Sour Sweet Love - Chapter Twenty Six - Wattpad

Sour Sweet Love

by conscience

YOU ARE READING

Sour Sweet Love

Teen Fiction

At first glance, Avery Wilson dislikes Declan Andrews more than she can admit. He gets her to think in ways she has never done before, and he is different than the people she usually associates herself with. Yet amidst the chaos and confusion led on...

Two Years Later

7

Declan Andrews
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I wake up from the strangest dream.
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It's weird, because it wasn't really a dream. It was really a repeat of all my memories, starting from day one. Running along the beach with Liam when I was four. Wrestling with our dog, Timber, when I was five, and the sad day when he moved onto heaven when I was six. Having my first crush when I was seven—all those years finally coming back to me.
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I slowly try to pry open my eyes but find that it is hard to. Either my eyes are closed, or it's too dark. Then I realize that it's not too dark; in fact, it's too bright. The light blinds my eyes as if they haven't opened in years. The room I'm in is entirely white.
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"Am I dead?" I try to mutter. Instead, a pathetic croak comes out. Maybe this is what heaven looks like? All white and empty and so bright that it's blinding?
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Suddenly, a loud beeping fills my ears. It completely disturbs me and causes a tepid headache. I wince, when suddenly; the door flies open when people come in. I don't recognize these people at all, and they're all wearing scrubs.
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"He's awake!" I hear. "He's awake! He's awake!"
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"Damn right I'm awake," I mutter under my breath.
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Oh, good. My voice is working somewhat correctly, although it's kind of hoarse. What's with these people? It's not like I've been dead for three days and rose up again like Jesus or something. A middle aged man with glasses comes in among all the frenzy as people poke and prod me, asking me questions that make me crave for a hundred years in solitude—with Avery.
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Where was Avery?
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"Excuse me, can you tell me your name?" the man asks.
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Deciding that there must be a reason for him asking, I answer, "Uh, yeah. Declan Andrews?"
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"Good. Declan, where do you live?"
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"In New York."
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"Can you tell me your father's name?"
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"Dexter Andrews."
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"Your mother's name?"
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"Lannie Andrews."
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"How old are you, Declan?"
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"I'm seventeen."
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The man purses his lips like I got the question wrong. How could I? I scowl. I know how old I am.
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"Declan, when's your birthday?"
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"January 4th, 1994."
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"I see..."
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Irritated, I finally burst. "What's going on here?" I wince at the strain my vocal chords feel, as if they haven't been used in ages. "Why are you giving me that look? What am I doing here?"
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"Do you really not remember?"
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"Is there anything to remember?"
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"Think, Declan." The gray eyes of the man pierce mine. "Think hard."
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I lean back, growing a little woozy from sitting up straight for so long. It's when I do that that I realize how stiff my body is. And just like that, I'm thrown into a memory: the screech of breaks and untamed tires squealing along the road. An impact so jarring that I feel like my teeth are about to pop out. Glass shattering and the dizziness of being tossed round and round. Red liquid oozing into my eye, and next thing I know, sheer darkness following.
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"No," I say quietly, and then moan. "No. Shit, no. How long have I been out? It couldn't have been that long. Right? No way..."
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"Perhaps we should speak in a little bit..."
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"No. Look, doctor, I don't know what your name is, but I seriously need you to tell me this. Just one thing, okay? I don't know anything else that's going on. So please, tell me. What's today's date?"
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The doctor hesitates but eventually gives into the pleading look on my face. "April 14th—" I relax until he finishes. "—2014."
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"What?!" I whisper-shout. To say that I am shocked is an understatement. There is no way over a year—a whole fucking year—has passed. "You mean..."
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"You've been in coma since the December of 2012. It's a miracle that you're alive."
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I can't think of anything to say.
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"We're going to phone your parents. They'll come immediately."
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"Wait, doctor!" I stop him just as he is about to leave, a realization finally dawning upon me. It has been over a year since I was last awake. Over a year since I have spoken to anybody. "Do you mind if I request that you call someone to get them here as soon as possible?"
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"Of course not. Who do you have in mind?"
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And so I tell him.
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Seeing my parents cry from joy like that make tears fall too. I hug them close. When it comes time to hug Liam—whom I learned got out of the accident with only a broken bone and cracked collarbone—I don't even hesitate.
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Everyone is happy. Everyone is smiling and crying and I notice how, over the past year, my family has aged. Dad has gray streaks in his hair and Mom is growing wrinkles that make her look more wiser by the second. Liam has grown too, his features accentuating since the last time I saw him, and he looks bigger—stronger.
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It takes me a while to accept that a year of my life is gone. Just like that, I am nineteen.
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"Are you sure you're okay?" Mom asks feverishly. "No headaches? Chest pains? Nothing?"
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"Nothing at all, Mom. I promise, I'm fine. Just...please, relax a bit."
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"Honey, you've been in coma for nearly two years! It's hard to relax," she exclaims. Beside the anxiety in her voice, she smiles.
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"You're certainly a tough one," Dad says. "There were times when the doctors told us that there was no way, but you're here."
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Whatever Dad says is drowned out by a soft tap on the door. It swings open and, because of the crowd of family members around me, all I see are red heels.
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"Excuse me?" a familiar voice says politely. "Can I speak to Declan?"
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"Oh, of course. Come on, Dexter, Liam. Let's give the two a little privacy." Mom ushers Dad and Liam out of the hospital room against their protests. The door slams shut behind them.
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I look up and gaze at her face: dark hair tumbling down, longer than I remember. Large, intelligent eyes, sparkling and filled with immense joy and tears that trickle down her cheeks. She looks—beautiful. "Avery."
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"Declan," she says.
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"Hi," I finish lamely, and she laughs.
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"Hi," Avery, my girlfriend—was she ever mine?—whispers back.
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I guess she is still my girlfriend, because the first thing she does is whip her head back towards the door. "Hey, what are you doing—" I begin to say but I am interrupted by her rapid movements. Before I can think, she leans down and presses her lips—hard—against mine. Though it has been nearly two years, my muscles react and I reach up to grab her neck and pull her closer to me. The feel of her soft mouth against mine...how could I have gone so long without it? "Avery," I say with awe.
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"Hush," she says. She sits on the bed, wrapping herself around me. "You're still recovering, I guess. But it's okay now, right?" Holding me tighter she says, "I've been in fucking hell for the past two years."
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All I can tell her is that I am sorry.
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"Yeah, asshole," she snaps. "Be sorry! How the hell could you just leave me like that?"
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"I just—"
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She hushes me again. "Just, please. Whatever you do, don't leave me again, okay?"
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I pull back and, dismissing the fact that I am still recovering and that I have lost a year from my life, I kiss her with the darkest passion I can conjure. It is my form of assurance. The kisses taste sour and sweet all at the same time, entwining all that has been lost with all that we have left, and I focus on nothing but the friction between us. The sense of belonging that we share in that moment, I realize, is all we need, then and forever.
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It is all anyone needs.