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Declan Lynch is not the kind of boy Orla dates. Declan Lynch has a car and wears suits. He knows what a portfolio is and has business cards. Declan Lynch has a career plan. He has a life plan. Declan Lynch is not the kind of boy Orla dates. He’s not like any of the four boys Orla is dating when she meets him at a party hosted by one of the boys, Dave.
Dave is the kind of boy Orla dates. He has long green hair and sixteen tattoos. He is an atheist and vocal about it. He wears an earring that looks like a fang. Dave does not know how to put together a stock portfolio. Dave can barely follow a recipe for making macaroni and vegan cheese. Dave is a mess.
The other three, Rick, Zimmerman, and Lloyd, are all similar: tall and charming and useless and fuck ups. She’d met Zimmerman when he had called in to try and commune with the spirit of his dead great-aunt Lindy. He’d come over a few days after that.
Calla said, “What’s wrong with him?”
Maura said, “I think you could probably do better. But what do I know.”
Persephone said, “His spirit is strange.”
But that hadn’t deterred Orla. Orla doesn’t date people with whom she can envision a future. Orla doesn’t like to envision any kind of future for herself, much less one that involves another person, who tucks in his shirt and goes to Mass every Sunday.
So it’s a real surprise that when she’s sitting next to green-haired Dave she even looks twice at Declan Lynch, or that he’s even looking twice at her. But he is, the first time she glances over at him casually, a red solo cup of Blue Moon in her hand, and the second time, and every time after that. Orla knows she’s distinct looking. She knows men are attracted to her. Orla is pretty used to men falling over themselves for her. But Declan isn’t even falling over himself. He’s just - looking at her.
“Who’s that?” she asks Dave, under her breath so as to seem aloof. Dave, who has green fucking hair, is not aloof at all.
“Declan fucking Lynch,” he says. “A real prick. One of those finance guys who thinks corporate America’s gonna save us. He’s a suit. And a man whore. Total sellout.”
“Oh,” says Orla, trying not to sound disappointed. She shouldn’t feel disappointed. He’s just another dark-haired boy at a party. And Orla’s had so many of them.
She tries to ignore Declan Lynch’s dark eyes all night. She goes to the kitchen to get herself another drink. Dave asks her to get him another too, slapping her ass on the way out. Orla resolves to dump Dave after she hands him his beer. Ass-slapping, which men somehow think is a cute thing to do to her, is one of many items on her ever-expanding Dealbreakers List. She’s struggling with the mashed-in top of another Blue Moon when Declan moves into the kitchen behind her.
“Need help with that?” he asks smoothly, smiling at her. Orla’s heart gives a funny twinge.
“No,” she says coolly. “I don’t. Thanks.”
Declan shrugs, getting himself a fucking pretentious Stella Artois from the fridge, like he’s so cool.
The bottle she’s working on slips in Orla’s hand and she cuts herself on the sharp ridges of the cap. “Fuck, ouch,” she hisses, sucking the blood off the side of her hand. She looks over at Declan reflexively. Declan grabs a paper towel and walks over to her, pulling her hand from her mouth and drying the wound easily. Normally, Touching Without Prior Verbal Consent would be a Dealbreaker, but Orla lets it slide somehow. Declan’s holding her hand, applying gentle pressure with the paper towel.
“I don’t know your name,” he says.
Orla looks at him defiantly. “You haven’t asked for it.”
Declan smiles. “Alright, fine. What’s your name?”
“Orla.”
Declan raises an eyebrow, because of course he can do that. So fucking smooth. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Declan Lynch.”
Orla snorts. “I know,” she says, and then regrets it.
Declan laughs. “You know?”
Orla shrugs, trying to regain some of her composure. “We have mutual friends.”
Declan rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t call Dave a mutual friend.”
“Well, Dave wouldn’t call you a mutual friend, either,” snaps Orla. She doesn’t really like Dave and intends on breaking up with him, but it’s a matter of principle. Declan is still holding her hand gently. She hates that she likes it.
“I guess not,” says Declan, fairly. His eyes are twinkly. Orla wishes he’d stop looking at her, or that he would stop being so nice to look at. She wishes he would stop being so nice, period. Declan is looking at her intently. He glances at her mouth in a way she’s pretty sure he thinks is subtle. God, does it work.
Orla takes a firm step back, away from the smell of his probably expensive cologne and well-fitting Oxford shirt.
Declan looks at her like he’s sizing her up, chewing on the corner of his bottom lip. It’s unbearably attractive. “Do you want to get dinner sometime?” he asks her, and Orla is relieved. He’s returned the cards right back to her hands.
Orla nears him again, a hand on the crook of his elbow, leaning forward with her hips, her head tilted back. She sees Declan swallow.
“It’s a shame you’ve got such a bad reputation, Declan Lynch,” she says in his ear. “Because you’re really quite cute.”
She seizes the now-opened Blue Moon bottle from the counter and walks off into the living room, leaving Declan there by the counter looking thrown.
Dave reaches out for the beer in her hand. She gives it to him and then squares her shoulders.
“We’re breaking up,” she tells him shortly. “Also, I’m leaving, and your party is lame.”
She leaves, her hair blowing in the summer wind. She can see Declan Lynch watching her from the lit kitchen window. She blows him a kiss and then gives him the finger before speeding off into the night.
+++
The next morning, Orla wakes to the phone ringing unreasonably early. Eight-thirty, her clock informs her cheerfully. No one else is going to answer it. No one else ever does, because they all blame Orla for bringing the phone line into the house, even though it makes them loads more money than consultations alone ever did. In any case, Orla is the one who has to answer the phone on a Saturday morning at eight-thirty.
“Psychic line, you’ve got Orla.”
“Perfect,” says the crisp voice on the other line.
“How did you find me?” asks Orla inanely, and Declan laughs.
“Right between all the other psychic Orlas in the phone book,” says Declan smoothly, and alright, yeah, it’s a good line. “That, and it turns out I already had your number from Dick Gansey. Blue is your cousin, right?”
“Ugh,” says Orla, unhappy that a conversation about her has turned once more to Blue.
Declan laughs. “Well, Gansey gave me this number in case Ronan ever got into an emergency, but it turns out, I’m the one with the emergency.”
Orla sighs. “Which is what.”
“There’s a girl,” says Declan, “and she won’t go out with me. I’ve got a reputation, apparently.”
“Did you rehearse this?” snaps Orla. Declan ignores her.
“But the thing is, our problems are similar, me and this girl. I’m pretty sure she’s dating like four other men right now, anyway.”
“ Three, ” says Orla. “The fourth slapped her ass.”
“Great,” says Declan brightly. “No ass-slapping. Good to know. I’m not an ass-slapper, but it’s good to know that there are rules.”
“So many rules,” says Orla. “Like, ‘No Dating a Dick in a Suit.’”
“Oh,” says Declan, “but there’s so much more to me than my dick.”
Orla actually laughs out loud at that, and then grows red. She hadn’t meant to find that funny. “Fuck off.”
“Are you saying that because you have some sort of weird rule against men who wear suits, or because you actually don’t like me?” asks Declan, and his voice has suddenly turned serious. That’s probably the reason Orla answers truthfully. Because she’s thrown off. Not because of the way Declan Lynch is different than any other boy she’s ever met. Definitely not because of that.
“Do you actually like me?” asks Orla. “Or is this some kind of dare?”
“I’m not twelve ,” protests Declan. “I just know what I want and I go after it. I know who I want.”
Orla shivers. She digs her nails into her left forearm, grounding herself. “Are you going to dump me for some blond girl who’s interning in DC named Ashley, or something?”
“Are you going to ditch me for some carnie-dog-trainer-bass-player with a mohawk named Klein, or something?” Declan counters.
Orla smiles in spite of herself. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t know, either,” says Declan. “But I guess we can both find out.”
Orla closes her eyes, still smiling. “You have to take me somewhere nice,” she says.
She hears Declan smile on the other end. “I will,” he promises.
He does.
Orla wears a long dress made entirely of silver and gold beads. Declan shows up to 300 Fox Way wearing a navy blue blazer and khaki pants and dress shoes. He has a pocket square. Blue thinks the whole thing is extraordinarily weird.
“You two,” she says, eyebrows raised, “are going to last a week.”
“Bite me,” says Orla, even though she’s not certain Blue is wrong.
But all of that she tries to shove down as Declan pulls out her chair at La Vie, the nicest restaurant in Henrietta. Not one of the nicest. The nicest.
“You really go for it on the first date,” says Orla, looking at the menu and feeling the vague anxiety she does whenever she remembers how poor she is.
“Well,” says Declan easily, “how else am I going to get you to sleep with me?”
Orla looks up over her menu; he’s smiling. She rolls her eyes at him. It scares her how easy it is to talk to someone she doesn’t know. Declan could be a serial killer, and she wouldn’t know. She’d be one of those girls on the news pleading with the anchor, telling them, “No, no, you had no idea. He was so nice. He took me to La Vie.”
“So what’s the deal?” asks Orla aggressively over pre-entree savory crepes.
Declan smiles. “With what?”
“With you.”
“Now, specifically, or in general?”
“In general.”
Declan considers this, head tilted. “I’m twenty,” he says, like she cares. “I’m working in finance right now, at a bank. I’d like to go into law.” He flashes her a smile like he knows it’s impressive. “So what about you? What’s the deal with you?”
“Well, you know,” says Orla, with a vague hand gesture, “I’m a psychic.”
There’s a pause. Declan looks at her. “Well, I know that.”
Orla spears a mushroom with her fork. “You don’t want to ask questions about that?”
Declan shrugs. “Not really.”
Orla squints at him in disbelief. “Somehow I doubt that. No man I’ve ever been with has ever been satisfied with just ‘I’m a psychic.’”
Declan shrugs again. “Listen, I don’t - I’m not spiritual, or mystical or anything like that. I’ve had enough of that in my life. But if it’s yours, that’s great, and you should...I don’t know, do whatever you want. I’m not going to tell you off.”
Orla turns her head imperiously. “Well, that’s a shame,” she says. “I thought you’d be up to the challenge.”
Declan frowns. “What challenge?”
Orla leans in, her foot brushing Declan’s leg. She feels it tense. “Me,” she says, and she likes the way she can see the vein in his neck twitch, his jaw tighten. Declan is a controlled substance, she’s beginning to realize. There is something distinctly raw beneath all his polished jokes, his knowing smiles, the pocket squares. She wants to burn him up.
Declan does something she doesn’t anticipate. He pisses her off.
“Let’s talk about Blue,” he says pleasantly, moving his leg away, and Orla’s instantly angry, muscles clenching.
“Why,” she says, flatly.
“What’s with that? You don’t like her?” he asks curiously. The waiter comes and gives them their entrees, probably assuming, not unfairly, that their date is going very poorly. Declan thanks him politely. Orla sits there, arms folded, fuming silently until he leaves.
“Everyone in the fucking world talks about Blue,” she says once he’s gone. “She’s not even psychic.” She stares heatedly at Declan. “I doubt you’d understand. You and your handsome face and your fancy suits oozing all over the place, you probably get enough attention. But it’s different, when you’re related to someone who is so quirky and unusual and special and everyone’s favorite.” She grits her teeth, voice growing quiet. “I love her. But it still - it fucking sucks, you know?”
Declan’s eyes are intent and shiny. He isn’t smiling anymore; he looks ashamed. “I think I can understand that,” he says. The words sound like they’re being wrenched from his mouth. “I’m - sorry. Yeah.”
Orla looks mollified at that, all her ammunition falling from her hands. “I’m - not used to dating boys who say they’re sorry,” she says, helplessly, and Declan looks down at his hands. There's a silence, but it's not altogether uncomfortable.
"So," says Declan, and Orla laughs like helium fizzing out of a balloon. She feels heady and free. Declan's eyes still look sharp and intense, so she decides to throw him a bone.
"Is this all a ploy to sleep with me?" she asks, eyes sparkling. Declan's face instantly relaxes. He sits back, smiling easily, an eyebrow arched.
"Is it working?"
Orla's eyes are soft. "Maybe."
+++
She doesn’t sleep with him that night, when he drops her off at 300 Fox Way, laughing at something she’d said in the car, kissing her soundly under the streetlight. She doesn’t sleep with him after their second date, when he picks her up and takes her to the Barns, where they go horseback riding and have a picnic at a lake that’s somehow couched in the expansive property. When Orla finally sleeps with him, it’s after he’s made her homemade pasta that they eat together by candlelight, music playing gently in the background. His eyes are earnest and soft, and they give Orla an unfamiliar whooshing feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She’s never waited this long to sleep with someone - three dates is practically a lifetime for her. And, for the first time, she’s stopped looking for back ups. The men who hit on her in the supermarket don’t interest her. She ignores the kid on the motorbike waving at her at a red light, skates on by the man with the two kids waiting in the car at the gas station.
“What are you thinking about?” asks Declan, after, when her cheek is resting on his chest. She feels his muscles tense as he leans to plant a kiss on the top of her head. He hesitates there for a moment; she hears him inhale. Her heart flutters again.
“My plan worked,” she says, and Declan gives a quiet, “Hm?”
“I got you to sleep with me,” she says, and he laughs, loud and unabandoned, and Orla likes the way the lines of his face look in the dim light of his apartment.
She leaves an hour later, leaving him sleeping on his couch, a red-lipstick kiss pressed into his face. When she’s in the car, she breaks up with Rick, Zimmerman, and Lloyd in quick succession.
“Why?” asks Zimmerman. “I thought you liked me.”
Orla hesitates, looking up at Declan’s window. “I thought so too,” she tells Zimmerman, and hangs up.
+++
Everything feels light and wonderful after that. Declan and Orla go to the museum. Declan and Orla go to the park. Declan lets Orla plan a date and they go see an adult film at the weird movie theater in the seedy part of town and have really great sex in the back of Declan’s BMW. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, waiting for it to fall apart, but it doesn’t. Orla ignores them as she always does, proud head held high as she flounces in and out of 300 Fox Way, kissing Declan hello and goodbye.
Three bad things happen, all of them people: Ronan, Willis, and Megan. They happen in that order.
Orla’s got blue lipstick on and a vintage silk scarf tied around her neck. It’s eighty-five and sunny, and the radio is playing her favorite song. It’s a Saturday. Orla feels buzzed from the very way the world looks today - sharp and glittering and bright. She texts Declan.
Hi. I’m in the neighborhood. Can I come see you?
She gets the response three minutes later. Are you really in the neighborhood, or do you just want to see me?
Orla smiles at her phone.
Does it matter?
She pictures Declan grinning at his phone too, the sleeves of his silk Oxford rolled up at the elbows, his tie loosened.
Nope. Come over.
Orla sits in traffic for a while, but it’s okay. The windows down and the sun is blazing over her shoulders. She can feel the freckles rising onto the surface of her skin. She’s there in thirty minutes, give or take.
She takes the elevator up to his apartment, letting the cool, air conditioned air sweep over her. She hears the problem all the way down the hall: there’s distinct shouting coming from Declan’s apartment. She knocks anyway.
Declan does not answer the door. Ronan does.
“Oh,” says Orla, wrinkling her forehead. “It’s one of Blue’s raven boys.”
“Oh,” says Ronan nastily. “It’s one of my brother’s revolving-door girlfriends.”
“Shut the fuck up,” comes Declan’s voice, and he appears over Ronan’s shoulder, his lip bleeding, his nose gushing blood.
Orla pushes Ronan aside. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Ask him!” says Declan, jutting his chin out at Ronan, and Orla whirls to look at him. Ronan, she realizes now, has a black eye. She looks back at Declan, whose knuckles are bleeding.
“What the fuck,” says Orla, voice low, and Ronan laughs.
“Oh, brother, you’ve fucked it up now.”
Declan lunges at him, but Ronan ducks it easily, with the agility of a cat.
“Fucking don’t,” she hisses at the two of them. Ronan is smiling like he’s got a secret. Declan looks like he’s walked into a brick wall. “How the fuck did this happen in thirty minutes?” she snaps at Declan accusatorially.
Declan grits his teeth. Blood dribbles a little onto his chin.
“Ask him,” he spits, but Orla’s already gone. He doesn’t know it, but she is.
Hits his brother, she thinks. Dealbreaker.
She ignores the tears welling in her throat. “I don’t want to,” she says, wishing her voice didn’t sound so strained. “Bye, Declan.”
“Orla, it’s not what you - ” Declan gasps out at her, and Ronan starts laughing. Orla pushes past the two of them, slamming the door behind her. She’s never been interested in men’s excuses before. She doesn’t see a reason to start caring now.
She cries on the way home, but it’s probably just because the skies have opened up and started raining, and because she notices a pulled thread on her favorite skirt. It has nothing to do with the way she’d spent last night in Declan’s bed, thinking I could learn to love you at him fiercely, wondering if he could read her thoughts. It has nothing to do with that at all.
When she comes home, mascara smeared and lipstick worn off, Blue doesn’t look smug. She pulls a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and sits on Orla’s bed with her, sharing it in silence. When they finish, Orla doesn’t say thank you, but she doesn’t have to. Blue knows.
+++
She meets Willis at the drugstore. She’s buying neon yellow nail polish when she sees him in the aisle with the bandaids. He has a bun and a beard, both different colors: the bun is turquoise, the beard is pink. His combat boots are covered in Lisa Frank stickers. Orla feels nothing when she looks at him. There is no whoosh in her stomach. She still goes up to him, batting her eyelashes, biting her lip in a way she knows is sexy. Orla knows this process. She knows how to lean on his arm, how to look coyly up at him. She knows that when he puts her number into his phone that she’ll be sleeping with him within the week.
And when she does, in the back of his refurbished VW van, she is overcome with a depressing sense of simplicity. There is no chase to this game, no sense of thrill. This is safety, here in the arms of another man. This makes sense.
Orla sneaks out that night, smiling like a wolf, no heart in it. She wonders, briefly, if Declan has slept with someone else, and feels a sick kind of victory. And then she stops thinking about Declan at all.
+++
The answer to her question comes faster than she wants, when she runs into Declan at the post office, a pretty dark-haired girl on his arm.
It could be anyone, thinks Orla stupidly, but she knows it’s his girlfriend. Neither of them move slowly, she knows that. She’d slept with Willis. This is more of the same. Except sex with Willis hadn’t been glorious or fun. But here Declan is with this girl, with her French manicured hand running up and down Declan’s arm, with a smile like moonlight, with glittering green eyes. Orla hates her on sight, because of course she does.
She could probably get her stamps without attracting their attention, but she doesn’t want to. She’s never been able to back down from a fight, real or imagined. She is grateful, at least, that she’s wearing one of her nicest outfits, a pineapple-printed crop top and high-waisted vintage bell-bottoms. Brunette Girlfriend is wearing a sheath dress and a blazer. She probably works in fucking finance too. Maybe they’ll get married and have 2.5 fucking finance babies together, who grow up wearing three-piece suits and monocles.
“Declan,” she says, getting his attention, and Declan turns, the ghost of a smile on his face from something Brunette Girlfriend has just said. It falls off his face for one beautiful, painful moment, but he pastes it back on so quickly Orla thinks she imagined it faltering.
“Orla, hey,” he says, easily. Orla sees the bruises blooming over his knuckles.
He hit his brother, she thinks fiercely, to choke back the emotion rising in her throat.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, letting her Henrietta accent ring a little. She bets Brunette Girlfriend is originally from Connecticut. She bets Brunette Girlfriend probably has a condo on the beach and four sailboats and a blender that doesn’t get stuck whenever you try to make smoothies.
Declan gestures behind him. “Just mailing a package.” There’s a short silence. Orla looks pointedly at Brunette Girlfriend.
“Oh,” says Declan sunnily, “this is Megan. She’s in law school in DC.”
“Hi,” says Megan, and Orla feels like she’s going to be sick.
“Hi,” says Orla, and narrows her eyes a little. Not much, she assures herself. Probably not even enough that anyone could tell. Declan clears his throat.
“We should be going,” he says, and Orla shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder, rewarding him with a long expanse of her brown back.
“See ya around,” she says, breezily, and Declan nods.
“See you,” he says, and they’re gone.
Go ahead, fucking run, thinks Orla vengefully, and clenches and unclenches her first over and over, wondering with no real conviction what it would be like to give Declan a black eye.
+++
It seems like that’s all there is. They’d dated for three and a half months, hardly a big deal, just a blip on Orla’s radar. And now he’s moved on with Megan, with beautiful law school Megan, with a future outside Henrietta, with perfect, blemish-free skin and sensible heels.
Orla’s been seeing Willis for a few weeks when he invites her to a party at his apartment. She isn’t going to go but then she sees Declan from afar in a parking lot. So she goes.
The thing about Declan Lynch is that he sure does have a lot of trash acquaintances for someone so bourgeois. And lucky, lucky for Orla, they all invite him to parties. When she sees him, she almost turns and runs, but Willis has no fucking clue who he is.
“Who the fuck invited him, then!” snaps Orla, digging her hand into Willis’s arm, and he shrugs.
“I dunno, probably one of Skill’s friends,” he says, nonchalantly. “Don’t be so fucking uptight, babe.” Orla resists asking who Skill is, but he’s on her shit list forever. She nods like she’s cool and at her first opportunity escapes to the kitchen to do a shot of tequila.
She’s doing a very good job of avoiding Declan, and he’s doing a very good job of avoiding her.
Why doesn’t he just leave? she wonders. She’s only there because of Willis, she reasons. But even that she knows is a lie. She’s never stayed at a bad, boring party because of a man before. She’s really staying because she wants to cling on to these last stupid moments of being in the same place as Declan, even if she isn’t going to talk to him. Which she isn’t.
But Declan, apparently has other ideas. Orla’s in line for the bathroom when Declan corners her, tugging at her wrist.
“No,” she says, upon seeing who it is. “No, I don’t care.”
“You might,” he says, “if you’d let me explain - ”
“Let you explain what,” says Orla loudly. “How you hit your brother?”
People stop for a moment to look at them. Declan doesn’t even turn to see. He’s staring at Orla, mouth agape.
“Is that what you - is that what you think happened?”
Orla’s stomach twinges. She bites the inside of her cheek. “He had a black eye, you had bloody knuckles. Do the fucking math, Declan. I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” says Declan, fervently. “But I didn’t hit my brother. I would never - I would never hit my brother,” he says, and his voice cracks at the end of it. There’s a visible lump in his throat. Orla hates him, suddenly, for what he does to her.
“Let me explain, please,” he begs. “Please.”
Orla closes her eyes for a moment. “Okay,” she says, because she has no self-control. “Three minutes. That’s it.”
He takes her into the master bedroom and closes the door. She sits on the bed, feet swinging. She’d had sex on this bed just yesterday, but now it feels cheap. Everything does next to Declan and his magnificent face, his strong jaw, his dark eyes.
“Well?” she snaps, and Declan kneels on the floor next to her, his face close, his eyes gentle.
“A little bit ago, my brother got in with a bad kid. Kavinsky, you probably knew him. Threw those trashy Fourth of July parties with the flaming cars and shit.” He waits; Orla nods for him to continue.
“Well, after the kid killed himself, there were some people who thought my brother might be responsible. For what, I don’t know. Suicide is kind of - well, it’s a crime where the victim and the killer are the same, you know? Not that suicide’s a crime. You know what I mean.”
Orla nods again.
“Anyway, some of Kavinsky’s old gang came along just after you called. I opened the door and thought it was you. I tried to convince them that beating me up wouldn’t send a lot of a message to him, since I’m not the brother he cares about, but they didn’t listen. Fucked my nose up, bloodied my lip. That was about fifteen minutes before you showed up. Then Ronan rolled up and they fought in the parking lot. I didn’t see a lot of what happened. It was fast; they were gone before I even got downstairs. He already had the black eye. I convinced him to come in for a second so I could get answers. He was really angry. I think he blames me for what happened. I don’t know why. I don’t think it matters. He mostly blames me for everything. That’s fine. I just - if he had - ” He falters suddenly, gritting his teeth. “If something had happened to him, something really bad, I don’t think I could live with myself. He’s a dick, Orla, and sometimes I think I hate him, but I don’t.” He looks her in the eyes. Her heart pounds against her chest. “I wouldn’t ever hit him,” he says. “Every fucking thing I do is for him.”
He laughs, the sound slow and sad. “There. That’s my tragic backstory. Now you can go back to hating me.”
He stands, running a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. He’s almost at the door when Orla croaks out, “What about Megan? ”
He turns to look at her.
“What about Willis ?”
Orla takes a deep breath to try and steady herself, but it doesn’t help. “I was afraid I might - I was afraid I might love you,” she says, stupidly.
Declan looks at her. “Oh, fuck me .”
“I don’t think Megan would like that,” she jokes lamely, and Declan barks out a laugh, real this time. It sends shivers down Orla’s back.
“Megan and I broke up,” he says in a strange voice, nearing the bed again. Orla’s heart beats even faster. She thinks she might be having a stroke.
“Are you and Willis - exclusive?” he asks, voice choked. He’s standing a foot away from her. He’s so close she feels like she might die.
“ No ,” she says emphatically. He takes a step closer, kneeling at her feet again.
“So if I kiss you right now, no one is cheating on anyone?” he clarifies, and Orla laughs.
“You stupid, stupid idiot,” she says, and kisses him.
+++
Orla dumps Willis immediately upon exiting the bedroom, her hair mussed, leading Declan by the hand. Declan shrugs apologetically at him as they walk out into the night, hands linked. She’s leaned up against Declan’s car, his strong hands wrapped around her waist.
“Maybe we should set some ground rules, this time,” Declan suggests quietly.
Orla laughs. “Like what?”
“Like, maybe we should only see each other,” says Declan, and Orla shrugs, still smiling.
“Okay, fine.”
“And maybe we should communicate instead of half-heartedly breaking up over a misunderstanding.”
Orla bites her lip. “Okay, fine.”
“And maybe,” says Declan, face moving in close to hers, breath on her cheek, “maybe we should tell the other person when we’re falling in love with them.”
Orla smiles, looking up into his good, kind face. He’s grinning. “Okay,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Fine.” She kisses him again, and all the pieces seem like they’re coming together.
“I love you,” he whispers in her ear, and she feels like she is rushing down a waterfall, she’s that free.
“Yeah, yeah,” she whispers in his. “I love you too.”
+++