And I fire up my vibrator, who will apparently remain my sole companion for the foreseeable future.
Chapter Thirty
Seth
When I pull into Delilah’s driveway Friday night, the first thing I see is eyes.
Glowing, beady eyes. Six of them.
Again. They were here the other night, too, and I’m starting to feel like they’ve got something against me.
“Scram,” I tell them, getting out of my car. “Go on, git.”
The biggest raccoon sits down on the bottom step, like it’s waiting for me to entertain it.
“Bastard,” I mutter, and glance around for a stick or something.
Of all the varmints, I’m the most cautious of raccoons. Not only are they bigger than you’d think, I’ve heard Levi’s every single raccoon has rabies talk more times than I care to remember.
I don’t want rabies. I just want to take Delilah out on a date, so I grab a fallen branch and walk toward the porch, waving it.
“Get outta here,” I tell them.
They glare, but when it becomes clear that I will poke them, they waddle off.
I toss the stick away, mount the steps, ring Delilah’s doorbell before I can get nervous.
“Come in!” she shouts, barely audible through the door. “It’s unlocked.”
I obey, glancing back one more time to make sure the raccoons aren’t following me. Sneaky, fearless bastards. My mom once came home to one lounging on her kitchen floor, surrounded by half-eaten bananas. She had to chase it out with a broom.
There’s no Delilah.
“It’s you, right?” she calls, her voice echoing through space, still invisible.
“Do you pay those critters to guard your house, or is this some Snow White setup where they volunteer because you’re a magical forest princess?” I call back.
There are footsteps over my head, and a few moments later, she appears, leaning over the railing on the stairs to my left.
Purple leopard print robe. Wet hair. Holy fuck.
“You’re early,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“I hope you’re wearing that,” I say, and Delilah looks down, as if she’s forgotten what she’s got on.
“Are we going to a pajama party hosted by Andy Warhol?” she asks. “I still don’t know where we’re going.”
“I told you,” I tease, forcing myself to make eye contact. “I’m taking you to a sock hop. I don’t know how to be any more clear than that.”
She puts her elbows on the railing, shifts her hips. The robe is made of something shiny and flowy — silk, do they make robes out of silk? — and it drapes against her in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“Then I guess I have to go put on my poodle skirt and put my hair in a ponytail with a bow,” she says. “I’ll be out in a few. Make yourself at home, there’s a couch in the living room and drinks in the kitchen, I think?”
I don’t want her to put on clothes. I want to walk up these stairs and pull open her leopard print robe and push my fingers through her damp hair and see what she tastes like right out of the shower, but that’s the whole problem.
We’ve been in lust for years. Time to try something new.
“Reservations are at six-thirty,” I tell her, taking off my coat and scarf and hanging them on the rack.
“I know, you keep reminding me,” she laughs, pushing herself off the railing and disappearing, her voice getting dimmer. “You’re the one who was early!”
“I’m not that early,” I say, and glance at the clock on my phone.
Ten minutes barely counts as early, but I quit arguing and head into Delilah’s house.
It’s a surprise.
Maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe I, of all people, should know that a proper, staid exterior can hide a whimsical, airy interior, but I didn’t even think about it.
The outside of her house is an old farmhouse, the same as every other old farmhouse around here: two stories, white siding, Adirondack chairs on the front porch. Windows. A door.
But inside it’s open to the roof beams, the soaring ceiling clearly responsible for the odd acoustics. The entire ground floor is open, nothing but an island separating the kitchen from the living room. The back wall is glass almost floor-to-ceiling. One corner has a fireplace set in smooth black stones that go all the way up the wall.
The staircase leads to a second-floor landing that overlooks the living room, one of the doors slightly ajar. I can’t really see inside from this angle, but despite myself I sure do try.
Everything here is bright. It’s eclectic. Hanging from the ceiling is a chandelier made of what looks like driftwood. The coffee table is glass and steel. The couch is deep brown leather, flanked on one side by a sleek, modern steel lamp, and on the other by a lamp shaped like a hula girl. The wall next to the fireplace is floor-to-ceiling with framed art: paintings and photographs and drawings. Prints. A vintage-looking poster for the Ringling Brothers.
I stand there for a moment, looking around, soaking it in. Even if I’ve never been in here before, it feels oddly familiar and comforting. Like it’s a home I never knew I had.
Upstairs, a hair dryer starts, and I head into Delilah’s kitchen. It matches her living room: a breakfast nook with benches upholstered in bright floral fabrics, wall above it covered in art, windows looking out onto her front porch. White cabinets, marble countertops.
After a few tries, I find her liquor cabinet. Delilah’s selection is unusual, but I like a challenge, so I push up my sleeves and get to work.
I’m just pouring my concoction into the glasses I found when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Moments later, she walks into the living room.
I almost knock a glass over.
“I meant grab a beer and sit on the couch,” she says, laughing. “You didn’t have to play bartender.”
I just shrug and glance at my hand so I can make sure I’m putting the cocktail shaker down squarely on the counter and not dropping it into empty space or something.
“I had to do something while I waited,” I tease, still staring.
She’s wearing a dress, the bright green of fancy olives. It’s high-necked, long-sleeved, knee-length. It’s tied around the waist and moves with her and even though this dress is modest enough to wear to a meeting with the Pope, I feel like it was designed specifically to remind me of what’s under it.
Her hair’s down, her mane tumbling past her shoulders. Gray tights, brown boots. Freckles on her face, her neck, her forearms when she pushes up her sleeves and leans against the far side of the kitchen island.
I tear my eyes away long enough to crack open a can of seltzer that I found in her fridge.
“What are they?” she asks, raising one eyebrow. “I didn’t know I had ingredients for… anything.”
“A creation of my own devising,” I tell her, pouring the seltzer. “Sweet vermouth, rum, a splash of lime, a little grenadine, and soda. Oh, and celery bitters.”
“Fascinating,” she says, putting her chin in one hand. “You think it’s a good idea to make us drinks?”
I give each glass one quick stir and push one toward her.
“I’ve got no idea what you mean,” I say, holding mine up. “I’m just a near-stranger who you let rummage through your kitchen. Besides, they’re pretty weak.”