“Mm-hmm,” he hums. The sound is bright, open, despite his lack of eye contact.
He takes a measuring tape out of his back pocket and lays it on a slab of wood, then picks it up and brings it over to me.
“For this one, I need you to hold it horizontally, like this.” It balances on top of the one he just drilled.
“Got it.”
I stand in the middle of the slab, making sure to keep it flat, while Declan walks over to my side to drill it down.
“I watched a lot of YouTube videos of random dudes building decks for their wives or doghouses for their dogs, and then eventually started with trying to build small things when I wasn’t mobile yet. And then about eight months into that I tried building bigger projects with my uncle who’s in construction,” he says, eyes trained on the wood as he makes a notation with his pencil again.
I wasn’t expecting him to offer up that much detail, and with this tiny peek behind the curtain that closed shut between us, I become aware of how hungry I am to learn more about what he was doing during all that time.
What he was doing during his first week without me. His second month. The third year. There was so much unknown, stretching between us like an ocean. It felt like he’d just handed me the oar to a row boat. I wanted to keep paddling until I got to his shore.
“That’s so cool,” I start, mind racing in a million different directions of ways to encourage him to continue openingup. “So, you did that while you were recovering and then you what? Got this job and moved up the ranks? Or did the owner contract you to do renovations?”
“I guess you could say that,” he says, and then the deafening buzz of the drill drowns out all other sound.
I’m expecting him to continue when he finishes drilling, but he doesn’t. Just moves back to the pile of wood and measures a new one before bringing it over.
“So,” he starts, eyes focused on his measuring tape and pencil marks. “You went to Pepperdine for writing?”
“Hah-gah.” A strangled laugh forces its way out of me. “Not quite. Pepperdine, yes. But not for writing. I majored in economics with a minor in psychology.”
Declan pauses, returning the pencil to behind his ear. “You majored in economics?”
“Yes…” I say. “Is that difficult to believe?”
“No, it’s just…” He returns to lining up the wood and finding a nail. “I guess it’s just surprising for someone who loves words so much.”
I’m momentarily stunned. From a man who wanted nothing to do with the details of my life, to assuming he knows how they panned out.
“I can love both,” I rebut.
“Both what?”
“Words and… economic theory.”
He chuckles slightly at that and I feel a flush of satisfaction.
“Yeah. I guess.” He steadies a nail over pencil markings, preparing to drill it in. “I just figured for someone so enraptured by words her whole life, they’d still somehow worm their way into your adult life. Even if not professionally.”
“Enraptured. Good word.”
“My point—”
“Taken,” I finish for him. “We already went through this,” I say, annoyance and perhaps a tiny bit of defensiveness bubbling out. “Besides, isn’t this pretty far from what you wanted to do?” I gesture to the pile of wood and the coffee shop surrounding us.
“Yeah, I guess it is… but not because I didn’t try my best at my first choice,” he says, and then begins drilling again.
“Excuse me? What are you trying to imply?” I spit over the sound of the drill.
He stops drilling and looks at me. “I stopped playing football because I didn’t have a choice. You had a choice.”
My neck physically cranes backward. “I had a choice? Where exactly was my choice, Declan?” He starts walking back to continue rifling through the slabs of wood, so I talk to his back. “I only went to Pepperdine because they gave me a full ride. I wasn’t going to waste that on a creative writing degree only to be humbled the moment I was spit out into the real world. Not all of us have rich parents to fall back on if our unrealistic pipe dream doesn’t pan out. Who was I supposed to fall back on? Lottie?” I emphasize her name like a curse, knowing it will land with the intended shock value.
Declan stops, turns around, and looks at me. All challenge leaves his eyes. A sympathetic, pity-filled look replaces it. Like he knows my outburst is really misplaced grief taking itself out on him. Which isn’t an excuse, and I realize it immediately.
