“What! What? Don’t use that voice! It scares me.” She snaps out of her typically affable demeanor in an instant.
“I. Just. Saw. Declan,” I grind out, word by word.
There’s a moment of silence that stretches for so long, I remove the phone from my ear to check if she gotdisconnected. I’m grateful the speaker is away from my ear because she screams, “WHAT??THEDECLAN RENSHAW!?”
“Yes!” I cry, relieved to finally have someone else say it back to me.
My eyes. On Declan Renshaw. Four years after the accident.
“Where did you see him?” she asks. “Just out on the street or something?”
“No, he’s the manager of some coffee place. I was applying for a job there before I knew he worked there, obviously!”
“What was his reaction?” she demands.
“I don’t even know. It was so weird. He didn’t look shocked to see me at all. His face was like this… black hole. Just completely devoid of emotion. And then he shoved the job application into my hands and stalked off to the back room like he had something else to deal with.”
“What!?” Roshi squeals. “That’s all? He didn’t say anything about it being…you?”
“I mean, he said one word before disappearing, and it was my name. That’s it. I guess I also only said one word too, but…” I trail off.
“Hmmm,” she hums. “He’s gotta be affected by seeing you for the first time after all these years though. Right?”
I huff out a breath, the question is exactly the thought I’ve had looping through my mind since it happened.
How could he ever move past everything we experienced together? There was the fight but, weren’t we more than that? And how we ended… how was he so unbothered by it?
“Wow. Very strange indeed,” she says quietly, seeming to ponder the strangeness of it alongside me. “Are you still gonna apply for the job?”
“Yeah, I mean, I need a job with overtime hours. Plus… is it bad that I kind of want to work there? To get some sort ofclosure or something? The last time we spoke…” I hesitate. How we ended isn’t something I’ve ever shared with anyone. It certainly wouldn’t paint me in the best light.
“Yes, of course that makes sense!” Roshi insists. “I’d be in that coffee shop every day until that man gave me answers.”
“Yeah. Right,” I intone, choking down a morsel of guilt. “I’m gonna apply.”
Conflict, to me, might as well be synonymous with death. But this is Declan. I can’t help my curiosity now that I know he’ll be in that coffee shop a few blocks away from me every day. Plus, the odds of him hiring me are low anyway.
After catching up with Roshi, I return to the guesthouse, charging up the uneven cobblestone, and let myself into the cool air-conditioning. Throwing my phone on the bed, I rip my suitcase open in search of running clothes.
Adrenaline and ancient, teenage-level angst are still pumping through me. My thoughts won’t calm on their own, but I can force them to by demanding they focus on the essentials only. Breathing. A beating heart. Obsession and heartbreak won’t have room in my body anymore once I start running.
I throw the arch door open, lock it behind me, and jog out onto the street, turning right instead of left to hit the forest road instead of the town.
The sound of my cushioned shoes hitting the black tar road becomes the metronome for my thoughts to stay on beat.
Never, in all my hours spent pondering Declan’s whereabouts, did I consider the coffee shop three blocks from my childhood home. It felt like spending years trying to break into a laptop, only to find out the password was password.
When we lost contact I continued to believe he went to play football for a D1 college. Simply for following thetrajectory he was on, being watched by agents who kept their eye on rising stars, surely, once he healed, he could take his pick of any college team.
Maybe I’m oblivious to how much damage the accident caused, but Declan (and his mom, yes, I checked) hadn’t left a single social footprint on the internet, much to my dismay. Other than a single photo posted to Declan’s Instagram account, which created more questions than answers. Still, I’m shocked to have finally found him, back home, managing a coffee shop.
As much as I try to resist it, a memory from six years ago forces its way to the forefront of my mind, taking center stage. If the memory’s job is to make sure I never finish getting over him, I don’t think I ever started.
Six Years Ago: Summer
Just run like five yards and then look over your shoulder, and I’ll throw you the ball.” Declan is trying to coax me into the idea of pretending to be his wide receiver. It’s the summer before our junior year and he’s antsy to start practice with his new team. We’re facing off in the middle of Seabrook High’s empty football field, a rare misting of dew coating the perfectly grass-green turf beneath us.
“I don’t think you’re understanding me,” I retort. “I have never been good at running with my legs and simultaneously using my arms.”
