“No. Not because it’s too hard. I just…don’t. There are too many things that can be misconstrued, and when you’re a guy, you get blamed for everything, even when you don’t do anything.”
I know what you mean. “Then maybe you’re picking the wrong girls.” I can’t imagine him doing the wrong things very often. The way he and Jesse watch out for everyone else, it seems like they were brought up doing all the right things.
He shrugs. “Maybe you did, too.”
“No. I have no doubt that Delilah is the right girl for me.”
He slides me an arched-eyebrow look that reads, Then why’d you do something wrong?
“It wasn’t what I did. It was what I didn’t do.”
“Been there, too. It’s all the same.”
“Well, some girls aren’t worth taking those extra steps for, but Delilah is. I was just stupid.” I don’t really know why I didn’t tell Delilah about Sandy’s texts. I’d like to believe that I thought so little of them I didn’t want her to worry. But the truth is, I think I might have been keeping them as a reminder of what I didn’t want to repeat. The problem is, I am with Delilah, and although she’s not anything like Sandy, she isn’t out. She isn’t openly affectionate in public, and that was what those reminders were supposed to keep me from repeating.
But all the texts and reminders in the world couldn’t make me walk away from Delilah.
“You’re not a stupid girl, Ash. I’m not buying it.”
I’m not either.
We walk back toward the parking lot. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked. Needed the fresh air.”
“At seven thirty this morning?” He takes me by the elbow and leads me to his Harley. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
“You don’t have to.” Although the idea of walking home alone is not at all appealing. I don’t live far, but I feel lonely with the fissure that’s formed between me and Dee.
“I know.” He lifts a helmet from his bike. “Can you tie your hair back?”
I slip an elastic band from my wrist and secure my hair at the nape of my neck. Then he puts the helmet on me and smiles. “Cute.”
“Thanks. I feel like one of those bobblehead dolls we sell.”
He puts on his helmet and helps me onto the bike, then straddles the bike. “Hold on tight.”
Minutes later we’re at my apartment complex. I give Brent the helmet and thank him for the ride. He takes off his helmet and holds it under his arm as he reaches for my arm.
“Ashley, I’m sure that Delilah will come around. Just don’t shove whatever you did or didn’t do to the side. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that owning our mistakes can help us heal. Unless, of course, the reason we made them in the first place was to give ourselves an out. And if that’s the case, cut your losses and walk away, because if you wanted out once, you’ll want out again.”
As his taillights fade into the distance, I know one thing for sure. I do not want an out from being with Delilah.
Chapter Twenty-Three
~Delilah~
I DRIVE OVER to group, but I don’t want to talk about grieving and depression and moving past our pain when another type of pain is sinking its claws into my heart. A pain that feels worse than the lingering pain of losing my parents, and that makes me feel guilty, too. I should go back to work and help out, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t. I turn my Jeep around and drive home, adding another layer of guilt to my already guilt-laden shoulders.
I park in the driveway behind Brandon’s motorcycle and head inside, cringing when the door slams behind me.
Brandon sits up from where he’s sprawled on the couch with his laptop perched on his stomach.
“Whoa. You okay?” He sets the laptop on the coffee table.
“No.” I take the stairs two at a time and stomp into my room. I grab a duffel bag from the closet and pack my stuff—realizing too late that I left my hairbrush at Ashley’s. Damn it.
I snag my shampoo from the bathroom, and when I come back out Brandon is sitting on my bed, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded behind his head.
“Skipping group?”
“Yup.”
“Been there, done that. Anything I can do to help?” Brandon’s parents had put him into a peer counseling group when he was a teenager because they thought he was too…everything. Rebellious, different, uninterested in schoolwork, despite his excellent grades.
“Nope.” I toss shorts and tank tops into my bag, then go back to my dresser for underwear. When I open the drawer, I see Ashley’s underwear and bra and stare at them for a few seconds while my throat thickens.