It never came. So when Delilah’s fingers curled around her high school diploma to polite, dispassionate applause, she knew it was time to leave for good.
Now, just like each of the few times she’d been back in the last twelve years, she looked up at the lovely Georgian brick exterior of Wisteria House and felt a low simmering panic just under each breath. She pressed her hands to her stomach and inhaled. She knew she had to go in, get through this just like she’d gotten through the brunch. She just needed a moment to prepare. But one moment turned into another, and she knew, any second, her phone would go off with Astrid screeching about professionalism and timeliness.
She took one step toward the front stoop, then another, and was nearly to the bottom of the stairs when a familiar car pulled into the driveway.
A silver Prius.
Delilah watched as Claire opened the driver’s door and two other people got out of the car as well—Iris and some guy Delilah had never seen before. He was dressed in sleek gray dress pants and a black button-down, dark hair pulled into an impressive man bun. He wrapped an arm around Iris, and Delilah let out a breath of relief.
Which gave her enough space to actually focus on what she was seeing.
Claire, in red heels, red lipstick, and an incredibly tight vintage dress that seemed welded around every perfect curve. This was the kind of dress fantasies were made of, designed for bodies like Claire’s, with its inch-wide straps hooking over her round shoulders and the sweetheart neckline showing off the perfect amount of cleavage. The black-and-white polka dots lent an air of innocence to the whole style, but shit, Delilah’s thoughts right now were anything but innocent.
She felt her mouth drop open and couldn’t do a single thing to stop it.
“That’s exactly what I did when I saw her,” Iris said to Delilah. “She looks just like Bettie Page, am I right?” She elbowed Claire.
“What?” Claire said. “No way. My boobs and ass are way bigger than Bettie Page’s were.”
“Yeah, and that’s a good thing.” Iris grinned at her, shaking her head.
Delilah dimly registered the conversation they were having—vintage model, boobs—because dress. All she could do was stare as Claire got closer.
“Hey there,” Iris said when she stopped in front of Delilah. She tilted her head at her, like she was waiting for something.
“Can I help you?” Delilah asked after clearing her throat.
“You can. You’re blocking the steps.”
Delilah considered suggesting in a saccharine tone that Iris use pretty please in a sentence, but with the task of walking inside the house still hovering over her and Claire standing there looking like a pinup model, she didn’t have it in her. She simply moved aside, flourishing her hand up the stairs.
“Hey, I’m Grant,” the guy said as he passed by.
“Delilah,” she said, and his eyes went wide. Her stomach clenched a little. “Yes, that Delilah.”
“Oh, um, yeah, nice to meet you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Smooth,” Iris said, taking his arm. She glanced at Claire, nodding her head toward the door. “We’ll meet you inside?”
“Yeah,” Claire said, then she just stood there as Iris and Grant disappeared, shifting from one foot to the other and pulling on the straps of her dress.
“It looks amazing,” Delilah said.
Claire froze. “What?”
“The dress.” She motioned to Claire’s hand still on the left strap. “It looks good. Really good.”
She watched as a little smile curled one corner of her mouth. “Yeah?”
“Oh yes.”
Claire pursed her lips, clearly trying to fight a larger smile, but her cheeks went pink. She let her hand drop. “Are you going in?”
Delilah sighed and looked up at the house, at red-brown brick and shiny windows. “Eventually. You?”
“Well, I value my life quite a lot, so, yes.”
“Astrid always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?” The words came out quieter than she meant them to, sadder, and Claire’s brows dipped as she searched Delilah’s face. Delilah tried not to look away, but damn this woman, she had some very deep eyes, their brown like a bottomless pit, and Delilah didn’t feel like falling tonight.
She pushed her gaze down, adjusted the camera bag on her shoulder. She needed to gain control of this situation, of what she was and was not doing with Claire Sutherland, one of Astrid’s mean girls, for god’s sake, but control was never something she felt when she was at Wisteria House.
“We could walk in together?” Claire said, more a question than a statement.
Delilah considered it. Claire’s shoulder pressed to hers as she went through the front door, a buffer. But also . . . the look on Astrid’s face when she saw them come in together.
Delilah smiled. “Yeah. We could definitely do that.” Then she looped her arm through Claire’s and pulled her body close, just for good measure.
* * *
DELILAH’S SHOULDERS CREPT up to her ears as they walked through the door and into the wide foyer. The smell hit her first. Lavender and bleach, like chemicals attempting to tame something wild. Then the temperature curled around her, frigid cold, the air-conditioning blasting to the point of rustling hair and skirts. Finally, there was the view, the entryway still painted a light gray, the dark hardwood floors still gleaming and pristine, the walls still dotted with the most boring paintings imaginable, neutral-colored abstracts and boring riverscapes. In between these masterpieces, there were, of course, posed photographs of Astrid at all ages. Black and whites in driftwood frames of a blond princess in her ballet costume, her track uniform, her hunter-green graduation gown loaded down with gold and white honors stoles.
There was one picture featuring Delilah—an eight-by-ten family portrait of her and Astrid around age nine on the white sofa in the living room, Isabel and Delilah’s father perched on either side of them, his blue eyes sparkling. A plain antiqued gold frame surrounded the happy scene, set on the console table near the staircase and half covered by a velvety succulent in a ceramic pot.
She felt dizzy for a moment, but that wasn’t all that unusual. She just needed a minute to get her bearings, coat herself in her usual Isabel-and-Astrid armor—sarcasm and disdain. She rolled her shoulders back, her arm tightening on Claire’s as she did so.
“You okay?” Claire asked, watching her.
“Peachy,” she said, but she didn’t let go of Claire.
And Claire didn’t let go of her.
At least, not until Astrid appeared around the corner that led into the living room, her eyes immediately narrowing in on Delilah’s and Claire’s arms. Only then did Claire untangle herself, straightening her dress and clearing her throat.