Delilah Green Doesn’t Care

DELILAH HAD NO clue what she’d been thinking.

She’d had her own plan—annoy Astrid to within an inch of her life about the human germ she’d chosen to marry, becoming the proverbial thorn in Astrid’s side during what should’ve been the happiest time in her life. Was Delilah an asshole for hatching this little scheme? Possibly. Okay, probably. But it was harmless fun, just little dips into the river and some broken glass, a way to hold on to a little bit of control, which Astrid—and Isabel, for that matter—always had in spades. Astrid was going to do what she wanted, no matter what her stepsister did, and Delilah had no doubt these two weeks would end with the happy couple sailing off into the sunset and Delilah heading back to New York with fifteen grand in her pocket, no harm, no foul.

Besides, what did she care if Astrid married this guy? What did she care if Astrid yessed her way to popping out a hundred babies in Seattle? What did she care if Astrid tied on an apron every night to cook her man’s dinner? Maybe Astrid liked doing all those things. Feminism, after all, was about equal respect for equal work, not ensuring a woman never baked a cake or fetched a cold one.

But then Claire had turned her doe eyes on Delilah. She’d been so . . . dammit, so sweet in her care for Astrid, her genuine worry, and Delilah had cracked like an egg. She’d never given in to anyone so easily in her life, and she still wasn’t exactly sure what the hell had happened back in their room, how she’d ended up helping the fucking coven break up her stepsister’s wedding. She’d get paid no matter what—compensation was guaranteed even in the event of a wedding cancellation, a little clause she’d added to her standard contract especially for her beloved stepfamily—and so here she was, collaborating with Astrid’s BFFs, helping them take down the patriarchy one dickbag at a time.

When they reached Astrid’s door, Delilah hung back, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She’d agreed to help, but distance was good here. A there’s you and then there’s me sort of message to Iris and Claire.

But then Claire sidled up next to her, shoulder brushing hers, smelling like clean laundry and that meadowy scent Delilah remembered from that night at Stella’s.

“Do you think this will work?” Claire whispered as Iris knocked on Astrid’s door.

Her breath smelled like mint, and Delilah found herself wishing she’d thought to brush her own damn teeth.

“I have no idea,” Delilah said, and then thought of adding something salty like, Maybe Astrid and Spencer are actually MFEO, but then she turned enough to meet Claire’s eyes, saw hope and something else in all that deep brown, that same flicker of interest as when Delilah had helped Ruby with her dress, and nerves fluttered low in her belly.

Actual nerves. She hadn’t felt nervous around a woman since . . .

You actually thought we were going to get married? Are you fucking insane?

Jax’s voice echoed between her ears—mean, incredulous, shaming—while a naked woman Delilah had only ever seen in Jax’s old photographs lounged in Delilah’s own bed, staring wide-eyed like she was watching a soap opera.

Delilah turned away and cracked her knuckles. She didn’t think about that horrible last day with Jax five years ago very often, but when she did, she knew how to deal with it.

“I need a drink,” she said.

“You and me both,” Iris said as Astrid flung open her door and swept into the hallway with her own robe tied snugly around her thin frame, her blond hair in a stylishly messy bun.

As the four of them headed toward the massage rooms, Delilah could still feel Claire’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look at her again.

DELILAH SPENT THE rest of the afternoon in silent, massaged-and-mudded bliss. By her observation, so did the rest of her party, which made getting Astrid to talk about Spencer’s misogynistic ways difficult. They all did everything together, rotating through seaweed wraps and saunas as a pack, but it was hard to bring up a life-altering decision when a person named Stormy was busy spreading pore-cleansing charcoal all over your thighs. Delilah could barely take any photographs, doing her best to capture a few in between treatments, particularly when Astrid’s face was covered in complexion-brightening mud.

Still, throughout the afternoon, Delilah kept catching Iris’s and Claire’s eyes. She didn’t mean to look at them, she swore, but whenever they’d all move to a new room or Astrid made a comment about something even remotely wedding-esque, like fittings or the chance of rain that day or how she was worried the salmon puffs she ordered wouldn’t be fresh, the three of them would find one another, widen their eyes as though daring the others to say something first. Delilah, for her part, knew it would be easier to bring up Spencer if Astrid brought him up first, but she never did. Not once in four hours of pampering did she mention her dashing fiancé.

But that certainly didn’t stop all the looks from passing between Delilah, Iris, and Claire. And every time it happened, something bloomed in Delilah’s chest. She couldn’t put a finger on it—nerves, irritation, pure adrenaline. Whatever it was, she didn’t think she’d ever felt it before and wasn’t quite sure she liked it.

By the time the four of them had showered and gathered again for dinner on the veranda overlooking the vineyard, Delilah was exhausted. Being around other people all day long, even if they hadn’t talked all that much, was completely draining. She felt constantly on, and right now, all she wanted was a glass of wine the size of her head and a quiet room of her own.

Plus, there was that feeling again, right under her rib cage every time Iris and Claire so much as glanced at her or tapped her foot under the table, like something about to spill over.

“This is nice,” Astrid said, propping her elbows on the wooden table and resting her entwined hands under her chin. “Isn’t this nice?”

She was looking at Delilah when she asked it, so Delilah complied. “Nice. Wonderful.”

And it was. This was the first meal at a wedding event she’d actually get to eat. Her camera was under the table, but she was so tired, she wasn’t about to get it out of her own volition. She just wanted to sit here, in all the niceness. The patio only had a few other diners, and it was dimly lit with gas-powered lamps, flames flickering shadows over faces and arms. The sun was just dipping into the valley, turning the evening lavender and silver, and the air smelled like earth and rain, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Everything felt verdant, alive.

And then there was Claire sitting next to her, dressed in a kelly-green linen romper, shorts falling mid-thigh and blouse-like top unbuttoned just enough to show a little cleavage.

Jesus, did this woman look bad in anything?

Delilah rubbed her forehead and took a gulp of 2014 Blue Lily Signature Pinot Noir. Despite the way she’d played with Claire earlier in the day, shouting through the bathroom door about the status of her underwear, she wasn’t in the mood for any games tonight. She felt raw, like she’d been in the sun all day and needed to be wrapped in aloe, and Claire’s meadowy scent wasn’t helping.

“It’s lovely,” Iris said, looking at Claire and then Delilah.

“Gorgeous,” Claire said, looking at Iris and then Delilah.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Delilah said.

The three women froze—Astrid with her brows dipped in confusion and these other two yahoos with their eyes popped wide. Delilah felt a laugh bubble into her chest.

“What is it now?” Astrid asked, immediately irritated.

Under the table, Claire hooked her ankle around Delilah’s, bare leg against bare leg. Claire’s skin was smooth, cool, and made Delilah’s stomach flutter more than she’d like to admit. It did the trick though. She took a deep breath and smiled, lifting her glass to her mouth and looking around as if for the server.

“I’m starving, is all,” she said. “Don’t they bring bread or something?”

Astrid visibly relaxed. “Oh, yeah, I think so.” She flagged down the server who’d been taking care of them and asked for a basket of carbs, which was promptly delivered, along with a homemade honey butter that Delilah wanted to lick right out of the little stainless steel container.

She was on her second piece of warm brown bread when she realized Claire’s ankle was still lightly twined around hers.

The knowledge was like an electrical shock. Delilah’s spine went straight, and she couldn’t keep her own gaze from finding Claire, who seemed to realize at the same time that she was still wrapped around Delilah like a koala. Claire jerked her leg back so quickly, her knee bashed into the table, rattling the plates and glasses and pulling a swear out of her pretty mouth.

“Shit, you okay?” Iris asked, steadying the vase of lilies at the center of the table.

Claire grimaced and nodded, rubbing her leg. “Yeah, sorry. Klutz over here.”

Delilah cracked a smile, which Claire returned, a lovely blush spreading over her cheeks. Watching this beautiful, completely adorable woman under the sinking sun, the whole day suddenly seemed hilarious—the one-room-at-the-inn faux pas, Claire locking herself in the bathroom like a self-conscious teenager, this ridiculous team effort to take Spencer down. As three-fourths of a glass of wine rivered through Delilah’s veins, her smile grew into a laugh she couldn’t hold back.

“What’s so funny?” Astrid asked.

Delilah shook her head, more laughter slipping through her mouth. Next to her, Claire started laughing too, her hand over her face and her shoulders shaking. Iris and Astrid just stared at each other, though Iris wore a tiny knowing smile that made Delilah feel a little less insane. Still, she had to get it together or Astrid would end up pouty and pissed, the opposite of what the three other women were going for.

Well, at least the opposite of what Iris and Claire were going for.

And right now, with the light and the wine and the laughs, all coupled with her own exhaustion, Delilah would give Claire Sutherland just about anything.

“Okay, so,” Delilah said, knocking back another swallow of wine and propping her elbows on the table. She leveled her gaze at Astrid and fluttered her lashes like a school girl at a sleepover. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

Iris choked on her wine, and Claire covered her smile with her hand. Astrid, however, didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes went wide, and she released a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“Spencer,” Delilah said, tearing a piece of bread in half and stuffing it in her mouth.

“Oh,” Astrid said. She picked up her glass and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It did not escape Delilah’s notice that Astrid’s smile dimmed. Just a little. Just enough.

Apparently, it didn’t escape Claire’s notice either, as her leg nudged Delilah’s once before retreating again. Delilah played along, pressing her thigh back against Claire’s and then decidedly leaving it there. She heard Claire inhale slowly, but the other woman didn’t move.

“We don’t have to talk about him,” Astrid said, waving a hand. “I babble on about him enough.”

“Do you though?” Iris asked.

Delilah rolled her eyes. Iris was about as subtle as a kid on Christmas morning. But then, as Iris seemed to realize her less-than-suave prod and shoved some bread in her big mouth, something occurred to Delilah. A way in. A little gold nugget from her and Astrid’s childhood, one of the few memories she had that wasn’t laced with resentment.

“He’s your Gilbert Blythe, right?” she said, daintily sipping her wine. “Must be a lot to say about him.”

Astrid’s mouth fell open. “Gilbert . . . Gilbert Blythe?”

“Yeah, from . . .” Delilah pretended to be stumped, waving her hand in the air. “What was it?”

“Anne of Green Gables,” Claire said. Her leg twitched against Delilah’s but didn’t move away. Something fluttered in Delilah’s stomach, and she had to force herself to focus on the task at hand.

Delilah snapped her fingers. “Anne of Green Gables.”

“You remember Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables?” Astrid said.

“I remember how much you swooned over him,” Delilah said. And that Anne and Diana were obviously super gay and hot for each other, which was precisely what she’d told Astrid back when she’d first read the books. They were thirteen and Astrid had finished Anne of Green Gables first before leaving it on Delilah’s bed, something she sometimes did without any word of explanation. After reading the first four books in the series, Delilah had presented her Anne-and-Diana-are-queer theory over pizza one night while Isabel was at a charity event. Astrid hadn’t even argued with her, just laughed and said she was probably right and then proceeded to ramble on and on about how much she wanted her own Gilbert Blythe one day.

“Who didn’t swoon over Gilbert Blythe?” Astrid asked, and Claire and Iris both laughed.

Delilah raised her hand. “Gay as hell, remember?”

Astrid gave her a look and leaned forward. “You’re telling me your heart didn’t skip just a little when Gilbert rescued Anne on the river in her sinking skiff when she was pretending to be the Lily Maid or when he turned down the Avonlea teaching position so Anne could have it and stay with Marilla?”

Delilah tapped her chin. “Okay, maybe a little.” Then she held out both of her hands in front of her chest suggestively. “But only if I imagined Gilbert with a nice pair of—”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Astrid said, rolling her eyes.

“My heart did skip a few beats when Anne broke that slate over his head for calling her ‘Carrots,’ ” Delilah went on. “I thought, that’s my kind of woman.”

Iris snorted a laugh.

“Okay, but his proposal was amazing,” Claire said.

“Yes!” Astrid said, swallowing more wine. “Twice he proposed! She shot him down, and then he asked her again years later, telling her she was his dream.” She tipped her glass at Delilah. “Come on, even you have to admit that’s romantic.”

Another leg nudge. “Yep. I sure do have to admit that.”

Claire lowered her head, and Delilah only knew she was silently laughing because her body shook a little.

“So how did Spencer do it, then?” Delilah asked. “Was it as romantic as all that?”

Astrid’s smile dipped again, but she covered it with a sip of wine.

“Oh, come on, I haven’t heard this story,” Delilah said, and immediately knew her voice was way too chipper. She sounded like someone out of a Jane Austen novel. Astrid full-on frowned, and Iris just looked at her like she was on drugs. Only Claire seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, her thigh warm and right there and her mouth pressed flat to keep from laughing. Delilah felt her own laughter trying to bubble up from her chest into her mouth, and she took a large swallow of wine to keep it inside. She felt oddly relaxed though, less edges and more rounded corners, that raw feeling from earlier fading at every stolen glance with Claire.

Or maybe it was just the seventy-dollar bottle of wine.

“We haven’t either,” Iris said after throwing both Delilah and Claire a get your shit together look.

“Yes, you have,” Astrid said.

“No,” Iris said. “At the end of March, you texted us to meet you at Stella’s, and when we got there, you showed us the ring and said he proposed and immediately started babbling about wedding plans. You’d even already set a date by the time we found out.”

Astrid’s expression went from questioning to hurt in two seconds flat. Delilah could feel Claire’s worry radiating next to her, the warmth of it like a homemade quilt.

“We were so excited for you, I guess we forgot to ask for proposal details,” Claire said, trying to save the moment. She reached across the table and squeezed Astrid’s hand. “Tell us now.”

Astrid relaxed, but only a little. She sighed and took two gulps of wine before waving her hand through the air. “He asked and I said yes. That’s about it.”

“That’s about it,” Iris said, her voice flat. “And you let him get away with that? You, who once dumped a guy, at prom, mind you, because he forgot to get you a corsage?”

Jesus, Iris did not understand the concept of a gentle hand.

“Oh my god, I remember that,” Claire said, laughing in what Delilah assumed was an attempt to lighten the increasingly darkening situation. “Poor Henry Garrison didn’t know what hit him.”

“A boutonniere in the face, that’s what hit him,” Iris said, and she and Claire cracked up.

Astrid didn’t laugh, but her cheeks reddened, and Delilah didn’t know if she was getting flustered or pissed or if the wine was kicking in. And then, like a storm rolling across a plain, Delilah could see it happening—the famous Astrid shutdown.

“You know, I’m actually a little tired,” she said, scooting her chair back. “I think I’ll head to my room.”

“What?” Iris said. “Our food isn’t even here yet.”

“Yeah, I’m not all that hungry anymore.” Astrid stood, glass in hand, and managed a smile. “Too much bread.”

“Astrid,” Claire said, taking her hand. “Come on, sweetie, sit down. What’s wrong?”

But Astrid shook her head. “I’m just exhausted, that’s all. I’m fine. Just . . . wedding stuff, you know? I’m going to call Spencer and try and get some sleep. See you in the morning for yoga?”

Claire nodded as Astrid kissed her on the cheek, then came around the table to do the same to Iris. Delilah, she completely ignored, and then took the half-full wine bottle with her as she left.

The three of them sat there for a few minutes in silence, letting what happened settle around them as the evening grew darker.

“Well, that was a disaster,” Claire said. Her voice was small, thick-sounding.

“Train wreck,” Iris said, collapsing back in her chair with a sigh.

“Are you both kidding me?” Delilah asked. “That’s exactly what you wanted.”

Claire stiffened, her thigh moving away from Delilah’s. “No, it’s not. We wanted . . . we—”

“Wanted her to question what the hell she’s doing with Spencer when he’s the complete opposite of everything she’s ever dreamed of?” Delilah said.

Claire’s whole body slumped, which sent her leg into Delilah’s once again. “Yeah, but not like this. Not like . . . like she’s hurt.”

“Honey,” Iris said softly, leaning forward. “If Astrid realizes she’s made a mistake with Spencer, it’s going to hurt.”

Claire’s face crumpled, but only for a second before her expression cleared and she nodded. “I know. I just . . .” She groaned and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. “Goddammit, why do men have to suck so much?”

“Not all of them do,” Iris said.

“Most of them do,” Delilah said.

Iris tapped her chin in thought for a second, then blew out a breath. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. Most of them do. Thank fuck I’m bi.”

Claire laughed, leg pressing more firmly against Delilah’s. Delilah had to fight to keep her hand in place, the desire to reach out and squeeze the other woman’s thigh almost irresistible. Claire was ridiculously adorable. And sweet. Jesus, how did she get so sweet? Being a teenage mom, raising a preteen daughter mostly on her own, running a business, dealing with her half-assed ex—Delilah would be a complete disaster if she was in her shoes. And yet, here Claire was, agonizing over her best friend’s heart.

Iris lifted her glass. “To shitty men and the women who put them in their goddamn place.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Delilah said, raising her own glass.

Claire followed suit, and the three women clinked over the lilies and drank, then dug into their food, which arrived a few minutes later. They proceeded to talk about easier things—movies, books, how they could cut through the filet mignon like it was butter. They laughed about how every time Iris drank even just one glass of red wine, her face blazed bright red and with the heat of a million suns, always leaving her with a wicked headache, but she loved the stuff anyway. They talked about Ruby and how she still slept with the stuffed purple unicorn Iris had given her when she was born and Claire was dreading the day she stopped.

Delilah had completely cleared her plate and drained her third glass of wine before she realized it.

She’d been laughing.

A lot.

With Claire and Iris.

Like they were actually friends and not a tangle of complicated histories simply tolerating each other for the night.