“That makes sense,” I reply, eyes staying trained on the birdhouses. “Well, they are very impressive. I could look at them all day.”
“Thanks,” he replies, voice strained.
The brief discussion of his past is more disorienting than the small height I’m balancing from, so I lift the paintbrush to the ceiling.
“Do you mind turning on a light?”
Declan looks up. “Yeah, of course. Sorry about that.” He flips the overhead lights on and then strides back to his notebook.
“So, why are…” He stops mid-sentence and starts again. I’m surprised you’re back in town.”
My paintbrush pauses mid-stroke.
“Yeah,” I huff. “That would make two of us.”
I return to glossing the ceiling, mulling over his forwardness. His sudden interest in speaking to me. But then I recall that he’s always carried on conversations in this way. Not wasting time with filler, always cutting through the fat and going straight for the meat of a conversation. It’s just been a while since I’ve been a part of it.
“It was a surprise for you, too?”
Is he fishing for the reason I came home? I thought he knew.
“Umm, yes. Definitely a shock.”
“And why’s that?”
“Lottie’s illness ramped up out of nowhere. We thought she had stage two lung cancer. They were treating her accordingly, and then when she wasn’t responding to treatment, they took another scan and realized it was stage four.” I feel the familiar ball of tension form in my throat. The memory of the phone call that changed my life. “My mom told me two weeks before graduating Pepperdine. I got here as fast as I could. And I’m glad. I got to spend some good quality time with her. Collected as many stories from her life as possible.”
I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling, not risking a glance down to see his reaction.
“I’m so sorry, Blair,” he replies, voice softening. “I’m sure she appreciated that more than you can imagine.”
I nod. “Thanks for saying so.”
A beat passes.
Oh gosh. Please don’t let him be one of those people who gets awkward talking about difficult—
“And you’re working here because…” He trails off, waiting for me to fill in.
“I had to defer my job.”
“Your job in New York City, working as an author?”
Oh. He remembered.
It takes me a second to realize he assumed New York City from my rambling about it in high school. Not from any concrete knowledge of my life now.
His words feel like a punch to the gut. But also, much too intimate. He’s the only one I trusted to tell. It feels like he’s brandishing a weapon by reminding me.
No one else in my life, not even my mom, knew that being an author had been my biggest dream. The one that was so true to my soul that it felt like treason to say it out loud. It was vulnerable to admit your dreams. It gave people a detailed map of how and where to hit you to make it hurt the most—painting the red X on your back for them.
But what bothered me most about the whole thing was the fact that I hadn’t written a single line of prose in years, until after the funeral a week ago. Lottie’s death had me scrambling for purchase, and writing felt like getting traction under my feet.
“Hah,” I chuckle weakly. “New York City, yes, but…” I trail off, voice hardening. “Writing isn’t—” I stop and try again. “That’s not my dream anymore.”
My gaze falls from the ceiling, settling on one of the metal ridges on the ladder. I hear Declan’s work boots echooff the wooden floor. He stands below me, crosses his arms, and looks up.
“What do you mean it’s not your dream anymore?” he asks, eyes locked on mine.
