Just Friends(64)

“Wow,” I breathe. “And you did that all by yourself?”

“Yeah, pretty much. It was a fun way to stay occupied,” he replies, voice low and resonate. “Maybe this will give you some inspiration for what you could do to your house. It’s a different style, obviously, but it could use about the same amount of work. Or not. You could move in and fix it up as you go. And I would help you out. Either way.”

Your house.

He sounds eager for me to move in. The amount of hope that gives me causes a swift dose of panic to follow. Why did I feel so affected by him wanting me to stay in Seabrook? But maybe the answer was simple. He was my best friend, then. He could be my best friend now. And I was craving that sense of being known so often lately. Perhaps I was just feeling the comfort of having someone who knew me so intimately back in my life.

“And you said you moved in two years ago, right?”

“Yup. Just about.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, smiling at me to encourage my eager question-asking. He did say I could ask anything.

“And how…” I trail off, ping-ponging my eyes through the space again. Without being so forthright, I want to ask him how he afforded it. It was easy to forget my lack of access to him now.

“And how did I swing it?” he guesses, reading me like a book.

I press my lips together, looking caught, and nod.

He exhales while grabbing hold of the doorway, and the way he leans with his arms stretched above him causes a patch of skin between his shirt and jeans to flash. I grit my teeth, looking away.

He smiles. “Are you hungry, by chance? After surfing, I’m gonna require a meal before rehashing that whole story.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Yeah, I could eat.”

“Okay, cool. I’m gonna take a quick shower. Do you want anything to drink? Water? Lemonade? Coffee?” he asks, body halfway behind the doorway.

Settling onto the couch, I reply, “No, I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

He slaps the wall and points. “Be right out.”

The sound of water gushing through pipes starts, and I sit on my hands, peering around the space that Declan has called home for two years. From the living room window, I can see the cottage across the street. It is a strange feeling seeing it from this perspective.

The garden is unwieldy and wraps around the small square of a house, whereas this home is a rectangular single-story with a funky roof. Declan’s house is cherry-stained wood and vaulted ceilings, whereas mine is creamy neutrals and arched doorways.

Mine. It was the first time my mind referred to the cottage that way. The feeling settled into my stomach. Not unpleasant. Just new.

A few moments later, Declan claps from the doorway. “Alright, what’re you feeling? Tacos? Ramen? Breakfast for dinner?”

He reads the way my lips flicker.

“Breakfast for dinner it is,” he says for me, smiling with a knowing look in his eyes.

His hair is wet, again, but this time from the shower instead of the ocean, and I have to manually stop my face from showing signs of longing. I was going to need a break from his incessant, easy smiles and laid-back demeanor if I wanted to be his friend. He hadn’t looked this comfortable all summer, and it was doing things to me that I didn’t want to name.



* * *



Settling into a torn-leather booth at the back of the Snug Spoon, our waitress rushes out balancing steaming plates of pancakes in both hands. “I have a three-stack of maple sugar pancakes and a triple chocolate chip buttermilk stack. Everything looking good?” she singsongs.

“Yes! Looks great. Thank you so much,” Declan replies with a dimpled smile.

“Okay,” I say, cutting into the maple sugar pancakes. “Tell me how you ended up in that house, finally.”

Declan grins at my lack of patience and picks up his fork and knife. “Oh, that little tale. It’s a fun one.”

I can tell by his tone that it’s probably going to be a tragic one.

After swallowing a bite, he says, “The short story is that my dad sued the owner of the car that hit me.”

My fork falters on its way to my mouth.

He smiles. “Told you it was a fun one.”

“Declan,” I sigh, upset at his deflection mechanisms. “You are ridiculous,” I huff. “But please, continue.”

He laughs, humored by my reaction to his macabre attitude, but after a moment, he grows serious. “The kid in the driver’s seat took the brand-new convertible from his uncle’s house. He already had a record for speeding in school zones and driving with too many passengers. So, they considered it something they call ‘negligent entrustment’ because the uncle practically handed over the keys, even knowing all this about him. And then, that night, he and his friends had been drinking. So, it was a pretty cut-and-dry case.”

I try to remain as neutral as possible, but internally, my eyes are bulging out of their sockets. At both the way Declan maintains perfect composure while retelling the story and the ludicrousness of the situation. Just hearing about it fills me with rage. How he was able to sound calm was bizarre to me.

“In classic Randall fashion, he took it upon himself to sue for the cost of surgeries plus the value of scholarships I would no longer be able to use. Which, in case you forgot, I got scholarships to six different schools. Most of them full rides.” He smirks at me with sarcastic conceit. I cough a surprised laugh. “And on top of that, because Randall never lets anyone get off easy, he sued for the ‘lost ability to earn a living.’?”