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“What’s so funny?” I demanded. “Aren’t you pissed that I checked out your...you know.”
Of course, that only made the idiot laugh harder. Tears dripped down his cheeks, and he held his stomach with one hand. Huffing, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for him to regain control of himself.
After what felt like hours, the laughter diminished from his eyes to be replaced with what looked like respect. I rationalized that I must’ve seen it wrong. Who would respect someone as pathetic as me?
“I’m not upset that you checked me out,” Declan signed. “I’m flattered.” He paused his movements, head tilted to the side as he regarded me curiously. “But thank you for apologizing though. Most wouldn’t have.”
I snorted. “I just didn’t want to give you a double standard. I just know that I hate when it’s done to me.”
His eyes clouded over with an undefinable emotion before he quickly nodded to the game. The puck was already sliding across the table.
“I’ll have you know that I’m the Stanley Cup winner of air hockey, so don’t cry too hard when I whoop your ass,” I said, grabbing the...handle? Fetus hockey stick? Guard thingy? I mean really, who actually knows the name of the thing you hit the puck with?
He placed his prong - because that was totally what I was going to call it - on the edge of the table so he could sign to me.
“You talk a big game. Let’s see if you can back it up.”
In answer, I made an exaggerated show of cracking my knuckles.
I managed to score once. I would like to blame my loss on my injuries, but the truth was, I sucked, and Declan was a freaking beast. He countered every one of my moves with a ninja one of his own. The only way I managed to score that one point was tackling him to the ground and slipping the puck in manually.
I was breathless from laughter by the time we finished the fourth game. I didn’t know where Declan got all those quarters, but I was grateful. I didn’t realize how much I had needed the distraction. It was dangerous for me to be alone with my thoughts.
Smirking, I pointed a finger at his chest. “The only reason you won was because I’m rusty. If we played another game, I would totally kick your ass.”
“So how about one more game?” he asked, calling me out on my bluff. I feigned a dramatic yawn.
“I would, but I’m exhausted. Letting you win took a lot out of me.”
Rolling his eyes, he plopped himself onto the table, feet dangling. He gestured for the spot beside him, and I eyed the table with distrust.
“Are you sure it will hold my weight? According to Callie, I need to slow down on the food.” Which would never happen because food was the only thing that gave me joy.
Declan rolled his eyes at me yet again. Sighing, I sat beside him.
We remained silent for a few moments, both of us watching our feet swing back and forth. It wasn’t uncomfortable, which surprised me greatly. This was Declan, after all, who seemed to hate me from the second he laid eyes on me. Maybe he had been on a guy period or whatever and was PMSing.
He finally tapped my shoulder to garner my attention, and I turned towards him expectantly.
“What happened?” he questioned. It felt more like a request than a demand. He was giving me the choice to answer him or not.
He was a stranger, yes, but I had been alone for so long that his sudden display of kindness left me confused. I craved more of it. If that required honesty, then I would give it to him willingly.
“My dad,” I admitted softly. “Being a dick.” I rubbed at my cheekbone almost absently, the pain from his hit only moderate when compared to the rest of my body. Declan didn’t interrupt me as I did an assessment of my body. He just watched me with those wide, impassive eyes: seeing everything, but giving nothing away.
“He blamed me for Buttlicker’s death,” I said, barely even processing my inadvertent use of his nickname. Declan seemed to know who I was talking about though, and he didn’t ask for clarification. “So he hit me. I don’t know. Maybe I deserved it after what I did-”
Now he did interrupt me, an erratic flurry of hand gestures.
“No. Don’t say things like that. You don’t deserve this. No one deserves this type of treatment, and don’t for one second believe that you are worth less than what you actually are.”
His words brought tears to my eyes.
“My worth,” I scoffed. “What type of worth can someone like me have? I have done so many horrible things to good people. My own parents don’t even love me.”
I paused, a ragged gasp escaping my throat unbidden. I pressed my palm to my eyes to retain some dignity, but the sob escaped free.
“Why don’t my parents love me?” I asked, the question haunting me. “What did I do wrong? Am I not deserving of love? Am I being punished? Because I’m sorry for anything I may have done to deserve this.” The tears came down faster, blurring my vision. Of course, that display of weakness only made me cry harder. I was pathetic.
