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Filfthy(29)

By:Winter Renshaw


Daphne shrugs. “Eh. Never heard of them. But continue.”

I chuckle to myself. Sometimes we’re just as similar as we are different.

“Anyway, my first night here, I went next door to tell him to keep the noise down because he was throwing this obscenely loud party,” I say.

Daphne places her hand on my arm. “You did not.”

“It was two in the morning on a weeknight.”

“You realize how lame you sound, right? You do hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Anyway.” I wave her off. I ramble on, filling her in on what happened that night. And how we ran into each other at the pool. And all the times I’ve bumped into him around Laguna Palms. And all the jerkwad things constantly coming out of his mouth.

“He’s doing it on purpose,” she says. “Bumping into you. Giving you crap.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“And as soon as you give him some, you’ll never see him again.”

The car fills with silence for a moment.

“Delilah.” Daphne twists her entire body my way, her chin tucked against her chest. “Please tell me you didn’t . . .”

Biting my lip, I nod. I can’t lie to my sister. She sees clear through me anyway.

“What? When? Why…?” Daphne slinks back in her seat, staring ahead at the traffic. “You just spent twenty minutes detailing all the reasons you can’t stand this asshole and how much he annoys you, and I agree – he’s everything you hate in a man - and then you just gave it up to him?”

“I don’t understand it any more than you do.” My fingers wrap around the steering wheel, palms sweaty. Reaching for the controls, I crank the AC because it’s suddenly grown hotter in here. “He’s very charming. He makes it hard to concentrate sometimes. If you meet him, you’ll see.”

“Am I going to meet him?”

I sigh. “Probably. He’s everywhere, Daph.”

“So when did you sleep together?”

“I don’t know. Earlier this week?” Tuesday night. Approximately seven o’clock. I can’t tell her that though. I have to play it cool because deep down, I’m anything but and if I say too much, she’ll sniff it out like a bloodhound.

“Whatever. What night was it?” she pushes. “Was it before or after he tapped on your window?”

“Before.”

Daphne claps her hand against the dashboard. “So you gave it up, and he didn’t run away like an ass. That says something.”

I shake my head, flipping on my turn signal and veering toward our exit. “He was bringing me my clothes. I left them there.”

“You walked home naked?”

“No.” We come to a stop sign, and my phone buzzes from the cup holder between us. I check my texts, welcoming an excuse to change the subject pronto. Ever since the other night, I keep expecting my phone to blow up with messages from Zane, but he’s been keeping his distance. I don’t know what his game is, but I have a feeling everything he does is strategic. And shit. It’s kind of working. The more aloof he is, the more I almost wish he’d come bother me again. I’ve never been so confused. “Rue wants us to meet her for dinner at the Laguna Palms clubhouse. She’s waiting there now.”

“Good. I’m starving They gave us hummus and pretzels on the plane, and only after I ate the entire thing did I see that the hummus expired four months ago.” Daphne places her hand on her rumbling stomach. “So anyway, was it good?”

“Excuse me? Was what good?”

She lifts a brow. “You know exactly what I’m asking.”

Pressing my lips together, I inhale through my nose and contemplate my answer for all of two seconds.

“It was incredible.”



“My girls!” Aunt Rue rises from the table when she spots us, dropping her napkin on her plate and rushing to Daphne’s side. “Look how much you’ve grown, my goodness. You’re so tall now. And you lost all that baby fat just like I knew you would.”

Daphne and I exchange looks before sitting down, both of us trying not to laugh. Aunt Rue’s compliments are notoriously offensive.

“I knew you’d be a looker,” Aunt Rue says. “Both of you are. My Demi is too. It’s the Rosewood genes, I’m telling you. We’re very blessed.”

Rue was Miss Florida Universe 1967, a title she wears proud still to this day. A few summers ago, I caught her passed out in her hammock by the pool one night, crown on her head and a spilling strawberry daiquiri in her hand.

“But I’ll tell you girls,” she says, sitting down. “Looks fade. And they fade fast. One day you’re strutting down Hollywood Boulevard getting cat-called by Marlon Brando and the next day you’re shopping for push-up bras and mourning the loss of your perky caboose.”