“I only posted that because the bride, myothercousin, forced us to under their wedding’s hashtag for some competition they were having,” he clarifies, waving his hand. “Otherwise, I don’t really use… social media.”
He seems ten years older with the way he describes posting photos online.How did he get so much older?That’s kind of the only thing time does, I remember stupidly. That is why I’m sitting here, at Lottie’s funeral. The thought makes my stomach turn inside out, skin getting hot and then cold all over.
“Well, sorry for thinking you were dating your cousin. And… thanks for being here. I better get back inside.” I wipe my hands on my dress as I stand and stalk back toward the entrance.
Today is not the day to be mulling over what his words mean, or why he even showed up in the first place. I resume my journey back inside. I don’t hear his footsteps behind me.
Five Years Ago: Senior Year
Break a leg!” I call out as Declan runs onto the field. It’s the start of our senior year, and though our home turf is humble in size, the anticipation buzzing through each student for the first game of the season could power the largest nearby city. Declan brought us to state championships the past two years. If he does it again, he’ll be the first quarterback from our tiny beach town to win three in a row. He is single-handedly putting Seabrook on the map to those who don’t vacation here in the summer. I’ve made my way to my usual spot on the cold metal bench at the top of the bleachers, giving me the perfect view of Declan talking animatedly to his huddled team.
He’s the only player with his helmet off, wisps of damp chestnut brown-blond hair curling at the base of his neck and behind his ears. I’m mesmerized by the cool determination on his face as he riles up the team. The hard set of his jawline, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shouts, swiveling his head to meet each player’s eye.
The first state championship he won was his sophomore year, which was enough to draw expectant eyes on him. The pressure has only increased since to keep up with that so-called potential.
This was only high school, but high school led to college, which led to the NFL. Declan had his mind set on the life he could achieve after college before kids in high school knew what classes they were taking that year.
The start of his ambition could’ve been credited to his dad forcing him to train at a young age, but eventually, the lines between his father’s demands and his own desire to win were blurred. Perhaps only being loved when he achieved was a form of training in itself. Now, he did exactly what his father wanted for his life without having to be told.
Declan finishes his speech to the team and they clap each other on the back while shouting “BREAK!” They disperse throughout the field like bees leaving the hive, jogging, stretching, or getting water before the game begins. But Declan stands still, helmet in hand, as his eyes begin scanning the crowd. They find mine in impressive time.
I wonder if he also had that subconscious meter, working at all times regardless of my efforts to silence it, that scanned a room for his presence. I always seemed to know where he was. His face softens when he spots me, the tension melting from his eyebrows like butter melting in a warm pan. Like, if he hadn’t found me in the crowd, it would have crushed him.
He waves at me and I try to stifle the giddiness that swims up my chest as I wave back. He winks before putting on his helmet and running into position. It reinforces everything I’ve been feeling (and trying with effort not to name) that’s been shifting in our friendship since this past summer.
I try to wipe the idiotic grin off my face. The game has begun.
As I watch, mesmerized by Declan’s ease on the field, I find my mind sifting through memories of the past summer when we spent every second together that he wasn’t training. I’ve replayed them so many times, combing through each frame for new hints or clues, there must be grooves permanently engraved into my brain.
Starting with prom at the end of junior year: us swaying to the sound of The Cars singing their contemplative lyrics, “Who’s gonna pick you up when you fall?” Forfeiting our dismissive, playful demeanors for heated silence. As if we were trying to communicate something through sight alone. “Who’s gonna pay attention to your dreams?” The sentiment stuck in my mind as I stared into Declan’s soft green eyes.
It was something big. So big that it felt too scary to acknowledge quite yet.
But then, nothing. Heated stares dissolved with the turn of his head. Almost moments became nothing moments.
He had so many opportunities to end this nauseating friendship purgatory. But he never did. So, I guess it wasn’t purgatory for him, just normal life. One he enjoyed, where he kept me as his friend and nothing more.
He must have felt something, but I was never going to find it in me to break the tension first. The thought of losing him forever over emotions he didn’t reciprocate sounded worsethan swallowing glass. So, I bowed my head and kept my wrists devotedly together, forever caught in his invisible grasp.
I blink and the crowd of students erupts into a cacophony of cheers.
Declan threw a game changing pass.
We have this game in the bag now, but it doesn’t diminish the frenzy we feel as a collective, watching the team with your school’s name dominating the field.
Declan removes his helmet and I’m entranced by the sight of his puffy maroon lips, swollen by his mouthguard, and the errant strand of hair dripping sweat over his forehead. There was nothing more attractive than watching someone lost to what they loved doing most. The full-bodied focus, paired with the comfortable ease with which they maneuvered in their expertise. It could be underwater basketweaving, but if they were passionate, it was intoxicating to witness.
Finally, it’s the fourth quarter. Declan runs back onto the field with the offense, huddling in a tight ball before yelling a series of words, and they scatter into their positions.
“DOWN. SET….” Declan pauses a second longer before calling “HIKE!”
And the ball is in motion, hurtling from the center and into Declan’s palms.
My leg bounces uncontrollably, and a pointed glance from the girl beside me causes me to grip my knees to keep them steady.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
She just nods, looking back toward the field.
