“Claire, I—”
“I know you live in New York and you need to be there and I need to be here, but I don’t care. We can figure something out, can’t we? We can tell Astrid about us. Iris too. I just . . . I think, I don’t want—”
Delilah pressed her finger to Claire’s mouth, cutting her off. She stared at the other woman, trying to parse this feeling in her chest, but it only took a second for her to figure it out.
Relief.
A little spark of fear that felt pretty normal for something this big.
Happiness.
Before right now, when was the last time she felt really and truly happy? She couldn’t remember. Getting the email about the show at the Whitney, maybe, but that was different. That was . . . success. This was blood-warming, bone-settling, brain-fogging happiness.
But she couldn’t put any of that into words, not yet, so she pulled Claire closer, slid her hand up her back and around her nape, thumb swirling over her soft skin as she kissed her, pouring everything she didn’t know how to say into every touch, every press of her body against Claire’s.
Yes. Kiss. Yes. Kiss. Yes. Kiss.
Claire laughed against her mouth and wrapped one leg around Delilah’s hips. Delilah slipped her hands under Claire’s shirt, feeling her soft skin, completely forgetting where they were, why they were there. This moment was all that mattered, all she cared about, and—
“What the hell is this?”
For a split second, the voice, the angry tone, the words felt like a dream. Like a movie left on a TV no one was watching. But then Claire sucked in a breath, scrambled away from Delilah, and Delilah found herself alone on the bed as a tear-streaked Astrid Parker stared into her childhood bedroom, her mouth hanging open in shock.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CLAIRE’S HEARTBEAT WAS everywhere, fingertips fizzing with too much oxygen. For a second, nothing felt real—her plea for Delilah to stay, her decision to tell her best friend that she was maybe, possibly, most likely in love with her estranged stepsister, and now this.
Astrid, gaping at her, hurt and anger radiating through her body. Iris stood behind her, an oh shit sort of expression on her face.
“Astrid,” Claire said. “I—”
“Don’t,” Astrid said, holding up a shaking hand.
Claire sighed and stood up. Her shirt was twisted, but she definitely didn’t want to call attention to her rumpled clothing in the moment. “Honey, let me explain.”
“Explain what?” Astrid said. She didn’t shriek or scream. Claire almost wished she would. Instead, her tone was quiet, exhausted. Sad. “That you’re, what? Screwing my sister and didn’t even bother to tell me?”
“No, Astrid, I—”
“So you’re not screwing her?”
Claire blinked at her best friend, shame warming her face.
Astrid nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“Sweetie, maybe let her talk,” Iris said, squeezing Astrid’s shoulder.
Astrid whirled around. “You knew about this?”
“No, she didn’t,” Claire said, but Iris just shrugged and said, “I suspected.”
“What the hell is happening?” Astrid said. “What else are you two keeping from me? Oh, wait, I already know you hate Spencer.”
“We don’t hate him,” Iris said. “We just don’t like him for you. You deserve better than him. We’ve been wanting to talk to you about it all, but we didn’t know how. And through the week, Claire and Delilah and I thought if we could just get you to think about what—”
“Hold on,” Astrid said, lifting a trembling finger into the air. “You and Claire and Delilah?”
Iris’s mouth hung open, then she closed her eyes. This was a disaster. Nothing was going right. Claire didn’t know how to explain anything, her words a tangle on her tongue.
“She was with us all the time,” Claire finally managed to say. “And she . . . well . . . she was . . .”
“I was good at making a mess of things,” Delilah said quietly.
Astrid looked like she was going to throw up. She stared at all three of them in turn, but her gaze finally settled on Delilah. “I can’t believe this. Twenty-two years we’ve been sisters. Twenty-two years of your distance and your I don’t give a shit about anyone but myself attitude.”
“Astrid,” Claire said, alarm spreading through her as Delilah’s face paled. “Hang on a sec.”
But Astrid ignored her. “Twenty-two years of wondering what the hell was wrong with me, what I did, why you wouldn’t give me a chance, why—”
“Why I wouldn’t give you a chance?” Delilah said, standing up. “From the second my father died, your mother made it very clear what I was in this family. A ward. A girl without a home. An orphan. Someone she would feed and clothe and that was it. Not a family member. Not a daughter.”
“That’s Mother,” Astrid said, then slapped her own chest so hard Claire flinched. “What about me?”
Delilah lifted her chin, almost defiant, but Claire noticed a slight tremble of her lower lip, the way she clenched her jaw to steady it.
Astrid shook her head. “I should’ve never invited you here.”
“Why did you?”
“Because you’re my goddamn sister! And I wanted you at my wedding. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, but I certainly didn’t expect this. Mom was right; you don’t care about us. You don’t care about me, you don’t—”
“You never gave me a chance to,” Delilah said.
“I gave you a chance the second I hired you for this wedding! I gave you a chance every holiday you never came home and every time I stopped by your room growing up, every time we had dinner, every time—”
“So now I’m supposed to be a mind reader? You ignored me for the entirety of high school. Middle school. You ignored me every time Claire and Iris came over to the house, making sure I felt like an outsider every step of the way.”
Astrid blinked at her, tears falling silently onto her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was fragile, shattered. “You ignored me first.”
Delilah pursed her lips, turned her head away, her eyes glistening just a little. Claire wanted to curl her into her arms. She wanted to take Astrid’s hand, get them to calm down and talk, but she didn’t move. She didn’t dare. This barbed-wire connection between Astrid and Delilah was so much sharper than she’d ever imagined. There was so much hurt here, so much anger, and she didn’t know how to help either one of them.