“Something’s going on with Declan.”
And there it is.
“He’s been so distant. And I can’t seem to reach him. It’s like he doesn’t want me around.”
I know she wants me to tell her she’s wrong, that Declan is just as head over heels for her as he’s always been. But I can’t. I’m exhausted, too drained to protest.
“Fine. I’ll come.”
***
I immediately regret my outfit choice—jeans and a tank top—when we get down to the Inn’s lobby. The others are all dolled up, Adrien in a sequined dress, the guys in button-up shirts. Even Ellery is wearing a nice red top in lieu of her usual ripped band T-shirt.
It’s then that I remember. It’s Christmas Eve.
We’ve seen a smattering of decorations—lights strung up through the boulevards of Cairns, a blow-up Santa outside our Whitsundays hostel—but it’s been so difficult to reconcile the holiday with the ninety-plus-degree weather we’ve been experiencing.
Thankfully, our group agreed to forgo gifts, but I listen as they all regale the others with talk of their calls home, how much their family misses them. I didn’t even bother calling my parents. I haven’t received so much as an email from them since I started the program.
Music floods out of the front door of the Royal Hotel as we walk up, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” reaching our ears before we even come into sight of the enormous pink building, which is wrapped in lights. When we get past the bouncer, wristbands biting into our skin, the others head straight for the bar.
I meander onto the dance floor, feet away from the stage where the drag queen is crooning into the microphone, a red and green boa around her neck complimenting her barely-there shorts. Someonegrabs my shoulder, and I flinch, but it’s only Claire, pulling me towards the bar.
“We’re doing shots,” she yells over the music. I want to yell back, to tell her I don’t want to join, that I have a human growing inside me who probably wouldn’t enjoy the taste of alcohol, but I don’t. I let her lead me back to the group, take the shot glass she shoves in my hand, and stand in a circle with the others, ignoring the hatred sparking from Adrien’s eyes, the disdain from Kyan’s. Ellery is the only one who makes eye contact as we clink our glasses together, shooting me a small sad smile. When the others throw back their shots, I dump mine on the floor.
Soon enough, everyone’s made it back to the dance floor, but I resist Claire’s drunken pleas—evidently now that she doesn’t have Declan, I’m back in her good graces. Instead, I hang back by the bar, watching from afar. The song changes from something upbeat to far more romantic.
“This one’s for the lovers,” the drag queen croons, and I flinch. God, now of all nights, I could use a drink.
Josh grabs Claire’s hand, and she follows him out to the dance floor, shooting a look back at Declan, who avoids her eyes. I watch them for a moment, jealousy swirling in my gut. Claire’s miserable, clearly. But from where I stand, she has everything.
“Not having fun?”
I turn to see Declan with a glass of amber liquid in his hands, elbows propped against the bar.
“Not really feeling it tonight,” I say to him. “You either?”
He shrugs. I look out onto the dance floor, and my gaze falls onAdrien, her head tipped back, Kyan’s hands resting territorially on her hips, and before I can stop it, the burn behind my eyes becomes solid, tears welling.
Hormones, I think, trying to push the emotion away. But I know it’s more than that.
“You alright?”
I try to hide the emotion on my face but it’s useless. Declan’s already noticed. His eyes are laced with concern, but I note how tightly he’s holding his glass, his knuckles gleaming white.
“I think I just need some air,” I say lamely.
“I’ll join you,” he says, finishing his drink in one gulp.
***
We walk far enough down the street so that the music doesn’t weigh down our words. I take in deep gulps of the night air, nausea once again brewing in my stomach.
“I wanted to ask you before,” Declan says, his eyes avoiding mine. “Have you been okay? Really, I mean. I can only imagine how hard it’s been with everything that’s…happened.”
I start to prepare a shallow joke in response, something that’ll make light of the situation, that’ll bring us back to safer, more comfortable conversational ground. But to my utter shock, my throat constricts, the throwaway comment lodging itself in my windpipe. And I realize Declan is the only person who’s asked me this since Tomas’s accident. The only person who’s cared.
The emotion that has been leaking out of me in drips anddrabs—mostly in private, thankfully—suddenly erupts. Through sobs, I try to explain how it was an accident, how I loved Tomas and would never want to hurt him, but how no one will ever believe me. Not even Claire.
