Just Friends(61)

As I’m mulling it over, I’ve already allowed too long a pause to stretch on as I step into the quiet living room.

“Blink?” Roshi says wearily. “You alright?”

And those two words are all it takes for everything to come gushing out.

I stare at the bookshelf attached to the small desk, lined with books Lottie bought for me as a child, and in a tiny, breaking voice, I say: “No.” A sniffly inhale punctuates the word. “I’m not alright.”

“Oh, Blink,” she coos in sympathy. “No, don’t cry. Or do cry but tell me everything.”

And so I do. Falling onto the cream-colored couch I was on a mere eighteen hours ago with Declan, I tell her everything about the cottage, the convenience stores, and the letter I never received. And for the first time, I let Roshi listen. And she does. It shouldn’t have shocked me, but I had excluded the possibility before giving her the chance.

“He made you a blueprint?” Roshi shouts.

For some reason, my first instinct is to duck, as if Declan can hear her from across the street.

“Yes, Rosh. And it’s probably twenty times cooler than you’re picturing it to be. It’s beautiful.” I stare at the unfolded drawing on my bent knees.

“And you’re not asking this man to pull out his tool kit and come over right this second… why?” She adds an ironic lilt to her voice, and I picture her right eyebrow rising like it always does when she thinks I’m being an idiot.

“Because!” I cry, indignant. “The conversation ended with us agreeing to be friends again. Just friends, Roshi!”

“Okay? And do friends not help each other renovate houses after literally sketching the blueprint?”

“Well, maybe they do. But…” I exhale, frustrated and unpracticed at forming the words. “Apparently, this letter that he tried sending me was, like, an apology? He was asking to meet up and work things out, I’m assuming, based on the way he was describing it. But the vibe was very ‘that was four years ago’ and ‘what’s in the past is in the past.’ He clearly doesn’t want anything he wanted in that letter to happen now. Which was obviously awkward for me because… well, because I wanted him to still want whatever he wrote in that letter to happen. Which is dumb. We’re adults now. It’s not like that anymore.”

“That’s not dumb, Blair. You guys have a lifetime of history together, and he’s literally hand-drawing blueprints of the house you own across the street from him. I’d be in love, too.”

“I’m not in love.”

“Right. And by not in love, you mean your souls are intrinsically, infinitely, irreparably intertwined because practically all your earliest memories have been made with him and even as an adult you’ve been incapable of going one day without thinking about how he’s the only person on planet Earth who will understand you in the way that he does.”

“Ugh, Roshi.” I groan, elongating her name like a curse. “What are they teaching you at lawyer school these days. You don’t need more training on how to soliloquy my ears off.”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, I’m done. But listen, if this man sent you a pen-and-paper, delivered-by-owl letter to confess his feelings to you, I don’t think you should be expecting him to admit if he still feels something for you after just finding out you never read it,” she grinds out dramatically. “The man is probably reeling! So, be friends with him. Friends friends.” Her tone is suddenly nefarious. “And see where it goes from there.”

Hmm. Her words are shockingly comforting. In our time at Pepperdine, Faye was always a serial monogamist, while Roshi was dropping her current fling and searching for the next. If anyone knew how to navigate confusing dynamics, it was her. If anything, she was the arbiter of them.

“So… keep your enemies close is what you’re saying,” I deadpan.

“No, Blink. No enemies. Just act like a friend would act. Ask him for help. Open up a bit. We all know that’s a foreign language to you, but this is Declan we’re talking about. You’ve been his friend before.”

Yeah. I have been. And it was the source of pain and longing for years. Both while we were friends and then in the aftermath of not being friends. The few months we actually dated was the only time he wanted me in the way I wanted him to.

I don’t know if I have the emotional bandwidth to be his friend again when I always end up wanting more. But as I hit end call on Roshi, I feel the invisible tug between Declan’s and my houses. Unfortunately, he was looking like the only buoy in the middle of this vast, friendless ocean right now. Being his friend might just have to cut it.

The house is silent and I’m trying to envision what my life would look like here, in Seabrook. I’d be a short drive from my mom. I could help her manage the stores. I could keep writing my romance novel. Maybe I’d actually finish it this time, especially if I wasn’t a consultant. It all seems good.

But then my mind starts picturing Lottie waltzing around the tiny kitchen island in a long dress. I don’t even have memories of her in this yellow-tiled kitchen. But she was here once. And I picture her hands placing every piece of decor on the coffee table. On the shelves. Did she place my favorite books above the desk to remind me of my love for words? To push me to write below the authors that inspired me in the first place? Or is that wishful thinking?