“Jesus.” I run my hand through my hair, tugging a small fistful. The last thing I want to do is hurt Delilah. “Daphne, you have to give this to her.”
I slip her the note.
“She’s not taking my calls or texts, and I have to explain everything to her before she leaves tomorrow.”
Daphne cocks her head to the side, examining me. Behind her, one of the movers stands with a clipboard, clearly needing her attention. But I need it more.
“Whatever explanation you’re going to give her, which I’m sure will be some kind of variation of the truth that paints you in some saintly light . . . is it even going to change anything? She’s going back to college in a month and you’re here playing football. You already made it crystal clear to her this summer that she’s nothing more than your own personal sex toy.” Daphne huffs. “You had fun. I get it. But now she’s hurt, and you have the nerve to stand here acting like you deserve another chance?”
“Ma’am?” The driver of the moving truck lifts a finger. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I just have some questions before we get started.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Daphne spins around, ending our discussion before I have the chance to tell her that Delilah was so much more than what I gave her credit for this summer.
In many ways, she saved me.
I watch Daphne shove the note in her side pocket and lead the movers inside the house.
Lingering for a moment, I watch the door on the off chance Delilah might come out, but she never does.
Tonight I’m throwing rocks at her window.
Tonight I’ll do whatever it takes.
I have to see her one last time.
She can’t leave here thinking I didn’t care about her.
She can’t leave here never knowing that I loved her.
And that I still do.
Chapter 38
Delilah
Two Months Later . . .
I close the lid to my laptop and shut my textbook. I’ve been working on this research paper for five straight hours, and my vision’s beginning to blur from too much screen time.
Taking six whole steps across my studio apartment, I open the window by the kitchenette to let some fresh air in. I watch a few students saunter along the sidewalk, bags slung over their shoulders, laughing and talking. It’s not right being cooped up in this little apartment when it’s autumn in Chicago and the weather is to die for.
I should get some fresh air. Maybe that’ll help me focus. And feel human again.
I grab a water bottle and my sneakers and phone, spotting a missed text message from my older sister, Demi, along with a screenshot of her TV. It’s fuzzy, and I can hardly make out the picture, but it looks like she’s watching ESPN.
Tapping the screen, I call her, and she answers in the middle of the second ring.
“Oh my god, Delilah. Didn’t you use to date Zane de la Cruz?” Demi’s words are hurried and excited.
“We didn’t date,” I say. “But what about him?”
“Turn on ESPN,” she says. “There’s a special on hometown heroes or something. I was sitting here with Royal, tuning out Sports Center like I always do, and then I heard them mention his name. Did you know he’s in Chicago now? He plays for the Chicago Thunder.”
I’ve turned to stone, standing here unable to move. The phone slips from my hand, but I manage to catch it before it crashes to the floor.
“Turn your TV on,” Demi urges. “It just started about five minutes ago.”
Palms sweating and heart racing, I toss throw pillows from my futon couch until I find the buried remote. I don’t even know what channel ESPN is or if I even have it, but I’m flipping through the stations like my life depends on it.
Found it.
The camera pans across a football field where men in black and grey are practicing drills, and then it cuts to a head and shoulders shot of Zane being interviewed.
He smiles, his dimples just as prevalent as before, and everything around me fades into the distance. I see him and only him.
I hang up with my sister, and in the span of the next hour, I fall for him all over again. And when it’s over, my heart aches. All the pain and hurt I spent the last two months processing and tucking away have all been dredged up again, brought back to the surface.
The fact that he’s in the same city as me . . .
“It’s good to be home.” His voice fills my apartment as he looks straight at the camera.
I finish the documentary, having watched the entire thing from the edge of my seat in a state of suspended animation, and I collapse back into the throw pillows when the credits begin to roll.
“He’s here,” I whisper out loud, because apparently I need to hear it to actually believe it. All of this feels incredibly surreal.