Discovering Delilah(68)

She exhales loudly and covers her eyes with her hands, shakes her head. “Dee, it’s not what you think. We were so new, and—”

“And I’m still in the fucking closet. I get it. What were you doing, Ash? Hedging your bets? Did you have a deadline? Like if I didn’t come out by a certain time, you’d run back to her?”

“No, and that’s not fair.” She reaches for me.

I pull away. I know I’m overreacting, but it still hurts to see all those texts. It feels like a lie.

“She’s texted you a million times, and you never said a word. How would you feel if the tables were turned?”

“I trust you.”

“Yeah? Well, trust is more than telling your girlfriend you get random texts. Trust is telling her that you’re being pursued. Relentlessly. Even if you’re not responding, it feels like the secret was there for a reason.”

I turn and open the door.

“Delilah? Where are you going?”

“Home. I need some space.”

“Dee. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t lead her on, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell her about us. I will.” She runs into the bedroom and I hear her go into the bathroom as I close the apartment door behind me. I know she was going to grab her phone and show me how many times she responded to Sandy, but I don’t want to even see her phone.

I spend the next few hours replaying the whole argument in my mind until I’ve scrutinized every facial expression, every inflection of Ashley’s voice and mine.

It still hurts, and I feel like a bitch.

I haven’t had a girlfriend before, but even when I was fake-dating Frank, a guy I didn’t like as more than a friend, we talked about guys who hit on me and girls who hit on him.

By midafternoon Ashley’s texted me a dozen times, and I’ve texted her back with the same message every time. I just need a little time and space to get past this.

Get past this.

I analyze that phrase as I help with waiting tables into the early evening. I have no idea why we’re so freaking busy tonight. It’s only Thursday.

“Hey, you okay tonight?” Livi sidles up to me, and we both push through the double doors and head for the kitchen to place our customers’ orders.

I shrug.

“Worried about going back home this weekend?” Livi asks.

“A little.” Maybe that is why I’m so upset over this. Nope. I can’t even lie to myself about why I’m upset. I feel like Ash lied to me.

We give Dutch our orders, and before walking back into the bar, Livi touches my arm.

“Sometimes what you find out about your parents after they die can have as big of an impact as their death did. You know, secrets and stuff. So take my number in case you want to talk.” She scrawls her number on an order pad and slips it into my pocket. “I’ve been there, so if you want to talk, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks.” I shove it in my pocket, though I know my parents aren’t causing my angst at the moment.

She smiles. “Hey, that’s what friends are for, lessening the impact our parents leave behind.”

You wouldn’t believe the shit they left behind…I’m not sure anything can lessen the impact of what my parents left behind.

On my way to the counseling session, I drive by Ashley’s apartment complex. I debate going in to talk to her, but then I remember she’s at work, and I have no idea what I’d say. I’m still stuck between feeling like she lied and feeling like a complete idiot for thinking she would.

I turn back toward the YMCA and crank the music. Ashley’s iPod is plugged into the stereo—with all my favorite songs on her playlist.

I drive the rest of the way holding back tears.

~Ashley~

THE DAY FROM hell plowed into the night from hell. I texted Delilah a million times, and I tried calling, but she was at work all day, and I know she can’t talk when she’s working. She texted me back a number of times, but always with the same message. She’s sorry, but she needs space and time.

Brent and I are the last two in the shop, finishing the inventory that should have been done hours ago, but we got so busy that there wasn’t time. As it gets later into the season, everyone wants to pick up the end-of-summer sale items. It’s great for business, but on a day when everything makes me want to either punch something or cry, the business is the last thing on my mind.

“I think that just about does it.” Brent rises to his feet with a groan. “The worst part about inventory is crouching for so long.” His hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Brent’s big brown eyes are serious, his strong jaw is set tight, and he’s looking at me like he’s worried. I know it’s because I’ve been a royal bitch all day, barely talking or acknowledging his efforts at small talk. I don’t mean to be that way, but it’s not like I can help it after what happened this morning with Delilah.