Page 46 of Downfall

“No. I mean, he’s fine. It’s just…”

“What?”

“He says all these sweet things. Makes such a big deal about it and then he…lets her go in the end.”

“He does the selfless thing because he knows she’s better off without him,” I argue.

She throws a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Typical man. Thinking he knows what’s best for a woman. He didn’t even give her the choice.”

“Because he knew she wouldn’t be safe with him. He gave her up even though it was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do in his life.”

Skylar’s eyes flick to mine as if she realizes we’re no longer talking about Rick and Ilsa, but how can she know?

Placing the bag of popcorn down on the couch, she looks me dead in the eye when she says, “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

I don’t respond. What else is there to say?

We watch the rest of the movie, and when Rick finally tells Ilsa she’s getting on that plane, I look over at Skylar, whose green eyes sparkle with unshed tears. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Ilsa would have been strong enough for whatever came their way. Maybe Skylar would have been too, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t change my decision any more than I can change the script of a movie from the nineteen-forties.

When ‘the end’ flashes across the screen in big loopy letters, Skylar wipes her eye with the back of her hand before collecting the empty bags of snacks.

I go to take some of them from her, and my hand brushes against hers. She looks up, her eyes focusing on my face.

“What happened?” She says it so softly, I almost convince myself I make it up, but then she reaches out and slides her thumb gently across my split lip.

“Just a little disagreement.”

She narrows her eyes. “Someone’s sister again?”

“No. I, um…” I run a hand through my hair, still slightly damp from the shower. I said I would tell her anything and I meant it. Why not start with all the broken parts of me? She can’t hate me more than she already does. “I provoke people.”

“Provoke?”

“Yeah. There’s this bar a little outside of town. It’s a biker bar. I go there and mouth off until someone beats the shit out of me.”

“So you…” She swallows, the thought bouncing around in her head. “You get hurt on purpose?”

“It helps clear my head. It’s fucked up, I know.”

She looks down, picking my hand up in hers and examining it front to back. “No bloody knuckles.” The warmth from her hand seeps into mine, coating my soul like a balm. “You don’t fight back.”

I shake my head.

“That’s—Declan…”

“Yeah,” I sigh.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s because I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“All those fights in high school…” She steps back, dropping my hand, and I instantly mourn the loss of her warmth. “When you would come to my window bloody and broken…” She trails off again. “And Ashton? You let him beat you up that night?”

That gets a laugh. Ash couldn’t beat me up if his life depended on it. “Nah, I started and ended that shit.” She doesn’t ask why, and I don’t tell her. One secret is probably enough for today, but I find myself speaking anyway. “It wasn’t always this way. I started fights a lot growing up to get out my frustration.” Fucked a lot for the same reason, but she doesn’t need to hear that either.

“When did you stop fighting back?”

Without thinking, I flex my hand, thinking of all the times I busted my knuckles as an angry kid. “When I realized the physical pain made it stop.”