Delilah just laughs, hands buried in the cape as her eyes crinkle at the corners, shoulders shaking.
“Okay, I believe that,” she says. “There was some issue with the beer and Vera made you wear a suit to come fix it?”
“Nope,” I say. “I was invited.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Hand to God.”
“Seth, I saw the guest list yesterday and you weren’t on it,” she says, as if she’s catching a child out in a lie.
“You must’ve missed my name.”
“I don’t think so.”
“There are five hundred people here,” I point out. “Easy to gloss over a single entry in a list.”
“There are three hundred and sixty-something people here, and if you were supposed to be one of them, I’d know,” she says, simply.
It’s an admission, and I feel it down deep like a string tugging on my spine, tied into a notch she carved long ago. I grab it, hold on.
“Someone invited me at the last minute,” I say, and at least it’s the truth.
Delilah looks down, unfurls the cape in her hands, spins it around herself, settles it over her shoulders, all without looking at me.
“Does this someone know you’re out here, rescuing damsels in distress?” she asks, fastening the clasp.
She thinks I’m on a date. Her voice is light but brittle, like a glass bubble that might explode into shards at any moment.
“What damsel?” I ask.
“Your wording, not mine,” she points out, smoothing her cape, still not looking at me.
“I’m thinking of walking it back.”
“Even though I’m so very helpless in heels and a corset?” she says, that sharpness still in her voice. “I can’t even button my own clothing, for fuck’s sake.”
Corset?
I’m intensely, fervently glad for the cape that mostly covers her.
“There’s no way you’re a damsel with a mouth like that,” I say.
“You should hear me in my natural state,” she says.
“Come to think of it, I have,” I say, unable to help myself. “And you can be incredibly un-lady-like.”
It works, pink flaring up her cheeks from below. She’s always blushed this easily, this obviously, and I’ve always liked making it happen.
All it takes is a quick whisper. A suggestion. Sometimes, a look.
“You should probably go back to your date, I’m sure she’s looking for you,” she says, pretending I haven’t made her blush. “I mean, if you actually have one and you didn’t just sneak in for the free snacks and whiskey.”
There it is again. My date. Delilah is jealous, and God help me, I don’t hate it.
I put one hand to my chest, as if hurt.
“What kind of lowlife do you take me for?”
“Should I really answer that?” she asks, but there’s a hint of a smile underneath the words.
“Maybe after more free whiskey,” I say, then pause. “I can finish buttoning your dress, if you want.”
“Are you going to rip them all off?”
Don’t tempt me with a good time.
“That one was your fault,” I point out. “I’d almost gotten it and you pulled away.”
“You sneaked up on me in a state of undress,” she says, and now she’s keeping her voice low, like she doesn’t want to be overheard.
“I’ve seen it before,” I say, matching her tone.
It could be my imagination, but I think I’m rewarded with the faint glow of pink.
“That doesn’t mean now is appropriate.”
“I didn’t know you’d be in disarray,” I tell her, my voice lower still. “Imagine my surprise. I never even asked why you were getting dressed on the veranda.”
“I’ll tell you after some more free champagne,” she says, laughing.
I’ve taken another step closer, or she has, and now there’s isn’t much distance between us at all, the sun still lowering, the breeze drifting around the corner of the house.
In a flare, I feel the spots where she touched me last night. Neck and chest, one finger, pulsing with every beat of my heart.
If she gets closer, I might do something I promised I wouldn’t.
“What did Winona do to you?” I ask, now close to a whisper.
“It wasn’t her,” she says, looking at me through impossibly long, thick eyelashes. “She’s also a victim, she just fared better than I did.”
“If you need revenge exacted, just say the word,” I murmur.
She just laughs.
“It was Ava,” she says, and I raise one eyebrow. “And I told you, more champagne first.”
“If you insist.”
Delilah undoes the clasp on her fur cape, tosses it back onto the bench, turns her back to me.
“Thanks,” she says. “In return, I promise not to tell your date about this.”
Her back looks exactly like I remember, only half-covered with delicate pink lace. The moon, the sun, an eight-pointed star, descending down her spine. The lines are thick, exacting, the colors bold, like a stained glass window rendered by Sailor Jerry. From one shoulder, two red tentacles of a squid curl in; from the other, two bold-but-delicate leafy vines.
I don’t touch her. The backs of my finger brush against her skin, ever so lightly, as I carefully do up the rest of her buttons, but I don’t touch her even though I want to.
She says nothing, and I match it. I think of a hundred things I could say, but don’t let any cross my lips.
“There you go,” I finally say, stepping back. “Sorry about the broken one.”
“It’s all right,” she says, one hand coming over her shoulder, fingers drifting over the buttons, checking them. “Nobody looks at bridesmaids anyway.”
I clench my jaw so I don’t tell her how incredibly, wildly untrue that is. I don’t tell her that I spent the whole wedding ceremony staring at her without hearing a word anyone said, or that the only reason I heard her shouting for her sister is because I was looking for her.
I couldn’t tell you what the bride’s wearing. I think it’s white. But I know the lace of Delilah’s sleeves just barely covers the hull of a sailing ship, that her skirt ends half an inch from the floor, that her pearl earrings swing and bump her neck when she turns her head.
This was a mistake, I think, and then I hear someone step onto the porch.
“Sorry!” calls Winona. “Callum got a hold of one of Bree’s — ”
Delilah’s younger sister stops so short that her dress flows in front of her, carried by the momentum.
“Seth?” she says, clearly baffled. I guess Vera’s kept this close to the vest.
“Good to see you again, Winona,” I say, because I know my manners.
“Likewise,” she says. “I’m sorry, I just came back to help Delilah, I’m not…”
“He heard me shouting and appeared,” Delilah says, grabbing her cape again.
“Ah,” says Winona, who clearly has more questions.
“Picture time?” asks Delilah, whirling the cape around herself again, then clasping it.
“Yup,” says Winona. “Right now Ava and Thad are just giggling and making out for the camera but surely that will get old soon and they’ll want you for group shots.”