“Don’t you dare try to reason with me,” she says, but she finally turns her head. “And I don’t know how I feel about being compared to a… five-year-old?”
“Nine,” I correct.
Her face is blotchy, her eyes puffy under those eyelashes, her lips a deep pink as she rests her head against the wall, drapes her elbows on her knees, the skirt of her dress falling from her shins.
“You’re kidding,” she says. “That kid’s nine?”
“Going on nineteen,” I say, and offer the plate.
Delilah sits up straight, swinging her feet to the floor, her heels making a quiet thunk as she stands.
“What did she offer you?” she asks, grabbing a crab cake and popping it into her mouth. “Riches? A horse? Some kind of business deal?”
“I could’ve gotten a horse?”
“So she blackmailed you,” she says. “Which is presumably also why you didn’t tell me yesterday. You feared Vera’s retribution.”
She’s holding her left arm around her ribcage, clamping it down with her right elbow as she eats the brie puff, watching me. There’s a hard edge to her voice, but it’s not bayonet-sharp anymore.
“Actually, I only agreed after I chased you down in the parking lot,” I admit.
Delilah frowns in alarm.
“I left the brewery at like… eleven-thirty last night,” she says. “Did you talk to her this morning?”
I grab a crab cake and pop it into my mouth.
“No,” I say. “She actually asked after the first time you were at the brewery, and I said no. But then I called her back later.”
“At midnight.”
“It wasn’t technically midnight yet.”
She chews for a minute, both arms folded over her midsection.
“Good,” she says, after a moment. “I hope you woke her up from a really amazing dream, and I hope she never properly got back to sleep. I hope she woke up every thirty minutes all night long.”
“She was very courteous about it,” I say.
“Of course she was,” says Delilah. “Vera knows her manners, unless you’re her actual family, in which case she pulls shit like this behind your back because she thinks that —”
Her fists clench and she draws in a long, deep breath, clamping her lips together with her teeth.
“Imma kill her,” she says again, almost under breath. “Imma kill you too, but I’m really gonna kill her.”
“I also brought water,” I say, holding up the glass.
“In case I’m actually the Wicked Witch of the West?” she asks with a snort, eyes still closed.
“In case you’re thirsty.”
She breathes again, then exhales.
“Thanks,” she says. “It’s too bad, I’d love to have some flying monkeys under my command right now. And a broom that could shoot fireballs. You know, I always felt she was treated unfairly.”
I take a sip of the water myself.
“Yesterday it was virgin sacrifices, and today you’re an apologist for the Wicked Witch?” I say. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Delilah laughs, her head tilting back, her earrings swinging from her ears.
“Double, double, toil and trouble,” she chants, waving her fingers in the air. “Cauldron burn, and fire… wait, no.”
I glance down at myself.
“Not a toad,” I say, and Delilah just sighs.
“I tried,” she says. “Can we sit? These shoes are stupid.”
Delilah turns, leads me back to the window nook, hops up. I sit on the other side, the appetizer plate and the glass of water between us.
“I can’t believe she did this to me,” she says, leaning her temple against the wall, her neck long. Underneath the lace of her sleeve I can see snow-capped mountains, a lake, clouds, a sun.
“I brought you snacks, I can’t be as bad as all that,” I say.
Delilah laughs. It’s a short, quick, rough ha but it’s a laugh and I’ll take it.
“Well, you are, but I mean this,” she says, waving her arm in the air to indicate the whole building. “I mean that even though I made my wishes perfectly crystal fucking clear, she decided that I’m not allowed to be single.”
Another deep breath, her skirt twisting between her fingers.
“She’s always been this way,” she says, and now there’s an unsteady edge to her voice. “She thinks that because I’m single and thirty I’m some pathetic, sad spinster who must be crying herself to sleep every night because, as we all know, the only true path to happiness is through dick. She thinks I’m some object of pity that she has to fix.”
Her eyes are bright again, her jaw clenching as she stares straight ahead into the dim room. I turn so I’m facing her, one leg folded under me, the other foot flat on the floor, knee in the air. I doubt I’m supposed to sit like this in a suit, but James Bond sprints in tuxedos all the time and he looks fine.
“You’re not,” I tell her.
“And, of all people, she had to tell you that I’m lonely and desperate for a date,” she says. “And you had to agree to this shit show for some godforsaken reason.”
I pull the blue handkerchief from the pocket of my suit jacket and hold it out.
“Here,” I say.
Delilah takes it, holds it for a minute like it’s a rare bird, then tries to hand it back.
“This is silk,” she says.
“Okay,” I tell her, not taking it back.
“I can’t actually use it, I’ll fuck it up. I’ve got about fifteen layers of makeup on.”
I just shrug.
“It matches your tie and everything.”
“Just use the damn thing,” I say, leaning my head back against the wood paneling of the nook.
Delilah laughs, and it’s welcome but unsteady, as if she’s walking along a balance beam and could fall off to either side.
“Thanks,” she says, then takes a deep breath and dabs very, very carefully underneath her eyes. “I still cry when I’m angry. As you can tell.”
For a long moment, I just watch her in the low light. Delilah drinks the water, takes several deep breaths and tilts her face toward the ceiling with her eyes closed, neck long, chest rising and falling.
“I didn’t agree to be your date because I think you’re pathetic,” I finally tell her.
“Not my date,” she says without moving.
“I agreed to co-attend this event with you because it sounded nice.”
Now she looks at me, her face less red, her lips less puffy.
“Nice?” she says, sounding genuinely surprised.
“What if we were friends?” I ask. “It’s been a long time. We haven’t even done what we normally do.”
Delilah pushes herself so she’s facing me, one leg hanging off the edge of the nook, the other tucked underneath her, pink dress pooled around her.
“You mean fuck and then fight,” she says, looking at me, absent-mindedly wrapping the silk handkerchief around one finger then another.
It’s not for lack of wanting. Even right now, as I tell her it’s been a long time, even as I imply that I’m finally over her, I’m not. I want to lean across this windowsill and kiss her swollen lips, slide my hand under her skirt, undo all those buttons I fastened before.