Just Friends(63)

“It is huge though, really. I know it’s just an idea, but even the thought is progress.” He runs his hand through his wet hair and then shakes his head like a dog after taking a bath. “It took me months to picture anything close to normal life after the accident. Even going to the grocery store with my mom for the first time felt like an impossible task.” He looks away for a moment. “Just getting through the parking lot without flinching was hard.”

“Oh—wow,” I sputter, start again. “I’m so sorry. Gosh, that must have been so hard. I didn’t even think about that,” I admit, head shaking while I stare at his cheekbone. He’s looking out at the shore, eyes squinting in concentration.

“No, that’s alright.” He brushes it off. The hurriedness of his voice when things turn earnest reminds me of… me.

“You know,” I start, voice sputtering like a car engine on the first day of winter. “I pictured what it must have been like for you so many times. The hit, and the hospital, and the recovery. But I never pictured you sad. Or scared.”

He turns to me and traces the outlines of my face with his eyes like he’s committing it to memory. His green eyes soften into emerald pools, and I feel slightly off balance staring into them.

“Really?” The side of his mouth pitches up like I’ve just told him he’s handsome.

“Yeah, really,” I say, nodding. “Sounds kind of stupid now that I say it out loud, though. You were hit by a bloody car.”

He laughs, and the dimple under his lip deepens. “Turns out, the car ended up being not that bloody.”

“Oh my gosh.” My stomach flips. “You can’t just say things like that, Declan. I’m not used to it yet,” I yell, indignant. “Man, that’s grim.”

My reaction causes him to laugh harder. The sound of it is warm and full. I wish I could bottle it and take a bath in it.

And that’s not what friends picture when their friends laugh, I remind myself.

“That’s alright. I’ve acclimated enough for the both of us.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t,” I protest, voice losing humor. “It was one thing to picture it. It’s another to hear it from your perspective.”

His face melts into a look of thoughtful consideration, head tilted at me like he’s seeing something new.

“I guess I know what you mean. I never pictured you sad at Pepperdine. You were always free and happy and… laughing, actually, in my imagination.”

Now, that causes a dry laugh to splinter out of me. “I wish that were the truth, but no. I was like a sad little puppy. Lost from home.” I confess it to the waves because if I look at him, I won’t be able to speak.

But Declan doesn’t laugh, so I risk a look over at him. Our eyes latch, and then his gaze trails down my face and lingers on my mouth. “I was the same way,” he admits quietly.

I let his eyes rove over me like hands, pretending our admissions aren’t the closest we’ve gotten to “I miss you.”

Waves crash as we let the silence stay taut between us. I concentrate on a drop of water dripping from a tendril of his salty hair. My breathing stops being a subconscious function.

“Come to my house,” Declan says, breaking us out of our reverie.

“What?” I blurt.

“I’ll show you how I renovated it. And you can ask me anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.” His voice is gravelly and sure.

Butterflies start a war in my stomach, and I try to call a ceasefire.

“Meet you there?” I ask.

“Meet you there.” He nods, and I catch a grin blooming on his face as he stands.





Chapter 20


Watching Declan thread his wet suit through a rung on the roof of his car makes me feel like a voyeur, spectating the routine he’s clearly gone through hundreds of times. His hair is mussed from half-dry salt water and his face looks refreshed. When he’s done, he motions for me to follow him to his front door, and I stare at his relaxed posture as he ambles up the driveway.

He fits the lock in the door and swings it open. “And here it is!” he says in a dry, theatrical voice with the flourish of his hand.

I gasp. If Declan was a house, this is exactly what he would look like. Smooth, cherry wood. Low, angular ceiling. Exposed beams. A living room filled with chairs made to lounge in. Not sit. Lounge. I can picture him sprawled out in the leather recliner with his head balanced in his hand, pencil behind his ear as he stared at a blueprint. “This is—” I shake my head. “Gorgeous.”

“Oh, thank you,” he chuckles warmly. “Please, come on in. Make yourself at home.”

Taking my shoes off at the door, my eyes scan the small dining room that leads to the living room to the left. There’s a deep, wine-colored couch and leather recliner bracketing a cobblestone fireplace. A woodsy scent envelops my senses. It smells like him. Everywhere.

“So.” Declan strides to the mantel above the fireplace and takes down a framed photo. “This is what the inside looked like originally if you want to give that a look.”

I follow him into the living room and take the photo from his hands.

“As you can see, I didn’t change too much. The house had these great mid-century modern bones with this spunky-looking roof. They call it a butterfly roof.” He leans in to tell me that fun fact like he’s letting me in on a secret, and I feel heat creep into my face. “So, I just added the wood paneling to the living room and kitchen walls, stained the floors darker, added some new cobblestones to this fireplace. I did some touch-ups in the bathrooms, but other than that, it’s the same.”