Why are you calling?
What are your secrets?
Why the hell did you break my heart?
“Thanks. Appreciate it,” I say, cool and even. The anger I thought was gone taps on my skull.
“Are you psyched for tomorrow?”
Is this really what he wants to talk about? Whether I’m happy to be starting? “What’s not to be excited about?” I say sarcastically, because . . . duh. “First Major League game.”
“I bet you homer in your first at-bat,” he says. The pride in his voice brings back what River said about Declan and me in the bar.
He was proud of you.
But so what if he was? What difference did it make? He still dumped me.
I scoff. “Don’t jinx me.”
“I’m happy for you, Grant,” he continues, his tone a little uneven, like the floor beneath him might be wobbly too. Good. “I don’t want to say I knew it was going to happen, but I had a good feeling.”
And you’re calling to say I told you so?
I’m quiet because I don’t want to let on I’m still hurt. Maybe more hurt than angry.
Yeah, the way my chest aches, hurt is more like it.
“So, um . . .” Declan says.
I don’t help him to fill in the gap. He called; he can be the one to keep talking.
Declan clears his throat. Starts over. “I called because . . .” He trails off again. “This is hard to say.”
Hard? This is hard for him? Fuck that. Try getting dumped via text by your boyfriend. “Did you leave your T-shirt in my room?” I lash out. “Or your flip-flops? Maybe some lube you want back?”
“I’m sorry,” he blurts.
I shake my head, squeeze my eyes shut, trying to process . . . an apology. I can’t, and my volume cranks up to eleven. “What? You’re sorry?”
Reese yells from the bathroom, “What’s going on? Who’s that?”
“No one,” I call out.
Declan takes a deep breath. “Did I call at a bad time?”
“It’s Reese. We’re hanging out,” I say quickly.
“I can phone later,” he says.
“No, it’s fine. She’s in the tub.” I’m not letting him go without an explanation. One that adds up. I need an answer. But I won’t ask for it. I’m just going to let Declan keep talking.
He sighs, and I’m glad that this is hard for him. So I make it harder by waiting.
“Listen, Grant, I messed up,” he says softly.
I blink. Sit up straighter. A tiny sliver of hope spreads inside me. “What do you mean?”
“I want to explain,” he adds. “Can I explain?”
Do I want to unravel the mystery of Declan Steele?
You bet I do.
Oh hell, do I ever.
“Okay. Talk.”
“I handled everything badly. I should have called you to explain.” His earnestness threatens to seep through the wall I’ve built over the past week. All that carefully stacked stone and brick, and already I feel it crumbling.
“So you should have called to break up with me on the phone instead of via text?” I counter.
“No. I mean I should have called to tell you what happened.”
Dark thoughts invade my brain, horrible ones that make my blood go cold. “Did you meet someone else? A new guy in Florida?”
“No! God, no. Not at all. I couldn’t be with you like that and then someone else. You have to know there’s no other man.”
“Do I?” I press, my jaw tight, my voice hard. Because what the hell? How would I have to know?
“Grant,” he says, pleading.
“Why would I have to know?” I bite out, my tone as tight as my heart is precarious in his hands.
“You know what it was like when we were together. There was no one else. There couldn’t be anyone else,” he says in that same tender tone he used when he asked me to be his.
Like that, the wall collapses, and my heart cracks open to make room for him again. The quickness of it terrifies me. “I don’t know anything,” I say, trying to stay cool and calm.
Like Declan.
But then, he doesn’t sound so composed, either. He sounds stretched thin with pain. “When I arrived in Florida, my dad was at the ballpark waiting for me.”
“What did he want?” I can’t help my curiosity—I don’t have a clear idea of what’s going on with his dad. Declan barely let on what their issues were.
“He said some things . . .” There he goes again, back to doling out scant bits of information but never the full picture. “And then you had a great game, and I figured that you’d be better off without me.” Declan is leaving out critical clues to this equation. “You played better without me around. And you played better before we started up.”
“So you made the choice on my behalf,” I spit out, shaking my head in frustration. He thinks he did this for me. He went back to his stance at the start of spring training—that relationships are a mistake for a rookie.