“Of course your house is good enough. For now, at least.”
“For now,” he repeats back with a dry voice.
“It’s not like we planned on me living there forever.”
“I know that.”
“You have a very nice house,” I backtrack.
“Not nice enough,” he mutters under his breath.
Is he actually offended by my comments? The idea alone makes my chest clench. Declan isn’t the kind to get offended by anything, but I suppose if I invested twenty million dollars into a home, I wouldn’t want to hear negative comments about it either.
I dance between being honest and polite. “It’s just that…it’s not my style.”
“And what exactly is your style then? A forest?”
My chest shakes as I release a loud laugh. “No.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
“Your place is empty, cold, and devoid of any kind of personality. It might be a house, but it’s the furthest thing from a home.”
He strokes his stubbled cheek. “That makes no sense.”
“Let me try to explain.”
“By all means, please do.”
I take a deep breath, considering how I can explain such a dark part of my life without diving too deep into my emotions. Declan only knows bits and pieces of my past. Revealing too much could open myself up to growing closer to him, and that’s the last thing either of us needs.
“My parents’ divorce wasn’t the most conventional.” I swallow the lump in my throat.
Declan doesn’t so much as breathe as I gather up the courage to continue.
“My father—if you can even call him that—was not a good guy. He was…mean.” That feels like the understatement of the century, but I can’t find it in me to say more than that.
Declan’s hands clench against his lap. “Was he mean to you?”
I sigh. “Yes. But not nearly as bad as he was to my mom.”
His upper lip curls with a look of disgust. “Don’t do that.”
My brows tug together. “Do what?”
“Downplay your experience because someone else had it harder than you.”
I’m touched by his comment. I spent my whole life telling myself how things could have been worse. I’ve seen the stats on domestic violence. The way the vicious cycle continues until someone gets severely hurt, or worse, dies. Dealing with my father’s anger and hateful words seemed like a small price to pay for the future I have now. For the one my mother has too.
Wetness pools at the bottom of my eyes, and I’m quick to blink it away.
Get a hold of yourself.
I muster up a deep breath and carry on, reminding myself of the whole point of this conversation. “Anyway…my mom and I moved out of my childhood house with two suitcases and a thick wad of cash she spent a whole year saving up. She tried her hardest to sell me on the idea of moving into a shoebox apartment with Nana. I spent a whole week crying, telling her I wanted to go home.”
“What happened next?” He seems genuinely interested in hearing more, so it fills me with enough courage to continue.
“She taught me how anyone can buy a house, but not everyone can buy a home. With a house, you can buy it, sell it, renovate it.” I point at the TV.
“But a home is more abstract. It’s not a place, but a feeling I can’t describe, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“A feeling,” he repeats back with a monotonous voice.
“You know, those pesky emotions you turned off ages ago?”
He frowns. “That sounds like the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard.”
I laugh. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.” I have to give him credit for at least listening to my story.
“Only because you’re terrible at describing things.”
I grin. “Like I said, you’ll know it when you feel it.”
At least I would hope so. The idea of Declan never finding a place to call home saddens me more than anything about his past.
What are you going to do about it?
I have an idea, but its risks are nothing short of catastrophic. Still, I can’t find it in me to stop the excitement bubbling inside of me.
You could be the one to help him make his house a home.
Worst idea ever.
21
IRIS
“H ey.” Someone nudges my shoulder.
“Ugh. Let me sleep.” I grab a pillow and cover my head to drown out Declan’s voice.
“There’s something outside you’re going to want to see.”