Which had to have been accidental. Claire was a snuggler—Delilah knew that from their first night together—and Claire had simply been facing Delilah’s direction. She would’ve burrowed against Iris had she been turned the other way.
Wouldn’t she?
Fuck. Delilah rubbed her forehead and gulped her beer. Fresh air, it seemed, was doing very little to get rid of these goddamn feelings.
“What’s wrong?” Astrid asked.
Delilah’s head snapped up. “What? Nothing.”
Now came the quintessential narrowing of eyes. “Bullshit.”
“You’re a real connoisseur of swear words lately.”
“Hard to hold them in around you.”
Delilah smiled at her across the fire. “Me? Are you sure about that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you’re out here in the cold drinking a beer, for god’s sake. What did you call it once? A loaf of bread in a can?”
“That’s just a fact. Have you seen the carb count on these things?”
“Meanwhile,” Delilah went on, “your Prince Charming is sleeping under the stars cuddled up in his feather duvet.”
“He didn’t bring a feather duvet.”
“Okay, fine, a silk duvet. Point is, maybe something else is pulling out all your shits and fucks.”
She waited for Astrid’s retort, something supremely bitchy and most likely demeaning, but she met Delilah’s proclamation with nothing but silence. Her stepsister swirled her beer in the can, eyes downcast. It was the perfect situation, really, to keep annoying her, poking at her like a sleeping bear. Maybe it was the liquid bread, but instead, Delilah found herself suddenly wondering what Claire would say or do in this situation. It was a strange thought. Even stranger, she actually knew what Claire would say and do. She’d be sweet. She’d be comforting. She’d put Astrid’s happiness before her own. She’d care.
And that had never been how Delilah and Astrid operated.
“Do you remember when my mother had the sex talk with us?” Astrid asked.
“Oh god.” That was definitely not what she was expecting. “Why would you bring up such a horrible memory?”
A tiny smile ghosted across Astrid’s mouth. “We were, what? Twelve?”
“And already knew about sex from Bright Falls’s inept sex education curriculum. Thank god for the cheap romance novels our babysitter always seemed to leave stuck in the couch cushions, is all I’m saying.”
Astrid laughed. “Oh my god. I just remember that one where the courtesan or whoever liked to tie her lover to the queen’s throne.”
“And then make him call her Your Majesty? If that didn’t teach us all we needed to know, I don’t know what would.”
“Mom’s version was a little different.”
Delilah sat up straight, holding her beer can like a teacup and sticking out her pinkie. “Now, dears,” she said with an affected British accent that sounded nothing like Isabel Parker-Green, “be sure you always use the little girl’s room after being intimate, and for goodness’ sake, don’t let him talk you into getting on top.”
Astrid laughed loudly, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “She did not say that last part.”
“She was thinking it. Trust me.”
Astrid’s smile faded. “Yeah, she probably was.” Then her voice took on a ghostly quality, eyes glazing over. “ ‘It’s not always pleasant, but it makes your husband happy, so I count it time well spent.’ ”
“What?”
“That’s what she said.” Her gaze met Delilah’s. “You don’t remember that part?”
“Not verbatim,” Delilah said. “Plus, by twelve years old, I already had a good feeling that the word husband would never apply to me, so I probably just zoned out whenever she went down that road.”
Astrid nodded. “She said it. And I’ve never forgotten it.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Delilah said, standing up and moving to a log next to her stepsister. “She really said that? In those words?”
Another nod.
“You know how disturbing this is considering she was married to my father, right?”
Astrid winced but smiled at Delilah, something like camaraderie blooming between them. Delilah felt suddenly young and hopeful, which was just silly. She wasn’t that young anymore, and she’d never associated Astrid with hope by any stretch of the imagination.
“Sorry,” Astrid said. “Yeah, that’s weird, but . . . I can’t stop thinking about it for some reason.”
“So Spencer’s terrible in bed. Is that what this is about?”
Astrid groaned. “No, he’s—”
“Because you know that’s bullshit right? That a woman has to have sex with her man—or any partner—to keep them happy?”
“I know. It’s not about the actual sex; it’s the spirit behind what she said. Like I have to . . .” She trailed off, staring out into the space in front of her. Firelight danced in her wide eyes, and Delilah swore she saw a tiny swell of tears, but Astrid blinked it away before she could be sure.
“Like you have to what?” Delilah asked softly.
Astrid looked down, trailed her finger along the beer can’s rim. “Say yes. All the time, no matter what. Be calm and poised and controlled and just say yes.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds, Astrid’s confession hovering between them. Delilah thought back to their childhood, their teen years, all the attention Isabel lavished upon Astrid with her grades and track, her monthly trips to the salon, balanced diets and French lessons, debate team in high school and early admission and a bachelor’s degree in business. All the things Isabel had never bothered to push for Delilah. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Isabel had hounded her about her homework, made sure she ate a decent dinner every night, but regarding everything else, right down to Delilah’s wild hair and disdain for anything resembling a sport, Isabel let her be. She accepted Delilah’s refusals so easily, like they were a relief and she could focus her attention where it really mattered, on her perfect Astrid, who never put up a fuss about slipping into a satin gown and parading around a fundraiser like a princess.
Astrid was right. She never said no. But Delilah had always assumed she’d never wanted to.
“Astrid—” Delilah started, but her stepsister cut her off when she stood up abruptly.