I feel weirdly snoopy being on his phone, but I could use a laugh, so I scroll. I slide past loads of photos of him and other celebrities, football players, and him on the field. However, I don’t see any with him and other women, or family for that matter. Not that I’m looking that carefully.
Okay, fine. I am because I’m wondering how Declan and I managed to maintain our friendship all these years without me noticing how, um, attractive he is.
There. I said it. Thought it. Whatever. Now, I can’t unthink it. Or unsee the manly athletic build without an ounce of body fat. Muscles everywhere. Soft brown eyes at odds with everything else about him. Blond hair with a hint of strawberry—my favorite fruit.
At last, I come to a string of photos with sunsets, beaches, and a waterfall. I stop at an image of Declan seated on a rock, face twisted, wide-eyed, and next to a monkey wearing the same expression...and strangely enough, wearing the same Boston Bruiser’s Bruisers-branded boardshorts. I guess he’s not the only prankster on the team because someone got those on the monkey.
Seeing Declan shocked like that sends a roll of laughter through me, but what gets me going is that it looks like the monkey felt the same way as Declan did. Like they’d accidentally sat down next to each other, glanced over and both thoughtWhat are you doing there?
My Oh Mags: Either you’re hysterical right now or selling my secrets to the media.
The Declan Printz: Are there secrets on this phone?
My Oh Mags: Keep scrolling toward the beginning. I lost a few of the photos of us after my phone went for a swim, but I managed to salvage the good ones.
He adds the winking face.
I scroll to the beginning. Sure enough, Declan saved photos of us—school uniforms, playing hooky, at a concert with me on his shoulders so I could see. Some are sentimental, some funny. Emotions cascade toward me, making my eyes fill with liquid. But they’re not sad tears. More like gratitude, joy. I’m thankful that there’s one person in this world who cares about me. Remembers me. Has carried me with him in his pocket all this time.
Take that, inner troll of loneliness!
The Declan Printz: I’ve never seen these. Can I send them to myself?
My Oh Mags: Only if you do me a favor. Will you please listen to the most recent voicemail?
The Declan Printz: I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’m not exactly interested in what Brandi has to say.
My Oh Mags: It’s not from Brandi. It’s from the mother of someone I used to know.
Something about his request makes me think it’s important and private.
The Declan Printz: Maybe you should listen to it.
My Oh Mags: I don’t want to.
Without being able to see his face and read his expression, I’m not sure what to make of that comment.
My Oh Mags: I have a feeling it’s bad news.
The Declan Printz: ...Or maybe your old friend heard you were in Concordia and wants to visit you.
My Oh Mags: Ever the optimist. That’s but one thing I love about you, My Milgo Maggins.
Love? He means that in the general sense of the word. Like Ilovechocolate cake. He loves pizza. Like that.
It doesn’t mean anything else because that’s not the kind of love friends share and I don’t want to do anything to make Declan someday erase the photos of us on his phone.
It’s late. We both probably have jet lag. But tired and prone to making impulsive decisions like eating half a cake so the sugar will keep me awake—when I was working two jobs, one at a bakery, I’d do that with the day-olds or it was sleep-city for me—I will protect our friendship at all costs.
The Declan Printz: Meet me in the hall. I should give you your phone back.
I don’t want to overstep bounds. Whether the message was good news or bad news, he ought to listen to it himself.
My Oh Mags: Do you mean to go to the hot tub? I didn’t pack board shorts.
The Declan Printz: This is Maggie you’re talking to. Not Brandi.
My Oh Mags: I am well aware.
