Page 9

Matilda – Harry Styles

Addie

T he three words on the screen haunt me.

Mom: We miss you.

The first text in over a year, but it’s still the same visceral reaction when her name appears on my screen. Clammy hands. Rushed breath. Nausea. I slip the phone into my pocket and try to squash the shaking in my hands before I meet with Ben.

She has no right to say she misses me. And the fact that she didn’t include Nora in her message doesn’t escape me. To know someone, you have to meet them, and my parents have never met her. Their choice, not mine.

Why she’s texting me now is beyond me.

The last text she sent was on my twenty-sixth birthday, over a year ago. Happy birthday, Adeline. We love you, always.

Just the thought of my parents makes my stomach churn. Once my greatest supporters, they now know nothing about me or their granddaughter. I only told them I was moving to Seattle as a courtesy, but even then, they seemed distant and unaffected.

I’ve never responded to any of her random messages, but this one eats at me. I’m still waiting for Ben, so I pull my phone out, type a response, and hit send before I can change my mind.

Me: You made your choice five years ago. And now we all live with the consequences.

I sat on the old, beatdown couch in my childhood home and told my parents, with tears in my eyes, that I was pregnant and I was having the child, and they shunned me. Told me it was a mistake, that Nora was a mistake. To prioritize my career. Why throw it all away when you’re so close to achieving your dreams?

The two people who were meant to support me—to love me unconditionally—chose my potential over me.

Mom: Your father and I have many regrets. Would you be willing to talk to us?

Me: Why now? Why not five years ago, or four, or three?

Anger and despair swirl in my chest. How many times before Nora was born did I hope they would call? I begged for them to come when I was in labor—threw away my pride because I needed my parents—but they ignored the voicemails.

I’ll never shake away the bitter disappointment I felt when I realized they weren’t coming to the hospital; that I was going to give birth alone with no one to hold my hand.

A charge nurse from labor and delivery stood by my side for all twenty-two hours of the birth. Even after her shift, she stayed. Fed me ice chips, pressed a cold towel on my forehead, told me I could do it when the pain was so sharp I could barely open my eyes. Lorraine, the nurse, has done more for me than my parents. She still checks in on Nora’s birthday and mine, even though I no longer live in Nebraska.

A text bubble pops up, then disappears, nearly a dozen times. It vanishes one last time, and I slide my phone back into my pocket. Heavy-heartedness and long-held anger wash over me, and when Ben appears, I’m numb.

I should never have responded to her message. All I did was hurt myself. Because, as angry as I am, they’re still my parents, and I wish life were different.

The meeting is brutally long—updates about food orders, invoices, and travel preparation—but I make it through with a fake smile and numerous head nods. When we end the meeting, I flee the office to hide in the walk-in cooler and decompress.

I’m scurrying down the hall when Declan exits the locker room.

Fuck, I’ve been avoiding him.

Our date last week was the most fun I’ve had in a long time, and I know Nora feels the same. She hasn’t stopped speaking about him, and it terrifies the shit out of me. One date, and he has both Nora and me under his spell.

Not to mention, he followed up on getting my list of fan fiction stories, and it seemed like he was actually going to read them.

How is anyone supposed to act normal after that?

My pulse skyrockets when he spots me, but his smile falls, and his eyebrows crinkle. He reaches me in three solid steps.

“What’s wrong?”

God, is it that obvious?

Before I can respond, he gently wraps his hand around my bicep and pulls me into an equipment closet. My back hits a wall, and he cages me in, palms splayed against the wall next to my head.

The light is switched off, but it’s not dark enough to hide the concern in his eyes—the usual bright blue now stormy like thunderclouds. He leans in close, the air crackling with energy, until his lips are hovering inches away.

Do not look down, Adeline. Be strong.

I am weak.

My eyes drop to his lips.

“Why are you upset?” he whispers. His voice is a deep timbre, rattling the confession right out of me.

“My mom texted me.”

“Oh?”

The single syllable is neutral, yet pressing—demanding an explanation or a shutdown.

“I don’t have a great relationship with my parents,” I admit, and something about the confession cracks the dam holding back all the pent-up emotions regarding them.

A single tear slips out, and I’m horrified as it trails down my cheek.

We went on one date and now I’m crying about my fucked up family relationships to him in a supply closet. How’s this for rock bottom?

His free hand reaches out, and tenderly, he wipes away the tear with the pad of his thumb. The tender action only worsens the tears, and now they flood freely. When’s the last time I cried? Just let it all out?

An ugly choked sound escapes as it all bubbles to the surface.

Shame. Disappointment. Anger. Resentment. Foolish hope. Despair.

Thick, strong arms wrap around my shoulders, and Declan drags me against his chest while I sob.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his chest.

His palm casts soothing circles on my back.

“Sharon says it’s unhealthy to bottle up your emotions.”

I pause, and then, “Who the fuck is Sharon?!”, tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I try to pull away from him, but his grip tightens, and his chest begins to rumble.

“Are you jealous ?”

I’ve spent the last five days since our date thinking about him, he’s met my daughter, and he just held me in his arms while I cried. Of course, I’m mildly jealous when he mentions another woman. Whether he understands it or not, agreeing to a date puts me in a vulnerable position with my job, heart, and daughter.

I gave him the titles of the Justin Beiber fan fiction I love, for fucks sake. I have every right to be jealous.

“You didn’t answer the question,” I volley back.

I hold his gaze, and his lip quirks. “Sharon is my therapist.”

“Oh.”

“Haven’t even kissed you yet, and you’re already prepared to fight someone for me, Gladiator style.”

The smugness in his voice is both incredibly charming and irritating as hell. Mostly because he’s right on the mark.

“I have to get back to work,” I say, ducking below his arm, but he drags me deeper into the room and stops in front of a shelf full of shoe boxes.

His hand envelops mine as he searches the shelf. “ I know I hid it here somewhere… Aha!”

Declan holds an old shoebox—beat down and ripped in areas—and guides us deeper into the room, then drops to the floor and flips the cardboard lid open.

There are ten different kinds of snacks—ones full of processed sugar and hard-to-pronounce ingredients—and he flips them over so they fall onto the floor.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says, ripping open a bag of Funyuns. The scent of artificial onion flavoring fills the air. “I hide these here for bad days, or if my friends are cranky. Sometimes a good snack can solve the problem.”

I take a bag of animal crackers and a KitKat, then place the rest back into the box. The area is tight, and Declan’s thighs are pressed against mine, the heat from his skin searing into mine.

“Do you hide in here often?”

There’s a hint of comfort by the way he lounges in the back corner of the room, like he’s spent some time in this small area, hiding from something.

“Yeah. A lot at the end of last season. I think Coach Barrett caught on, but he never said anything when I would disappear for a few minutes.”

“Why?” The only sound is the crinkle of the wrapper. I’ve overstepped; that much is clear. “Sorry, I—”

“I lost someone very close to me last year, and sometimes I needed a moment to compose myself.”

His head drops, and I reach out to squeeze his hand. “Your secret spot is safe with me. And your stash of Funyuns.”

“I love them so much, even if they’re nothing but chemicals.”

He sucks on the pad of his thumb to clean the crumbs and my core clenches.

Yep, time to go. Before I do something insanely stupid like put his thumb in my mouth.

“I should get back to work.”

Once I’m sure the coast is clear, I slip out into the hallway.

The bright fluorescent lights clear the haze, and some of his words come flooding back to the forefront of my mind.

He hasn’t kissed me yet, a fact I did not notice, but am now deeply bothered by. Ignorance truly is bliss.

Declan is hot on my heels, but a loud bang followed by a crunch filters from the nutrition room.

“The interns!” I scream, running to the kitchen.

It’s chaos as a blender goes haywire, and Louis holds the lid down like his life depends on it. His eyes are wide, and his shoulders slump when I appear in the doorway, hip-checking players to get to him.

I quickly unplug the blender, and Louis flies back away from the countertop. Both Nina and Louis look battle-worn, and I jump in, picking up the slack.

Though it’s insanely busy and it seems like every player and coach wants a smoothie today, my eyes continue to stray to the table in the corner where Declan sits with his friends. He lounges in his chair, the epitome of male confidence, and fuck me, but the lazy confidence is doing some odd, concerning things to my insides.

My phone dings, and against my better judgment, I pull it out expecting a message from my mother. Instead, it’s from Declan.

Declan: It’s truly impressive how much work you manage to get done when you spend all your time staring at me.

My jaw falls, and when I look up from my phone, he winks at me. I muster up what courage I have to text him back.

Me: Why haven’t you kissed me yet?

His response is immediate.

Declan: Good things come to those who wait.

And kissing you might just be the highlight of my life.