MAGGIE
While riding the bus back to the apartment, I review the B&S Media story. My parents are like sharks. Blood lures them—stories of death, loss, and destruction. What made them change course, publish something that painted Declan in a positive light instead of Mrs. O’Mealley’s account, and then dedicate the story to me?
As the bus stops and heaves a sigh, I realize that I hold the answer in my hand. When I switched my phone and Declan’s, there was a call from my parents. Had they called and he answered or had Declan called them and they’d gotten back to him? Whatever happened, it came out positively in the end and that is all I could hope for.
Declan’s story, as dark as it had been, is one of hope. He’d overcome the odds that he would’ve turned out exactly like Keefe. Declan had been afraid to tell anyone the truth about his past, but it was powerful and showed the resiliency of the human spirit, the community that consisted of his aunt, trainers, coaches and team, and his faith. My parents, of all people, had been the ones to share it.
Tears fill my eyes. I may not get my happy ending with Declan, but maybe because of him, other people—teens like he’d been, those who thought there might not be a way out of difficult circumstances—will find the strength in his story to move forward.
Buoyed until I return to the apartment, I promptly fall onto the couch because the reality is, I’m homeless, jobless, and loveless.
My inner troll pipes up, attempting to quash my ambition and motivation.
Etta Jo had offered me a place to stay until I got back on my feet, but as I lay here, wishing to be part of the second half of Declan’s story, I can’t imagine getting up. At least not for a while.
I probably ought to go to Concordia or someplace else where I can be anonymous. Declan’s idea to sail around the world on his yacht sounds tempting. But there is no way we could ever be together.
I groan, feeling like I crash-landed. In the last days, Etta Jo has sat with me for hours, listening, sharing her insight, and supporting me, but I can’t imagine moving—my body or into a new place. I don’t know how I’ll get on with my life or where to go. I’m utterly alone.
Dozing, the door flies open and Giselle breezes in. She shuffles bags, boxes, and other items around. She’s in a frenzy, shoving things into Etta Jo’s room, tossing clothing and shoes in the closet. She stuffed stacks of magazines under the coffee table. Her long, lacquered nails flash.
I blink and sit up. “Everything okay? What are you doing?”
Giselle startles. “I didn’t see you there. You’re heaped under that ratty blanket.”
“Goblin mode.”
“That is not a vibe.”
“Do you need help cleaning up?” I ask.
“Oh, no, honey. You just keep lying there wallowing. Don’t mind me. I just have a player for the Miami Riptide coming over.”
“Are you still dating Garrison?”
Giselle nods. “I think things are getting serious. He wanted to come to see my lair.” She cackles.
I almost crack a smile. “Have you heard from Cateline?”
“No, she’s dealing with a football player of her own.” Giselle smirks.
I gasp. “The headmistress and Wolf, her pupil?” I thought they despised each other.
Giselle smooths her hair. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous. As ever. Giselle, you could go through a hurricane and you’d look as fresh as spring rain.”
“It’s these Berghier genes. You might want to freshen up, too. Okay, lights, camera, action.” She struts to the door just as a knock sounds.
Without warning, several burly guys stride in. The one in the front is wearing the turquoise and yellow colors of the Riptide, but the others are in Boston Bruiser’s black and blue. They surround me on all sides and pick up the couch, then heft it with me still on top.
I squeak and then squeal as they march out of the apartment. “What is going on? Where are we going? Put me down!”
They don’t answer.
I try to sit up, being careful not to fall over the edge.
Carrying me like some misfit goblin princess, the football players parade down the hall and outside. They set the couch down in the courtyard at the same time a black dot fills the sky.
