I’m so occupied with the tension that I don’t realize he’s slowed down until we’re pulling off the road and into a neon-lit drive-thru.
I recognize it as Murphy’s Drive-Thru. A local favorite.Ourlocal favorite. At least, it used to be. We’d come here twice a week sometimes, ordering greasy burgers and thin fries, sharing a milk shake over the middle console, talking about our futures or making fun of the town’s famous hippies walking by.
“And that’s why we,” he says, pointing between him and me, “are going to talk.” He pulls into the line of cars waiting to place their order. “But not before getting some food in us.”
“I don’t need food right now.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums drily.
I scoff.
“Hey, Jesse,” he says to the six-foot-three teenager dressed in a red apron and hat, black iPad in hand. “Can I get two cheeseburgers Murphy’s way with two sides of fries? And then one Oreo milk shake, please.”
When he finishes paying and pulls up to the next window I say, “How do you know my order is still the same?”
“Is it not?” he asks, looking at me sideways through thick lashes.
I look away. “No, it is,” I admit in defeat.
I swear I can feel him smile.
He collects our order and pulls into a parking spot. He unwraps our burgers and balances the fries on the dash, fitting two red straws into the Oreo milk shake.
He hands me my burger. “Here you go. Just like you like it.”
My angry confusion melts at the sight of the greasy burger, soft sesame bun enclosing a perfectly cooked patty and gooey cheese. Murphy’s way is their secret sauce (which is likely just a variation of Thousand Island) and french fries stuffed between the patty and cheese.
“Thank you,” I mumble before snatching the red-paper-wrapped burger from his hands like a grumpy tween. Turns out, you can’t snatch a burger from someone’s hand without looking dumb.
We eat in silence. The sun droops lower and lower in the sky, turning the dusty fence in front of us a thousand shades of brown. When the sun makes its final performance before slipping beneath the sea, it casts its warm yellow rays over the entire town, enveloping the cozy cottages and sea-worn buildings in its golden embrace like a massive hug.
“Okay, Blair,” Declan starts, wiping his hands with a napkin and crinkling the wrapper. “Let’s talk.”
Chapter 17
I blink at him through the harsh car light. The sun has retired, leaving us in the dark.
“Do you want me to explain how I ended up in that house or—”
“I want you to start at the beginning,” I cut him off.
He studies me like he’s unsure if he should.
“Okay.” He looks like he’s calculating something. “The beginning meaning the accident, I assume?”
I nod.
He brushes a hand down his face, eyes going distant like he was returning to that brisk December evening. “Well, youknow how it starts. I’d just won state championships for the third year in a row, and everything just goes chaotic after a win like that. The band was playing. Confetti was popping. My teammates were screaming, slapping me on the back, picking me up. I mean, you know. You’ve been there. It was the typical stuff, and that part is all a blur now.”
I was there, I think, but don’t say. I watched that part. It’s the stuff after that I’ve tried to picture for years—made a disjointed, stitchwork Frankenstein of the memory that felt like mine by envisioning it a million times over. My breathing becomes labored in anticipation of hearing the words from Declan himself.
“My teammates urged me to get to my car quickly to be the first at High Tide Diner. You know how everyone went there to celebrate?” He raises his eyebrows.
I nod mechanically.
“If we didn’t get there first, we’d be blocked out of our own celebration from the crowd. So, I started beelining it across the parking lot.”
I’ve dug my nails into the center console without realizing it, but Declan continues like it’s a funny story.
