“Oh,” I say, voice already shaking. “Yeah, no, I don’t mind you asking.” I rearrange my legs beneath me in a crisscross position and dip my brush into the stain again. “You know, I was writing about this the other day, actually.” I glance at him, and he nods for me to go on, like he can sense my trepidation.
“It really struck me how mundane our last handful of conversations were. Because, at first, there’s all this pressure to ask all the right questions. You’re so aware that it’s your last chance to learn anything and everything from them. So, I spent a lot of time asking her to go over every decade of her life. I asked her about times that were most significant or transformative, and I was so meticulous about writing every answer down. But then the last time I spoke to her, we talked about stupid things. Like, the dress I was obsessed with wearing in middle school, and if I was going to eat the leftovers in the fridge or get takeout that night. We small-talked. And it really stressed me out, thinking that I was wasting her last moments talking about these random, inconsequential details. But now, I think she was happy to be talking about those things with me, because that’s what loving someone is. It’s sharing the tiny, stupid, mundane things about your life, because they’re everything to the people you love.”
A warm tear slides down my cheek as I hold the image of Lottie’s wan face on the mechanical bed. I look down to collect myself and swipe it away, and don’t notice that Declan has moved from his spot to sit next to me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, wiping the tear with the back of my hand. “It’s just, I don’t know how to explain the feeling. Butthe whole thing—her getting sick, her dying, felt like this unexpected, violent shift in my life that turned everything upside down. And yet, somehow, it was all so infuriatingly routine. It just felt so cruel that it was so life-changing to me, but not for anyone else. Everyone was acting so normal. The hospice care nurses. The lady in the purple pantsuit they sent to tell me she was dying. The people at the funeral home who held the door open for me. Even my best friends. Everyone was acting so painstakingly casual. And it made me want to throw something at the wall to shake them all up in the way I felt shaken up. The way I feel shaken up.” The words tumble out with the force of my emotion behind them, and I feel self-conscious now that they’re laying between us. “I’m sorry. That probably sounds selfish. Obviously, everyone else was acting normal because people die. That’s just a fact of life. And I was somehow expecting everyone to feel the desperation I felt, but that’s not possible because—”
Declan places his hand on my wrist. “I know exactly what you mean.”
I look down at his hand. Up into his eyes. They’re open to me, like he’s offering a bridge he wants me to walk over.
“I felt exactly the same way after the accident. The anger. The frustration. The confusion. No one responds in the way you want them to. And you can’t blame them, because they don’t know what you want. But, at the same time, it’s infuriating because everyone’s just thinking about how awkward they feel about it, instead of caring about how much you need them to be brave for you. None of my teammates reached out for the first three weeks. Three weeks. And when they did? It was some fake bull crap about how I was gonna get back on the field soon.”
“You’re kidding me,” I scoff.
“Unfortunately not.” He laughs, shakes his head.
The sentiment rings true. Platitudes were somehow the go-to encouragement in light of tragedy, yet all they did was remind me how far my experience was from the person saying them. Because if they were any closer, if they had ever felt something remotely similar, they’d never say something as useless as that.
“Did they even ask what bones you broke? How long you’d be out?”
He shakes his head no.
“Why does it seem so obvious and yet, no one just asks how you’re feeling about the whole thing?” I plead.
“They think it’s rude. They think they’ll be reminding you of it like it’s something you can forget about. Or they just assume everyone else is checking on you. Which ends up leaving you with no one checking on you.”
That lands like a blow to my chest. I blink a few times.
“Is that what’s happening to you right now, Blair?” he asks in a softer voice.
I press my lips together as hard as possible, but the corner of my lip wobbles and everything unravels. A choke of a sob breaks free from my throat.
I would feel more embarrassed if Declan didn’t look so unsurprised.
“Come here,” he whispers and pulls me into his chest. I grasp his middle from the side. Our bodies press together in our seated positions on the wood floor, and it feels like the past four and a half years never happened. He places his chin on my head, and I breathe in the comforting scent of him between disjointed breaths. “It’s okay,” he says gently, rubbing my back and placing his other hand on my head. “It’s okay, Blair. I’m here.”
His gentle words cause me to cry harder. Because against everything I’d expected from coming home, he was here, with me. Not an ounce of him seemed uncomfortable or panicked. He was patient and understanding and calm when I was anything but. When it felt like everyone else had disappeared into their busy lives, he was here, catching me.
“It will take time,” he coaxes, petting my hair with a soothing pressure. “I know it seems unbearable now, but in time, it won’t feel so impossible.”
Time.
It was the inevitable chasm I needed to cross in order to heal from this pain. But it also dawned on me that time was the one chasm between Declan and me, and in this moment, I knew it had done nothing to erase what I once felt for him.
The realization dries up my tears, and my breathing eases into a steadier rhythm. I wipe the hair from my face and look up at him. He looks down at me, gentle eyes searching mine, only a slight lean away. They flit down to my lips once, and they part by reflex.
“Blair,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what?” I rear back, but his strong arm is still holding me.
“Be your friend.” It comes out fast, like he’s scared for me to hear the words.
My eyes frantically search his face for a sign, but his eyes are full of dreadful longing, and he makes no move to lean away from me.
“I don’t want to be your friend either, Declan,” I whisper.
Something flashes in his eyes, like he’s passing through the realm of disbelief to awe and wonder, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
