Page 24 of Downfall

“Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Skylar,” I warn. “Tell me what the fuck is going on or…” Her eyes widen. This is not the time for threats. She doesn’t deserve to be threatened after everything I put her through. I switch tactics before I can think better of it. “Tell me, and I’ll go to the appointment.”

Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “You’re bribing me? Like I’m a five-year-old?”

“It’s better than the alternative.” I shrug.

She looks around the room as if a celestial entity is going to swoop down to save her from having to utter her next words. “The thing is—” she finally grits out. “If I tell you what’s going on, we may not need the appointment.”

Well, that gets my attention real fucking quick. Not wanting to appear too eager, I keep my mouth shut, giving her the space to speak when she’s ready.

She eyes me nervously before letting out a deep sigh that ends in a frustrated whine. “Something has come up. Well, a few things. Anyway, the bottom line is that I have a trust that I can access when I’m twenty-five, which is in a few weeks. Six weeks, to be exact.”

“April 13th,” I blurt.

Her eyes drift to mine, the little specks of gold in them shimmering. “Yes,” she confirms.

I’m sure she didn’t expect me to remember her birthday, but how could I not? It’s engraved in my brain like every other number associated with her. How old I was when we first met—thirteen. Her favorite sandwich at the beach shack—number five. How many times she’s seen Casablanca—thirty-two. The time on her cloud-shaped clock when we kissed for the first time. It was just a peck goodnight, but it counts. Before I can stop it, my mind races with the memory.

“Declan?” Her voice is soft and sleep-drunk as she glances at the clock. “It’s two in the morning. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Firefly. Go back to sleep.”

She seems content to rest her head back on the pillow as I climb the rest of the way through her window until she notices the thick red liquid dripping down my lip.

“Oh my God. You’re bleeding.” She shoots up.

“It’s just a scrape.” I look down at my worn Chucks. “Skateboarding.” I disappear into her bathroom to survey the damage and wipe away the blood with a damp towel. I’ll replace it in the morning. Once I’m cleaned up, I join her back in the bedroom. She’s lying down again, her auburn hair draped across the white pillowcase, but she leans up higher as if to get a better look, squinting as the moonlight filters in through the curtains. I see the moment she sees it—the big, ugly bruise blooming beneath my right eye. I’m sure she doesn’t doubt that I was out skateboarding at this time of night. I’ve done crazier things, but she knows that I look down at my feet when I lie. Though, my lies are not usually directed toward her. No, those are usually reserved for convincing girls to go down on me in the bathroom during passing period or hook up behind the bleachers. I’m a sucker for the classic spots.

“Dec.” Her voice is laced with concern, and it both breaks and fills my heart at the same time.

“Shhhh. It’s nothing.”

I slide my sweats down, kicking them off before hopping into her bed in my T-shirt and boxers.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. That’s the furthest we’ve gone. Forehead kisses. That’s a normal thing to do with a friend, right?

“Declan.”

“I just—can we not talk about it right now? I’m so tired. I promise I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Okay, but you know what that means.”

“My lacrosse hoodie.” I don’t skip a beat.

She quirks a brow, encouraging me to keep going.

“The green one,” I sigh.

Satisfied, she shifts over to make more room for me. I don’t miss the way she winces as I grunt, trying to get comfortable. My ribs hurt like a bitch. Serves me right for getting into it with a college freshman. I couldn’t help myself, though. He was such a smug asshole, and I was already primed from my dad getting on my case again. After he told me for the umpteenth time what a disappointment I am, I considered coming straight here, but it was late, so I skated to the party I heard about earlier. I ended up here anyway. I always do.

It’s summer break, so all the college kids are home and throwing ragers at whoever’s parents are in Paris or Monaco. I might only be sixteen, but I can hold my own in a fight. I’ve had enough practice. Skylar doesn’t like when I’m hurt, though. I see the worried looks from across the field when I take a hit during lacrosse games. Sometimes her hand even goes to the same body part where I’m hurt.

I get it.