“What does Isabel say?” Delilah asked, even though she already knew. Rich, prestigious career, nice golden-boy hair. Isabel loved Spencer, and Claire confirmed as much.
“I can never put a finger on it,” Claire continued, “but he just . . . He’s . . .”
“Smarmy?”
“Yes!” Claire reached out and grabbed Delilah’s arm in solidarity but quickly dropped it. “But like . . . in a sneaky way. Like, right now, what just happened with him all”—here she fluttered her hands around her boobs—“what would I say about that to Astrid? ‘Hey, your future husband looked at me’?” She shook her head. “Even Iris, who will legit say anything to anyone, can’t figure out how to word it.”
Delilah ran her brain through what she would say—Your fiancé’s a douche, he looks like a Ken doll, he ogled your BFF’s tits, you turn into a sycophant when you’re around him—but each and every observation that popped into her mind would only piss Astrid off, which, now that she thought about it, might be a delightful way to spend an evening.
And a sure way to get fired.
Still, the idea of Astrid’s wedding falling apart and all of Isabel’s money and plans and dreams of the society event of the season crumbling before her face-lifted eyes? Well, let’s just say it made Delilah feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
“Spencer never does anything concrete,” Claire said. “It’s just a feeling, the way she acts around him.” She rubbed her forehead. “God, she’d kill me if she knew I was saying any of this to you.”
“Not exactly how a maid of honor wants to feel about the groom, I guess.”
“No. No, it’s not.”
Delilah watched as genuine worry settled on Claire’s features. Then, as Astrid’s heels echoed down the hallway again, it bled away just as quickly. Lines smoothed out, and Claire smiled at her friend. But that was genuine too, the grin crinkling up her eyes and pressing a single tiny dimple Delilah had never noticed before right next to Claire’s mouth. This woman loved Astrid with her whole heart.
God only knew why.
“Cheers,” Astrid said as she handed flutes of golden bubbly to Delilah and Claire, keeping one back and looking around. “Where’s Spencer?”
Delilah took a sip of her drink then said, totally deadpan, “Hopefully, taking a flying leap off the dock into the river.”
Claire choked on her champagne.
Delilah felt a rush of pride, but then she saw the look on Astrid’s face.
She expected angry or annoyed. She didn’t expect . . . crestfallen. Her stepsister’s mouth went slack, and her eyebrows dipped in confusion. Delilah’s stomach already felt wobbly from walking into this house, but now, suddenly, it was a pit of writhing snakes, and she didn’t like it one bit.
“What?” Astrid asked.
“Nothing,” Delilah said, waving her free hand, preferring Astrid’s professional indifference to this unfamiliar wounded version standing in front of her. “You want me to take some pictures before dinner, right?”
“Yeah,” Astrid said, her eyes flicking to Claire.
“Let’s go out back, then,” Claire said, clearing her throat. Then she hooked her arm through Astrid’s and took a step to pull her away.
Delilah readied herself to be left behind, to go farther into the house on her own. She’d done it before. She’d spent ten years in this house, eight without her dad or any other ally. She could certainly walk through a goddamn foyer as an event photographer.
But this house, Astrid, Isabel, all of those things stirred together in one pot was a potent brew; one sip was all it took to make her feel like an odd, lonely teenager again.
She closed her eyes for two seconds, breathed in some lavender-bleach air, and ordered her feet to move. Before she could, though, before she even opened her eyes again, she felt soft fingers curl around her arm.
Delilah blinked to find Claire, one hand still holding on to Astrid and the other . . . smoothing down Delilah’s tricep to her elbow. Astrid frowned at her, though her expression was more curious than angry, and Delilah felt something uncoil in her middle.
“Come on,” Claire said gently. “Ready?”
No, Delilah wanted to say. She never was.
But as Claire’s fingers tightened on her skin, just a little, her feet unfroze and she took one step, then another, then another. Before she knew it, she was through the white-couched living room where she’d spent many a Christmas morning digging through her stocking in silence, and outside on the wide back porch, fairy lights casting a soft glow over the whole space.
There were at least fifteen people out here. Delilah recognized some of the women from the brunch, Spencer’s family, and of course Isabel, who was holding court while perched on a patio chair, champagne sparkling in her hand. Astrid kissed Claire on the cheek before shooting Delilah her usual irritated look and breaking off to join Spencer on the far end of the deck, where he was laughing with a group of three other guys, all of them dude-bro-ing it up with their preternaturally white teeth and perfect hair.
Delilah waited for Claire to break off too, speeding toward Iris or some other friend Delilah may or may not know, maybe Josh, though she didn’t see him anywhere.
But . . . Claire didn’t move. She stayed right where she was, her fingers cool and soft around Delilah’s arm, like she was waiting for Delilah to break away too.
Chapter Nine
CLAIRE WAS STILL holding Delilah’s arm. She didn’t know why. She told herself to let it go more than once, but she worried that if she did, Delilah might float away or crumple to the ground or just stand there looking as lost as she had in the foyer.
Or maybe she just liked the silky feel of Delilah’s skin under hers.
The thought was a lightning bolt, forcing Claire to finally yank her fingers away, sloshing a bit of her champagne onto the slatted porch floor as she did.
Delilah didn’t seem to notice. As she looked around and took a sip of her drink, she didn’t float or crumple, but her expression was still a bit wide-eyed. It was fascinating to see this bold, brash woman look like a deer wandering in the woods. Claire wasn’t sure what it was all about, but she really wanted to know, which was exactly why she swallowed her questions with a too-big gulp of alcohol.
“Hey!” Iris called from across the porch, pulling Grant by the arm toward Claire. “What took you so long?”
“It’s been like ten minutes, Ris.”
“Which is ten minutes too long to leave me alone with this crowd.” Iris waved her own champagne toward the posh group of people. “God, have you ever seen so much Louboutin in one place? Are we seriously the only normal people in Astrid’s life?”