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courage. Mine is a cranberry margarita, which sounded way better when I read it on the menu. It tastes like a cough drop mixed with Love’s Baby Soft perfume.  
    “‘Rejected’ is such a harsh word.” Steve splays his massive hands across the table and stretches forward, as if he wants me to hold hands. Nope.  
    “No kidding it is. It hurts .”  
    Our eyes lock and I realize that just like I don’t understand why I’m here, he has no idea why he i s here. For the past week since I got out of the hospital he’s hounded me to get together, and now he’s got me. All my attention, all my focus. But he has no idea what to do with me.  
    “ And that’s why you don’t reject a woman like Shannon. Ever.”  
    The growling voice comes from behind me and I literally jump in my seat about three inches, falling back down onto the hard wood with a jolt that spreads up from my tailbone and through my eyeballs. Which are currently locked on Steve’s shocked face.
    He is staring at a point behind me, above my head.
    I whip around, knowing that voice, and my breath catches in my throat. Declan’s standing there, a day’s worth of stubble peppering that strong chin, his business shirt unbuttoned at the top, no tie, and he’s delightfully rumpled, his grey suit wrinkled in all the right places, pants tight and tailored to fit like a glove . He looks like he just spent the entire day in motion, and as my eyes take him in he looks at me greedily.
    His hand slides along the bones of my shoulder, cupping the soft skin at the back of my neck, and his lips find mine for a gentle, polite kiss that makes me throb everywhere. Sexting last night wasn’t enough. Never enough. I swallow hard as he pulls back, the scent of him full of sweat and cologne and soap and home .  
    “Hi,” he says to me, eyes claiming mine. Steve clears his throat. Steve who?  
    “Good to see you, Declan.” Steve stands and offers his hand. Declan completely ignores him, his eyes boring into mine, hand on my neck like he’s drowning and touching me is the only way to breathe.
    “Hey,” Declan finally says in Steve’s general direction.
    “We were just talking about—” Steve starts to say, but Declan interrupts him.
    “How you rejected Shannon.” Declan’s words are granite. Iron. Platinum. Take the hardest element and multiply it by every time Steve told me I wasn’t good enough and you come close to Declan’s voice.
    I feel like I’m in a bubble. My skin is tingling and burning with exposure. People don’t talk to each other like this in my world. We aren’t direct and clear with our boundaries like this. We don’t make declarations like Declan, firm “no” statements that Steve is flat out wrong for trying to shame me—rather than me being wrong for whatever he’s trying to shame me over.  
    That invalidation is the greatest sin.
    I’ve been taught to joke my way through discomfort. To let people cross my internal lines because that’s fine—they love me, and besides, maybe it’s okay. No big deal. Ha ha , laugh off that feeling in the pit of your stomach that says this is wrong. Hee hee , go along with the joke at your expense because pointing out the truth will make everyone else uncomfortable.  
    With Steve, I kept thinking all those years that if I could “just” change enough to stop his newest criticism, then I’d be perfect. If I could “just” be on edge a l l the time and try to guess what my next misstep would be in his eyes and stop myself before I transgressed, then he would be happy with me.
    If I could “just” learn to live life according to mixed signals and constantly shifting expectations …which meant I would never, ever be good enough.
    Ever.
    A jumble inside me feels like shattered glass being moved and realigned with great care, like reassembling a broken mosaic to put it back in place with the least damage possible. Declan has armor I cannot imagine wearing. He has a core that knows who he is