“You’re wearing the same expression you did on the jet.”
He knows me so well.
“It’s not Boston,” I say.
“No, we’re a long way from there. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Is it the Legos that have your lips twisted like you ate a lemon?”
I tip my hands, weighing the possibility that he’s warm.
“I always wanted a set growing up.”
“Gold Legos?”
“Well, no. But why get plastic when you can have precious metals?” Without waiting for my response, he moves to the stove with his back to me and stirs something.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that’s a cauldron and you’re mixing up some strange brew, but it smells amazing.”
His muscular shoulders shake with a laugh. “I hope you like traditional Irish stew. Actually, I can’t say that since I’m cutting a few corners and making the quick version. Don’t tell Aunt Maureen.”
Previously, he’d worn suits at the Blancbourg school. Now he’s in a black T-shirt and blue jeans. A full sleeve of tattoos covers one arm, with several dotting the other.
I approach him tentatively, not feeling confident that the air between us is clear, despite his words of forgiveness. Could I forgive him if he’d done the same? The answer floats into my mind.Yes, of course. We’re best friends.
He turns, holding a wooden spoon aloft with his other hovering to catch drips. “Taste this, it’s delicious, if I do say so.”
I step closer, and he feeds me a bit of the broth.
“I’ve eaten at many of the finest restaurants in the world and nothing compares to a home-cooked meal. When I was a kid, they were few and far between, so I’ve come to appreciate the simplicity—” He breaks off. “You don’t like it? Did I add too much thyme?”
“I thought there were sanctions against you entering kitchens.”
“There were. They’ve been lifted.” The tremulousness in his voice suggests that’s not true, and there’s a story there. A dark one.
Declan set places for the two of us at a farmhouse-style table with him at the end and me to his right. He serves the soup and some freshly baked artisanal bread.
After smoothing his napkin on his lap like a proper Blancbourg student, he says, “Okay, two truths and one lie.”
I flinch. “Can we skip the lying part?”
“I suppose. Then it’s just telling each other truths.”
“I think we should only tell each other truths. And the truth is this stew is blowing my mind.” I grin around a bite.
“Thank you. Who goes first?” Declan asks.
“Let’s do rock, paper, scissors.”
This time, I win the best of three rounds.
“Where do I start?” I ask.
“How about at the beginning? We kept the past out of the present when we met. Mine broke out of its cage. Your turn. Do you have siblings?”
“Only child.” And a mistake, a burden at that, according to my parents.
“Me too. Well, I never met my father, so there could be other Declans out there.” He chuckles.
“I think one of you in the world is enough.” My lips quirk. At least one is enough for me. More than enough.
