Just Friends(92)

At my silence, Declan looks over at me. “Are you okay? I don’t mean to scare you, I just want to let you know where my head is at.” [Kids in high school juggle so much already. Being good at maintaining a relationship is a miracle!]

“Yeah,” I mutter. “No, that makes sense. It’s just…” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be second fiddle to football, you know?”

I feel like I walked off a cliff saying that out loud. But then, Declan exhales, looking sorry. “Hey, come here.”

I obey immediately, climbing on top of him. He chuckles at my sudden conviction, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob with the movement. His hands drift to my waist, supporting my weight as I hover above him.

“You won’t ever come second to anything. Okay?” [Thinking but not saying: “I LOVE YOU!”] he says from under me.

I nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. He reaches up to palm my cheek and I lean into it.

“You’ll always come first,” he breathes. “Nothing tops you.” [I thought this was funny because she’s literally on top of him.]

My cheeks heat and I hope the darkness hides it. The only natural response I feel is to say the forbidden L word, but I know it’s too early, so I fold over him to stop myself. Our chests meld and warmth spreads through me. Sometimes the weight of love is more frustrating than pleasurable.

I turn my head in the sand by his ear and only manage to mouth the words thank you.

“One day, when I’m playing football, you’ll be an author. I’ll be reading your books every second I’m not on the field,” [Or stocking his coffee shop’s bookshelves with her book.] he says softly, wrapping his arms around my back and holding me against him.

I’m robbed of speech. There’s frustration in not being able to communicate how much his words mean to me. I’m grateful words aren’t the only way to communicate.

I kiss his temple, softly at first, and then move to his cheek. After that, I kiss his forehead and slowly drift down to his nose.

“Please, Blair,” he grinds out.

“Please, what?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Please,” he begs. “Kiss me now.” Yearning coats his expression so intensely that it looks like he might die.

I let out a full-bodied belly laugh. His unhidden longing is disarming in a way I can’t resist.

I still, elbows bending beneath me, causing my full weight to lower on top of him. I prop up my upper half, shuffling my forearms in the sand beside his face. In the time it’s taken me to readjust, Declan’s face is filled with even more anguish. [Taking her sweet time!]

“End me now,” he says, as if to himself before impatiently curling his fingers around the nape of my neck and pulling me down to meet his lips.

The kiss is hungry and searching, and I feel everything with a new level of intensity. I become aware that this is the point of no return. The one that starts and ends my ability to enjoy anyone or anything else with this much fervor.

This moment, with the waves lapping gently to shore, and the deep darkness, is [too perfect]. Completely on our own, the stars as our only witnesses to the moment I’ve dreamt of for years.

Declan, who I never imagined reciprocating my feelings, is beneath me. Opening himself up to me in rare and precious ways, finally letting the mysterious curtain drop between us.

It fills me up so quickly that, for a moment, I feel weary. Unsure that I can trust something so perfect to stay.

“You’ll always come first.” I repeat the sentiment he offered me earlier, holding on to the promise with a grip that hurts.

The truth is, I have more faith in the probability of his leaving than this moment being the catalyst of his staying. [Cynical little Blair. But can you blame her line of thinking given her past?]





Acknowledgments


The first and greatest thank-you I would like to offer requires a bit of context first, because I wouldn’t be writing these acknowledgments without him. In April of 2023, I was reading Stephen King’s On Writing on a long flight to Japan. The tiny seed I’d been trying to ignore for years was slowly sprouting. I wanted to write a book. It was a fearful thing, because it meant so much. I didn’t want to screw it up. So, I put On Writing down, closed my eyes, and prayed. I asked God something to the effect of: “Please, show me if I’m supposed to write a book. Because I really want to, but not if I don’t have your blessing. This is too big a thing to do on my own.” About thirty minutes later, my phone lit up with a text from a girl I rarely spoke to. It was a video of her scrolling through the first draft of her completed manuscript. The text read: “Just thought you’d find this fun.” My heart almost stopped. I rarely ask Jesus for signs; he has already done so much, but I took that moment and let it bolster my courage to pursue the dream I tried to ignore for so long. And luckily, God also gives us people.

Thank you to my manager, Brooklyn Gordon, whose work ethic, character, and sophistication inspire me every day. I am so lucky to have met you and even luckier to work with you. Thank you to my editor, Emilia Rhodes. I am convinced you are a superhero. You are patient and gentle, and I am forever grateful to you for believing in me. Thank you to the other hard-working members of the Atria team: Dominick Montalto, Elizabeth Hitti, Michaela MacPherson, Shelby Pumphrey, Sofia Echeverry, Paige Lytle, Dayna Johnson, Kathleen Rizzo, Vanessa Silverio, Megan Rudloff, Nicole Bond, Sara Bowne, Rebecca Justiniano, and Davina Mock-Maniscalco.