20. CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 20

“Can you feel me now that I’m vulnerable in oh so many ways”

Light On – Maggie Rogers

Nathalie

G ordie leaps from my lap, scrambling toward the door. I lift my gaze from my book to watch the small ball of fur dart away. His frantic meows beckon Deon, who rounds the corner from the kitchen, wearing nothing but sweatpants that hang so, so low on his hips. I avert my gaze before my warm cheeks give me away.

As soon as Deon’s family left, I moved my belongings back into the guest room. His words repeat in my mind on a constant loop. You won’t have my calves to warm your toes forever.

Such a throwaway statement, but the truth of them reverberated to my core and settled like a rock in my stomach.

Deon’s right .

This is going to end, and I need to do better at keeping my emotions far away from the situation. Sleeping with him was a reckless, stupid idea. It muddied the waters so thoroughly that I don’t know where fake ends and real starts.

One night in a bed with Deon was enough to know I would not survive another. Sleeping beside someone is an intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.

“What’s his problem?” He asks, grabbing a protein shake from the fridge. Gordie shrieks and Deon cowers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to his cat, “Your emotions are totally valid.”

I fight a snicker and drop my book on the coffee table.

“I don’t know. He was sleeping a minute ago. Did you order anything?” I ask, reaching Gordie, who’s frantically pawing at the front door.

When I fling the door open, I expect to find a package at the door, not Declan, who’s standing in nothing but a t-shirt and shorts, shivering from the whipping December air.

My breath lodges in my throat.

Tears streak his cheeks, nearly freezing from the weather, and his eyes are bloodshot. He wipes his nose before crashing his body against mine, nearly sending me tumbling. His skin is icy as he clutches me in his arms, and his body convulses from the intensity of his sobs.

I don’t know why he’s crying, and that’s what scares me most.

I’ve never known this version of Declan, but I know if I wasn’t holding onto him, I don’t think he would be able to stand on his own.

“Declan, what’s wrong?”

He separates from me, but before he can speak, Deon is beside me, fully clothed and dragging Declan into the house.

“Get inside. It’s freezing.”

Deon gently wraps a blanket around Declan and guides him to the couch, and my heart beats erratically from nerves about Declan but also from the way Deon is treating him with such tender kindness.

It’s doing something to my heart, the same something it does when Deon shares a little part of himself with me or does something thoughtful.

Deon pulls the blanket tightly around Declan before his arms follow, holding Declan against his chest while he cries. Deon asks no questions, offers no words of comfort but simply allows Declan to fall apart in his arms.

Meanwhile, I’m in tears in the kitchen, watching them together.

You always hope when you fall in love, it’s with someone who, to their core, is a good, kind person. Someone who will lift you in your lower moments and cheer you on in your success.

It’s not something every person manages to find, but if you’re lucky, you’ll find that person. The one that leaps into action when your friend shows up on your porch in tears. Who doesn’t ask questions or demand answers but simply allows the other person the space they need to fall apart without judgment.

I was growing skeptical if I would ever find that person. I didn’t think I would find it in the man who has declared he doesn’t want a relationship, but here I am, holding a steaming mug of tea, struggling with the realization everything I have ever wanted is sitting on the couch and he’s not mine to want or have or love , even if I think I might desire all of those things.

Swiping away the rogue tears, I hand Declan the mug of tea to help banish the chill.

“Declan,” Deon says softly, “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

Declan stares down at the mug in his hands, and with a trembling voice, he mutters, “He’s gone.”

Two words are all it takes for my tears to return and for dread to sit heavy like a rock in my stomach. Two words to know Declan’s world has flipped upside down.

Deon’s gaze shifts to mine, his head tilting slightly in confusion while he holds Declan in his arms. It’s bad, I mouth, unable to explain any further without releasing every tear I’m fighting to hold back.

“Declan?” His head lifts, and the grief that lingers in his gaze knocks the air from my lungs. “What do you need?”

How do I help him with this?

Telling him how sorry I am doesn’t change the fact that the one person who loved Declan, who treated him like a son, is gone.

If he needs to sit here and cry for the next few days, we can do that. If he needs to break something, we can do that, too.

“I…I need—” His voice cracks, and my heart splinters at the sound, “Can we go to your house?”

The tears I was battling make a reappearance, and they begin to fall freely. My heart completely shatters at the hesitation in his gaze. I never realized…He considers them family. I knew he enjoyed family dinners, but if I had known how much they meant to him…shit, I’m crying again.

I can’t cry. He needs someone to take care of him, to hold him while he grieves, not cry. Deon’s brows furrow, but I ignore him, grabbing my phone to call my mom. She answers on the second ring.

“How’s my favorite daughter?” she laughs as she answers.

“Are you home?” I ask, jumping straight to the point .

She immediately notices the shift. “Nathalie, is everything okay?”

“I’m okay. Is everyone home?” I ask again, sniffling. I glance at Deon, who is whispering kind words to Declan, assuring him everything will be okay. Another piece of my heart becomes Deon’s as he holds Declan.

“Everyone is here…Nathalie, you’re scaring me.” My mom’s voice is wary and hesitant.

“I think—I think Alan died,” I whisper the confession so Declan won’t hear, desperately hoping it’s not true, but the way Declan begins to cry anew, I know I’m right.

My mom sucks in a sharp breath, and then rustling fills the mine, followed by a distinct groan.

“ Qué? ” I can hear my father ask, his voice groggy from sleep.

“No more siesta ,” my mom hisses. “Alan died, and you need to cook.”

There’s more rustling, and I glance at the guys, who are now both watching me with intense curiosity. “? Mija, todo bien? ” My father’s voice filters through the phone, and the sound soothes a sliver of the ache in my chest.

“No.” I hear my mother whisper but can’t make out the words.

“I will make paella .” I can envision the small nod of his head with the statement. “Come home.”

“Thank you,” I choke out, unable to process the flood of emotion. “See you soon.”

I hang up the phone, turning to the two people who have somehow snuck deep into my heart and planted roots so deep they will live there forever.

The first time I heard about Declan, I thought he was an asshole. He dated Sawyer when she first moved to Seattle and blew her off, and I was convinced he was one of those people who only cared about themselves.

He proved me wrong.

While he did treat Sawyer poorly, he owned up to those actions, and he worked on himself. He apologized and was forgiven, and then he showed us all who he is. A friend who is loyal and outgoing, who only wants to find the family he’s been missing. A man who advocates for therapy and is willing to re-enact sex scenes at Book Club. Like every other person in the world, he wants a place to call his own, people to call his family, and someone to love.

How could I not become friends with someone like that?

It appears Declan may have also snuck into Deon’s heart because Deon does the one thing that scares him most in this world: Deon swoops a flailing Gordie into his arms and extends his geriatric demon cat to Declan so they can cuddle together.

I’ve never seen Deon pick Gordie up, and from the way Gordie flails, I can see why. It’s dangerous for Deon. I avoid focusing on Deon for too long, in fear the swirling feelings in my chest will overwhelm me.

He’s not what I expected, but he’s so much more than I could have ever anticipated or hoped for. But hoping Deon Adams will fall in love with me is pointless and foolish and will only lead to even deeper heartbreak. I need to remind myself of that.

Gently, I take Declan’s hand and throw my weight to pull him up from the couch. His eyes dart across my face, and the pain and sadness there crushes me.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper, and Declan nods, moving toward the door.

Deon hands him a sweatshirt and pants, and as we move to the door, a familiar and comforting weight falls on my lower back. Lifting my head over my shoulder, my eyes connect with Deon’s.

He bites his lip.

“Do you—Do you want me to come?” He chokes on the question like he is afraid of the response.

For the first time since this whole thing started—since Deon walked into my apartment—I allow myself to say what I truly feel without any concern for my heart.

“I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do this without you.”

I squeeze his hand before guiding Declan out the door. I don’t wait to for Deon to make a choice, but my heart thunders in my chest when I hear the jingle of his keys.

“I’ll drive,” he says, but nothing more.

Deon

Nathalie holds Declan in her small arms in the backseat of my car, whispering quietly, and with intense clarity, I know I’ll never be the same. I always believed finding Savannah in bed with Brian was my defining moment, the one that altered the trajectory of my life.

It wasn’t that moment; it’s this one right here. It’s watching the woman who I’m falling in love with comfort someone she loves. It’s her words, declaring she needed and wanted me with her. It’s because, in this moment, I am everything I’ve never been before: wanted, needed, leaned upon when the burden is too heavy to bear alone.

Nathalie murmurs, “It’s going to be okay,” and my body buzzes with the need to understand. I know only what Declan has shared about his life. I’ve never pushed to learn more, but as we pull into the driveway of Nathalie’s childhood home, I realize maybe I should have.

We grew closer when we were in Michigan—sharing a room allows you to learn a lot about somebody—but there’s a blank page where Declan’s past exists.

He’s never spoken about his time before meeting Henry at Notre Dame, and I’ve never asked.

Nathalie’s family darts out of the house, and Margaret nearly rips my door off the hinges as she hauls Declan inside, leaving Nathalie and me alone in the car. Nathalie crawls over the center console, her ass lifted directly in my face, and I jerk my head away. She settles into the passenger seat, none the wiser, I’m rocking a boner from her acrobatics in the car.

Her brown eyes examine me.

“How much do you know about Declan?”

I’m unable to hide my embarrassment.

“Not much. I’ve never really asked.” The confession sours my stomach. The last thing I want is for Nathalie to think I don’t care about him or her .

“Truthfully, I don’t think this is something he ever planned on telling you or anyone on the team.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What I’m about to share with you can never leave this car.” Her eyes are sharp behind her glasses, and I reach my pinky out, offering her the most sacred of oaths . I would never break her trust. Her pinky intertwines with mine, and the small smile she gives me knocks the air from my lungs.

“Pinky promise,” I say, letting the sincerity creep into the statement.

She nods, and instead of releasing my finger, she does something shocking: she intertwines our hands together. I start to fixate when she brings me back to reality.

“Declan grew up in foster care.” My heart stops beating in my chest. “He lived with an older couple until he was twelve, but the husband got sick, and they couldn’t foster anymore. They moved him to a group home. I know little of what his life was like in the group home, but I know he struggled. He didn’t do well in school and couldn’t make friends. Alan was his high school football coach, that’s who died. From what little I know about Alan, he was Declan’s father figure. He helped Declan get his grades up to be eligible to play football, and when Declan had his choice of schools, he chose Notre Dame because it was Alan’s favorite team.”

Tears cascade down Nathalie’s cheeks, and my free hand darts out to wipe them away. Her grip tightens around mine, and her breath is erratic.

“Breathe, baby.”

The endearment tumbles out, but she gulps down air and then continues.

“Besides his half-sister, who Declan has a complicated relationship with, Alan is—was—Declan’s only family.” More tears fall, and my heart twists in my chest at the sight. “He has no one else,” she admits, and her face crumbles. “We’re all he has now. We are his family.”

For a split second, I assume she’s referring to her family, and only when she looks at me do I realize she’s including me, too. I’m a part of that family in some way or another .

The realization I want to be a part of that family, her family, makes it difficult to breathe.

I nod, any response lodged in my throat. Silently, she exits the car. As I reach her side, she takes my hand again, and my heart races in my chest, an irregular beat.

“We’re going to have to keep pretending,” she whispers, “that we’re dating.”

I nod again, not trusting myself to speak, but clutch her hand as we walk into her home.

Sawyer barrels through the door forty-five minutes later with Maren hot on her heels. They fly through the living room, trapping Declan between their bodies in a crushing, emotional hug.

“I love you, Declan,” Sawyer whispers.

“Love you,” Maren says, placing a kiss on Declan’s cheek.

Henry and Jack filter into the living room, and their eyes instantly meet mine. I subtly shake my head.

Since we’ve arrived, he’s barely spoken, nothing more than the few words Nathalie’s mom could pull out of him. I’ve sat on the couch, unsure of how I fit, while Nathalie’s siblings trade turns holding him, offering words of comfort. Nathalie flutters around the kitchen, helping her father cook, eyes darting to Declan. She offers a soft smile when our eyes meet, but anguish lingers behind those blue glasses. This is hurting her, too, knowing someone she loves is in pain.

I’ve never met anyone like her, and I rub the heavy feeling in my chest.

“We’re here for whatever you need,” Henry says, and Declan’s head drops onto Henry’s shoulders as he sobs. Henry holds him tightly, and once again, my axis tilts with understanding.

My old friends were…I can’t say with any confidence they would have shown up the way my friends are now, pausing their lives to make sure Declan is cared for. They could never be like my old friends, the same way Nathalie could never be like Savannah.

Jack holds Declan next, whispering soft words into his ear. I catch the end. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent, and I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Declan croaks, and Nathalie’s head darts up to check on Declan.

“Everyone, come eat,” Nathalie’s father says, and we all file into the dining room, squeezing into the space.

The room is overflowing with love and compassion, and I can barely breathe.

Is this what I’ve been denying myself for so long? Could I have had this if I wasn’t so afraid of being hurt again?

Nathalie slides into the chair next to mine, her fingers lacing through mine. “Thank you for being here,” she whispers. “I know things are weird with us, but—”

I cut her off.

“There’s nowhere else in the world I would want to be.” I pull at the friendship bracelet on her wrist, the one that matches mine. “We’re a team.”

“A team,” she confirms, leaning her head on my shoulder.

I place a soft kiss on her forehead, pressing every emotion swimming in my chest into the action.

The conversation is sparse, but the love in the room is not, and as we finish dinner and Declan falls asleep in the guest bedroom, not wanting to be alone, a thought strikes me like a rogue lightning bolt.

I want it to be real. Every last thing between us, I want to be as real as the beating inside my chest.

Nathalie’s shoulders sag as we walk through the door. The weight of the day is weighing on her. Once bright, warm eyes are dull and lifeless. Her hair is disheveled, and she’s on the brink of tears.

Her sadness is palpable, and it tears me to shreds.

“Go sit on the couch, I’ll be there in a minute,” I say, putting away our coats and shoes.

She curls beneath a blanket on the couch while I make two cups of tea and grab the macarons I ordered but I’ve been waiting to give her.

Now seems like a good time.

She’s sniffling when I reach her, wiping away tears as she stares at her phone.

“Gracie said he’s still asleep,” she whispers when I hand her the tea and place the macarons on the table. “He’s not doing well.”

“How are you doing?” I ask.

Right now, I’m concerned for her. The question breaks the dam, and she begins to sob. I snatch the tea from her grip and pull her against my chest. “It’s okay,” I murmur, allowing her to crumble in my arms.

After a few minutes, Nathalie lifts her head, and her eyes are a bit clearer. The small riot in my stomach settles at her tentative smile.

“I think I needed to let it all out,” she says sheepishly, opening the box of macarons and taking one. “I bought us a puzzle. Do you want to work on it?” she asks.

“You know how I feel about a good puzzle,” I joke, and Nathalie disappears into the guest room.

When she returns, she’s wearing my hoodie and holding a puzzle box in her hands. We work in silence, searching for the border and organizing the pieces by what section of the puzzle we think it belongs to. It’s a calm quiet between us. Peaceful, even.

I could spend every night of the rest of my life right here with Nathalie, simply drinking tea and completing puzzles. There’s no need to fill the air with empty chatter. It’s my comfortability with her that allows me to give Nathalie another one of my truths.

“She never needed me,” I admit. I work on the puzzle, sliding a piece into place. “When she was upset, she wanted to be alone. Any time she had an issue, she disappeared, at least emotionally. I never knew how she felt, even when I asked.”

Nathalie’s foot meets my calf beneath the coffee table, and she wiggles her toes beneath it. A silent, I’m here, and I’m listening .

“Part of me wonders if she ever actually loved me.” I’ve never voiced the thought out loud. I finish the bottom border and begin to rustle through the inner pieces. My eyes never leave the puzzle, but Nathalie patiently waits for me to continue. “I spent years of my life loving her, and I’m not sure she ever loved me. How sad is that?”

My voice cracks, and Nathalie’s hand falls over mine. She pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and says the last thing I expect.

“Eat a macaron. They help the sadness.”

She pushes the box in my direction, and the sweet, orange flavor melts on my tongue.

“You’re right,” I admit, “that did help.”

Nathalie twirls a puzzle piece between her fingers, lost in thought, before she tries to place it, only it doesn’t fit.

“I-I think people are like puzzle pieces. At first glance, you might think they fit together, but when you get closer, you realize they’re not meant for each other. So you keep searching, desperately looking for a piece that fits, and then one day,” she slips the puzzle piece into its spot, a perfect fit, “you find what you’ve been searching for, a perfect match.”

Nathalie’s focused on the puzzle, but I can’t rip my gaze away from her.

“Some people stop searching,” she says, “They give up. Put the puzzle back into the box and stuff it into the closet. I find that heartbreaking. Everyone deserves to find someone who completes them, and it’s really sad when people give up or think they’re unworthy of finding the love they deserve.”

Every one of her words land like daggers in my chest.

Is that what I did? Give up?

I think I might have, but as Nathalie sips her tea and works on the puzzle, I think maybe I want to get up and try again.