Discovering Delilah(72)

I can’t do a damn thing.

I listen to the fast noises of the traffic. No one stops to see if I’m okay. Wyatt doesn’t come racing up behind my Jeep to swoop me into his arms. Ashley doesn’t come to my rescue.

There’s only me and the fucking pavement that will forever mark my parents’ deaths.

Me and the memory of their disapproving looks.

Me and the guilt of knowing they think it’s wrong for me to love Ashley.

And I do love her.

I love her so much.

But of course I can’t tell her, because my fucking parents have left me buried in guilt so thick I can barely breathe. They left me scared of never being able to love a woman—to love Ashley the way she deserves to be loved. The way I want to love her—publicly, without concern over looks and disapproval from others.

They left me a broken girl.

I imagine Wyatt telling me it’ll be okay. I can practically feel his arms around me, and I see myself falling into that comfort—and it pisses me off.

I don’t want to be that broken girl.

I don’t want anyone else to fix me. Not even Wyatt.

I push to my feet and wait until my wobbly legs become solid again, and then I force myself to walk back to my Jeep with one goal in mind.

Every step, every breath, comes a little stronger, with more determination.

I’m going to heal myself, because no one else can do that for me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow my parents’ guilt and disapproval to take me under.

I pick up my phone and type a text to Ashley—I miss you already—but I don’t send it. I can’t give her hope for us until I know I can be whole. She told me herself not to tell her I loved her until I could say it loud and proud.

I’m going to try.





Chapter Twenty-Four


~Ashley~

I DON’T WANT to get out of bed. I don’t want to shower, and I don’t want to go to work, and I don’t want to do anything but lie here smelling Delilah’s shampoo on my pillow with the phone in my hand while I wait for her to call. She didn’t return my texts last night, and even though Brandon called to tell me that she left for Connecticut, I wish she’d call. Wyatt called me too, to ask what the hell was going on. Or rather, to demand to know what was going on. There was no use lying. He was worried, and honestly, so was I. Driving to Connecticut by herself in the dark without telling Wyatt, without even mentioning it to me, tells me just how bad our situation is.

There’s a knock on my apartment door, and I fly out of bed, hoping it’s Delilah. Funny how a sliver of hope can instantly heal a broken heart. I fling open the door and feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut when it’s not Delilah, but Brandon leaning one hand against the doorframe, his head hanging between his shoulders. He lifts his head just enough for me to see his eyes and raises his brows.

“Nice outfit.” His voice is craggy and thick.

I don’t say anything to defend wearing Delilah’s T-shirt and shorts. I simply turn and walk into the living room and flop on the couch, leaving Brandon to follow me in and close the door behind himself.

“What’s the lowdown?” He sits beside me in his black jeans and T-shirt, leans his elbows on his thighs, and locks his eyes on the floor.

I shrug, which he obviously can’t see, but he must feel the couch move. He cocks his head so he’s looking at me out of the corners of his eyes.

“Bullshit.”

I get up, walk into the bedroom, and grab my phone, then return to the living room and toss it to him, before sinking onto the couch again.

He eyes me carefully, as if I might get up and do something else, then scrolls through my texts. When he gets to Sandy’s, he eyes me again, then proceeds to read them. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. I know how it looks. I watch him scroll through texts to Delilah. I’m not embarrassed by the number of texts I’ve sent her or what they say. I don’t really care who sees them, least of all Brandon. He’s never judged me, not once since the day we met.

He leans back, hands me my phone, and drapes his arms over the back of the couch. We sit in silence, me with my feet tucked beneath me, hovering in the corner of the couch, and him sprawled out like he hasn’t a care in the world. Only his dark eyes are treading in a pool of worry. Upon closer inspection, I notice that dark circles hang beneath his eyes and his clothes are disheveled and wrinkled. I worry something in his life has gone awry, and I’ve been too wrapped up in Delilah to notice, but I don’t have the energy to ask.

“Wanna go out for coffee?”

I shrug again. I’ve decided that shrugs can take the place of any answer. It makes it easier to let the other person make the decisions.