Just Friends(68)

“Oh my gosh.” She rolls her eyes. “You two are so annoying.” She throws a rag on the counter dramatically and turns to face me, hand on her hip. “You know, on the day you came in for an interview, I recognized you from a photo that fell out of his wallet one time. It was you two on the football field back in the day, and he was wearing the whole shebang: big ole helmet and shoulder pads and he had his arm around you and it’s all cute and whatever. Never had a clue that you were the girl he’d been yapping about to me all this time. But when I saw his face after he interviewed you?” She whistles. “Dead giveaway.”

Blood drains from my face.

“Oh no.” She snaps her fingers. “Hello? Blair? Blink for me. Come on, girl.”

“Hey, Blink is my nickname,” I say, hurtling back to the present.

“Yeah, well, I can definitely see why!”

“Sorry, I just—your words are very kind, but it’s not like that anymore between Declan and me. We’re cordial now, but…” I cut myself off, not wanting to expose the way yesterday ended between us.

“Cordial?” she tuts. “Is that what we’re calling infatuation these days?”

“Harper!” I chide, ducking at the rising sound of her voice.

“Listen,” she says, dipping her voice to a near whisper and sidling up beside me. “I don’t know what makes you think he feels that way about you, but I know people who knew him from before the accident. And they said it changed him. Overnight, all his hopes and dreams went poof.” She snaps her fingers again. “And ever since, that boy has been so scared of letting himself want anything. Or anyone, I should add.”

She walks away and I’m left with vertigo trying to process her words.

I didn’t need to be fed more hope that Declan still felt the invisible string between us—that he was just too afraid to show it. I was feeding myself that particular brand of false hope by the boatload. I was choking on it.



* * *



It’s evening now, and Declan should walk through the doors at any second for overtime hours. Settling onto a stool at the half-finished bar, I open my laptop to the convenience stores’ master scheduling portal and double check that everyone has the correct shifts while I wait.

But even as I drag names across the screen, Harper’s earlier words press at my mind like a persistent migraine. I still can’t reckon with how her words line up with his actions. He wanted to try being friends. And I thought we were doing that pretty well, until we weren’t. He invited me to his house, took me out for a meal, and then he closed off like we were coworkers having a strictly professional meeting.

The tiny golden bell above the door chimes as he steps inside, and he wastes no time ripping the crewneck he’s wearing over his head. It ruffles his hair, and he brushes a hand over it sloppily with a distracted look on his face.

“Hey, uh, I gotta get some stuff from the hardware store down the road really quick. I’ll be right back,” he says, hardly making eye contact with me.

“I’ll come with!” I say, not giving him a chance to respond as I shut my laptop and hop off the stool.

“Oh, it’s just some random nails and stuff, I don’t need—”

“It’s okay. I wanna learn.”

“About… building?”

“Yeah. I might need it. For the cottage,” I say in three staccato sentences.

He rolls his lips inward and stares at me like he’s waiting for me to break character. But I don’t, so he nods and then turns to head to his car. I silently follow him and climb in.

We don’t talk, but he turns up the song that was already playing—“How Deep Is Your Love” by the Bee Gees. I try to convince myself that it means something. And then I try to convince myself that it means nothing.

I sit on my hands and look out the window, avoiding the invisible wall of frisson I feel every time I sit this close to him.

“Alrighty,” he says, putting the car in park. “This will be a quick trip.”

He exits the car and power walks up to the tiny store named Bolts and Builds. I have to add a shuffle-hop to my stride to keep up with him.

We amble together in silence through a foray of buckets filled with screws and bolts. My eyes see but don’t process any of the information written on the tiny labels.

“We’re looking for screws an inch and a quarter long,” he says.

“Got it. Screws. Inch and a quarter.” I nod like I’m taking orders. “Oh! Found it!” I pick up a silver screw from a bucket.

He narrows his eyes and takes it from me to inspect. “This is a conical screw. We want flat heads.”

“Oh,” I say in vocal italics, drooping my head as I pluck it from his fingers and drop it back into the bucket. “Sorry. I thought the comical screw was flat.”

He doesn’t turn around, but I catch the tiny bounce in his shoulders, presumably from a silent chuckle. A zing of satisfaction shoots through me, quick and hot.

“Okay.” Declan slides a plastic package off a display. “These are the ones we want for the bar we’re building. See how the top is flat?”

I nod.

“It will sit flush with the wood. Which will make it look better. If I were to build the deck for your cottage’s backyard however, I would use these screws.” He takes another package off the shelf and holds it up to me.