Page 61 of Declan

We laugh, and I tell her everything. Not just about the sex, though that’s definitely the highlight, but about how I feel. How Declan makes me feel seen. Safe. Wanted.

And even though I totally overreacted about her and Wesley, I know, deep down, that when the time comes, Wesley is going to overreact too.

But maybe, like me, he’ll come around.

Because Declan’s worth it.

And I think, just maybe, I’m worth it to him, too.

“Okay,I’m going to head over to Declan’s,” I say, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

“Have fun!” Jeanne calls from her room, already half-dressed to go out drinking with some of her friends.

I linger in her doorway, nerves creeping in. “Please don’t say anything to anyone.”

She turns to look at me, her expression softening. “I won’t, I promise. Your secret is safe with me.”

I nod, grateful, and give her a quick hug before leaving. On the way to Declan’s, I swing by my favorite little Italian place and grab dinner. It’s not much, but I thought it’d be a sweet surprise. Something thoughtful. Something that says I’m thinking about you even when you’re not here.

My heart actually flutters the closer I get, which is ridiculous. I saw him this morning. We’d barely gone twelve hours without each other, and here I was already aching for more. It’s pathetic, I know. But it’s not just the attraction, it’s the pull. The want. The need.

But as I pull up to his place and see the empty driveway, my stomach drops.

His bike isn’t there.

Still hopeful, I climb out, carefully balancing the bag of food and my purse. I try the door. Locked.

I knock. Wait.

Nothing.

I knock again, harder. Still nothing.

Embarrassment creeps in, followed by a growing flame of anger. I get back into the car and set the food down on the passenger seat, and call him.

He answers on the third ring. “Hey,” he says, his tone clipped, like I’ve caught him in the middle of something.

“Where are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

There’s a pause, then the sound of a door slamming. “I’m at the Twisted Souls. I have some shit to handle. What’s up?”

I hear it, the rush, the impatience. Like I’m an inconvenience. A pit forms in my stomach, and I grip the phone tighter.

“I’m at your place. I thought we were spending the weekend together. I’ve missed you,” I say, forcing the words past the lump forming in my throat.

“Christ, I can’t leave. Not for a while,” he says, and lets out a tired sigh. “There’s a key under the mat, just let yourself in and I’ll be there when I can.”

And then he hangs up.

Just like that.

No apology. No explanation. No, I miss you too.

I stare at the phone in disbelief before hurling it into the passenger seat. “Asshole,” I mutter, jerking the car into drive and peeling away from his house like I can somehow outrun this humiliation.

By the time I get home, Jeanne’s already gone, and thank God for that because I look pathetic walking in with two takeout containers and a weekend bag that has nothing but lingerie and way too much hope.

I toss everything on the kitchen counter like it’s cursed, strip out of my tight jeans and the black off-the-shoulder top I picked just for him, and slip into my comfiest sweats. I’m done. I’m so fucking done.

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