, and drags it down. “My letter?”

My eyes bulge. “Your letter? What letter? What are you talking about?”

“You never got it,” he states, face turning grave.

“Got what, Declan? You’re freaking me out.”

“I sent you a letter. Apologizing. Asking you if—” He stops as if cut off.

“Asking me what?” I plead, getting exasperated.

“Asking you if you wanted to… see me. To talk things out? I don’t know, it was a long time ago at this point,” he says quickly, looking defeated. Or maybe he was embarrassed?

I stare at him, half in horror and half in hopeful disbelief as the gears of my heart start squeaking back to life. His eyes stay trained on the steering wheel.

“Wh—” My voice wavers, but I manage to ask, “What were you apologizing for in the letter?”

He looks up at me, like I’ve just altered his entire reality. I hold my breath with the hope that he’s about to change mine. “I was apologizing for being angry at you,” he says in a measured voice. “I was apologizing for not being able to see things from your perspective. I was apologizing because you were right. You couldn’t rely on me, and I was sorry that I ever asked you to. And I was apologizing because I let my pride keep you from seeing me in that state. And I lost you because of it.”

He lets the words tumble out like they were waiting behind his teeth, glad to be let free. His eyes are sad, pulled down at the corners with regret. My heart keens painfully in my chest as I withhold myself from reaching over the console to brush his cheek with my thumb.