We repeat the motions. I produce scissors. She picks paper.
“I won,” I say, hopping to my feet and doing a victory dance.
“You know that’s obnoxious,” she says, but she’s smiling, a full-blown Maggie Swaggy smile.
Yep, I won. I pass her the phone, suddenly feeling hopeful. Maybe it is a call about a birthday or celebration or something involving cake.
With a huff, she taps the button and holds the phone up to her ear, listening.
Her eyes dim. Her shoulders drop. She tries to keep her face like stone, like rock, but I watch as it crumples like paper.
And at that moment, it’s like I’ve been burned and searing pain fills my entire body all over again.
18
MAGGIE
The woman with a thick Irish accent, who left the message Declan must’ve instinctively known he probably wouldn’t want to listen to, says things not meant for my ears.
I clear my throat. “She says you should call. It’s important. Right away. No matter what time of day or night.” The partial truth slips off my tongue. There is no way I can tell him that there was an accident. That someone might not make it. I pass him the phone.
When we held hands in the hall, when he kissed my knuckles, his palm was warm, sure and strong. Now his hands feel clammy. Limp. He doesn’t take his device.
“Importantcould mean any number of things. A housewarming party, a new addition to the family...” I bite my lip because the caller’s grave tone suggested it was bad.
“You sure?” he asks as though not quite believing it.
I thrust the phone in his direction. “Go ahead. Call.”
“Nah. It’s too late. I’ll do it in the morning.” I press his phone into his hand, sandwiching it between our palms andobstructing us from holding hands again, even though now seems like a good time to reach out to my best friend.
Even if it’s bad, he should probably know. “Promise that you’ll call?” I ask, worried that not telling him everything the caller said is the wrong decision.
The rest of my hunk of cake sits sadly on the stainless-steel table.
Declan glances at the number on the screen as though debating whether to listen to it himself.
A rush of panic sweeps through me.
He clicks delete.
Dread and relief are like two ends on a seesaw. “It’s late. We should head back,” I say.
He tucks his phone away. “Thank you.”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.” But the guilt comes at me like a linebacker with a vendetta. A true friend would be there to hold his hand through it, but something has changed between us. If I’m not mistaken, it’s gone beyond the bounds of platonic and into another orbit where men are from Mars and women are from...well, I’m originally from Los Angeles, but that’s not going to help me now.
“Promise me you’ll return the call,” I repeat.
He nods and then spots the rest of my cake. “You’re not going to finish that?”
“All yours.”
The hungry look he gives me makes me wonder about my appetite.
Declan gobbles it up, every last crumb. His smile tells me it’s delicious, and that everything is okay between us. And that he doesn’t know that I hadn’t conveyed the entirety of the message. We near the exit to the hallway and I want to hit rewind, but I can’t...or I won’t.
“I’ve always loved how easy it is to talk to you,” Declan says.
