“Fine,” Delilah said. “But meet me outside, okay? I don’t—”
“Want to walk in alone. I know.”
Delilah’s eyes felt suddenly wet. She ended the call before Claire could hear the tears in her voice.
* * *
CLAIRE WASN’T THERE to meet her, though Iris’s car was in the driveway. Still, Delilah stood frozen as her Lyft drove away. She should just turn around, go back to the inn, and book her flight home. She didn’t belong here, and she never would.
And yet.
Delilah had taken her time getting to Wisteria House. She’d gotten a coffee at Wake Up, then walked slowly through downtown until she was sure Claire would already be at Wisteria.
She had stopped in front of River Wild Books, gazed through the window at all the colorful spines, the bare walls Claire couldn’t decide how to fill. Brianne, Claire’s manager, waved at Delilah from behind the counter, a bright smile on her face. Delilah waved back, found herself smiling too, which just made all the confusing feelings gathering in her chest like a storm swirl even thicker.
Now, standing in front of her home, she couldn’t make herself turn away. For the first time since her father died, she wanted to go inside.
What the hell had Claire Sutherland done to her?
This wasn’t okay. She needed to leave now. What did she care if Astrid was upset, if Isabel’s perfect fairy-tale wedding was dissolving behind her parlor doors?
She didn’t. Delilah Green didn’t care. Because they’d never once cared about her.
She slumped against the door, pressed her forehead to the thick inlaid glass. Not caring was fucking exhausting.
Before she could stop herself, she twisted the thick brass door handle and stepped inside, lavender and bleach assaulting her senses like always. It was cool, nearly cold, and just as she suspected, the parlor doors to her left were closed, voices murmuring behind them. Once, the room was her father’s office, filled with squashy leather couches and a huge oak desk Delilah used to curl up under with a book while her dad worked. Now, the room looked like something out of Versailles, settees and chaise lounges and fainting couches arranged just so. She walked up to the doors, placed a palm against the wood.
“. . . any idea how embarrassing this will be?” Isabel was saying.
“Embarrassing for who, Mother?” Astrid said, her voice thick and watery-sounding. Delilah had never heard her voice sound like that. “For you or for me?”
“For the both of us,” Isabel said, her voice completely calm. She didn’t scream or yell. She never had in all the time Delilah had known her, but Christ, that woman could spit out an invective like no one else, her tone always measured and cold, which, honestly, made everything worse. More than once growing up, Delilah had tried to rile her stepmother into a frenzy, if only so Delilah wouldn’t be the only one losing her shit.
“Well, I’m sorry,” Astrid said. “But for once, just once, I need you to—”
Astrid’s voice cut off, silence filing the space. Delilah pressed her ear against the door. She thought she heard “It’s okay” in Claire’s soothing tone, but it was so quiet she couldn’t be sure. There was some sniffling, some shushing.
“Oh for god’s sake, Astrid,” Isabel said. “Stop crying. If this is upsetting you so much, call your fiancé and fix it.”
“He’s not upsetting me, Mom, you are,” Astrid said.
“I beg your pardon?” Isabel said, her voice like a knife.
“Just once, please,” Astrid said, “put me first.”
“I have done nothing but put you first your entire life, young lady.”
“No. You haven’t. You’ve put your image first. Your money. Your social standing. And I’m tired, Mom. I’m tired. Delilah’s tired.”
Delilah jolted at the sound of her name. Her heart thrummed, adrenaline flooding her system hot and then cold.
“Don’t you dare talk to me about that girl,” Isabel said. “She made it very clear a long time ago how she feels about this family. You think I don’t know she pushed poor Spencer into the river? And that debacle at Vivian’s, my god. She’s like a barn animal. I don’t know where I went wrong with her.”
“Mom, stop.”
“If you ask me, this is her fault,” Isabel said. “You were perfectly happy marrying Spencer before she came back to town. I warned you she’d just stir up trouble, but no, you just had to have your sister at your wedding, didn’t you?”
Delilah frowned, blinking at the door and trying to process what she’d just heard. Even after all these years, Isabel’s indifference toward her still stung. She wished it didn’t, told herself it didn’t matter, but she couldn’t help it. Some childish, desperate need for love always rose up inside her when it came to Isabel. She said she didn’t care, but the truth was, Isabel was the only mother she’d ever known, and the woman hated her. Or worse, felt nothing toward her.
Isabel didn’t love Delilah Green, and she never would.
And she hadn’t wanted Delilah at Astrid’s wedding. She hadn’t hired her as the photographer. She hadn’t guilted Delilah into coming, indicating her father would’ve wanted her there. She hadn’t offered her a ridiculous amount of money she knew Delilah needed.
Astrid had done all that.
Astrid had wanted her here.
Delilah shook her head and stumbled back from the door. She didn’t want to hear any more. She couldn’t. Her chest tightened and her eyes stung. She turned toward the front door, ready to flee, but she didn’t want that either.
She wanted Claire.
She even wanted Iris.
Without thinking, she let muscle memory take over. Her feet moved her to the right and took her up the vast staircase, hand sliding along the oak bannister like it had done so many times before. Upstairs, she stopped in the doorway to her old room, but there was nothing for her to remember there. All of her things were gone, shipped to New York a month after she’d left Bright Falls at eighteen, when it was clear to Isabel she wasn’t coming back. Her old space was a guest room now, white linens with gray-blue piping, bland paintings of rivers and waterfalls on the wall, sheer white curtains framing the window.
She moved on to the next room. The second she opened the door, she felt like she was walking into a museum of her past. Astrid’s cavernous room looked exactly the same as it had when they were teens. All of Astrid’s favorite books were still on the shelves, her duvet the same delicate lavender and yellow swirls, her white-wood vanity still sporting that Cinderella jewelry box she’d gotten when she was eight, the one Delilah secretly coveted but could never figure out how to ask for.