"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I try to find the words. "Bree looks like she belongs with you. She dresses right. Acts right. Knows all the right people. She looks like someone you might take to one of your fancy parties or dinner with your father."
"I don't care about any of that."
"But you should. Or you will eventually." My voice cracks. "When you go pro, you're going to be surrounded by people like Bree. People who grew up with money and who know how to navigate that lifestyle. And I'm going to be—what? The girl who makes just enough money to buy a used car and lives in a tiny apartment.”
Declan is quiet for a long moment.
Then he reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp.
The sudden light makes me blink.
"Look at me," he says gently.
I do.
His eyes are intense. Serious.
"I was oblivious to Bree's manipulation," he says. "I never saw her as a girlfriend. I didn’t see her at all. She’s like window decor. Curtains. She’s just there looking pretty and serving a purpose. I have never seen her the way I see you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means when Bree walks into a room, I barely register it. But when you walk in?" He cups my face. "Everything else disappears. You're the only person I see."
Tears prick my eyes. "You're just saying that."
"I'm not." He strokes my cheek with his thumb. "I notice everything about you. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. How you scrunch your nose when you're annoyed. The specific shade of blue your eyes turn when you're happy."
He’s going to make me cry. Happy tears, but I’m so tired of water leaking from my eyes.
"You think you don't fit in my world? Sutton, youaremy world. Everything else is just noise."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.
"It's not that simple," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"Because money matters. Lifestyle matters. I've been feeling like I'm competing with something I can't afford to be."
"You're not competing with anything."
"Aren't I? Your dad has a penthouse in New York. You eat at restaurants where a single meal costs more than I make in a week. You wear designer clothes without even thinking about it." I wipe at my eyes. "And I'm over here counting pennies to make rent. Picking up extra shifts to buy textbooks. Wearing the same three outfits on rotation because that's all I have."
"I've never cared about any of that."
“I know you don’t, and I love you for that, but I know things will change. When you're making millions and traveling the world and surrounded by people who speak the language of the rich, then what?" I stand up, needing space. "What happens when you realize I don't fit? When you're embarrassed to bring me to team events because I don't know which fork to use or what wine pairs with what?"
"That's never going to happen."
"You don't know that!"
"I do know that!" He stands, too, crossing the room to me. "Because I've seen both sides. I grew up in that world: the penthouses and the private schools and the country clubs. And you know what? It's empty. Superficial. Everyone's trying to impress everyone else. No one's real."
"So what am I? Your rebellion? Your way of feeling authentic?"
"No. You're the person I want to build a life with." He takes my hands. "You think I care about expensive restaurants? I'drather have pizza on the couch with you. You think I care about designer clothes? I care that you steal my hoodies and wear them until they smell like you. I like that ratty Def Leppard shirt you wear on laundry day. I love that you save all the ketchup and soy sauce packets and put them in the fridge."
