Delilah Green Doesn’t Care

CLAIRE’S CHEEKS BURNED as she stared at the woman, whose flirty smile had turned into a full-on smirk. Anger, confusion, surprise—it all streaked through Claire like a flash flood.

This was Delilah? As in Astrid’s reclusive stepsister who took off the second she turned eighteen and never looked back? Or barely looked back, at least. Claire remembered Astrid mentioning Delilah’s promises to come home for Christmas or Thanksgiving each year and then only showing up once or twice. There was that spring trip about five years ago, but Claire didn’t think she even saw Delilah then.

Not that she’d tried to see her. After Delilah had spent their childhood pretty much acting like Astrid didn’t exist, Claire had very little reason or desire to seek the woman out. Besides, about five years ago, Claire was dealing with the fallout of another one of Josh’s disappearing acts, trying to comfort her devastated six-year-old. An earthquake could’ve broken the town in half and she might not have noticed.

She blinked at the woman—at Delilah—trying to figure out how she’d missed it. The tattoos, those were new, and she could actually see her face now, whereas back in high school, Delilah’s hair usually curtained around her features, hiding her from the world. Claire didn’t even think she knew what color eyes Astrid’s stepsister had, but now, she could see them clear as day.

Blue.

Like, sapphire blue. Dark and deep and fixed on Claire, a challenge in the set of her straight brows.

“Good to see you again, Claire,” Delilah said as she set her now-empty glass on the bar.

Claire tried to think of something to say back, something smart and pithy, but all that came out was a brilliant “Uhhh . . .” as Delilah hopped off the stool and slid into a dark gray jacket. Claire’s pulse was still in her throat, her breath fluttering in her chest from the woman’s mouth brushing up against her ear.

Delilah. Delilah Green’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” Astrid said as Delilah made her way over to the table.

“I’m drinking,” Delilah said.

“Holy shit, you look different,” Iris said.

“And you look exactly the same,” Delilah said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Iris said, grinning up at her.

Delilah shrugged and took a sip of Astrid’s wine. Claire was still frozen by the bar, her fingers clammy on her own glass. She went back through the night, every moment since she saw Delilah walk into Stella’s. Was she that into the woman that she hadn’t made the connection? Clearly, because she still felt the tiniest thrum between her legs, an ache that started up the second Delilah had turned to face her, knees spread wide and taking up all the space in the world she wanted. The complete opposite of high school Delilah Green.

The complete opposite of grown-up Claire Sutherland, if she was being honest.

She shook her head, swallowed back the last of her bourbon, and walked over to the group.

“How was your flight?” Astrid asked her stepsister.

Delilah laughed. “We don’t have to do this.”

Astrid blinked, but then her mouth tightened. “Fine. Good night. You’ll be there tomorrow?”

Delilah sighed, took another hearty swig of Astrid’s wine. “You emailed me the itinerary for the next two weeks. Three times. I know where to be.”

“I don’t know what you know.”

“See you tomorrow at noon,” Delilah said as she took one more sip.

“Oh shit,” Iris said. Even Claire tensed. Astrid made sure the week’s itinerary was burned into all of their brains, and noon was definitely not the right answer here.

Predictably, Astrid’s face contorted. “It’s ten. Ten a.m. for the brunch at Vivian’s Tearoom. Remember? Delilah, tell me you remember.”

From behind the wineglass, Delilah smiled, and Claire nearly screamed at her. She was playing Astrid like a fiddle.

“Ugh, just be there, okay?” Astrid said, snatching her drink back. A bit of red wine sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the rough wooden table.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Delilah said smoothly, then started for the door with her suitcase. She glanced at Claire once, something flaring in her eyes Claire couldn’t name. Claire lifted her chin, trying to appear completely unaffected, like she openly hit on her best friend’s sister on the regular and, of course, she knew who Delilah was the whole time. But then Delilah lifted a brow and pursed her lips as if to call bullshit, and Claire was the first one to look away.

Once Delilah was gone, she sat back down at the table and took her wine from Astrid. She wanted to chug it like water, but she still needed to drive home and she already felt a bit hazy. Bourbon and Syrah probably didn’t mix very well. She couldn’t tell if her head was spinning from the liquor or Delilah.

“So . . .” Iris said as they all settled around the table again. She had a purely evil grin on her face. “Did you get the number or not?”

“Oh, shut up,” Claire said and then gulped down the wine anyway.

“What?” Astrid said, signaling Gretchen, the server who kept everyone at the tables happy, for a third glass. “Whose number?”

“No one’s,” Claire said, widening her eyes at Iris. Astrid was already pulled tight enough to snap with the wedding—not to mention that she still had no idea that her best friends despised her future husband. She certainly didn’t need to deal with the fact that, not ten minutes ago, her wicked stepsister had gotten Claire all hot and bothered with one little whisper. If ever there was a sensitive subject in Astrid’s life, it was Delilah Green. And honestly, Claire was doing her best to forget the entire interaction as well.

Luckily, Astrid seemed to be sufficiently distracted. She leaned her elbows on the table, fingers massaging her temples. “I have a headache. She’s been here for ten minutes, and I already have a headache.”

Iris reached out and squeezed Astrid’s arm. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I don’t know what I—” She took a deep breath, followed by a sip of wine. “I don’t know what my mother was thinking, asking her to be the photographer.”

“Me neither,” Iris said, and Claire shot her a look.

“She was probably thinking that she loved Delilah’s dad,” Claire said softly. “And Delilah is . . . well, she’s . . .” She widened her eyes at Iris, silently begging for help.

“She’s . . . part of the . . . family?” Iris said slowly, her intonation tilting up at the end like it was a question.

Astrid’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. She is.” Then her back went ramrod straight and she waved a hand. “At least, that’s what my mother says, and she’s the one with the checkbook. God knows Delilah wouldn’t come without some other incentive.”

“Your mother still uses a checkbook?” Iris asked, and Claire kicked her under the table.

“You know she almost bailed?” Astrid said, ignoring Iris. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for weeks now, emailing, texting, leaving voice mails. I had to call her at two in the morning her time last night just to get her to talk to me.”

“So she’s a vampire,” Iris said, tipping some ice cubes into her mouth from her glass. “Explains a lot.”

“Ris,” Claire said, shooting her yet another look.

Delilah and Astrid’s sisterhood wasn’t typical. Delilah’s mother died when she was only three years old—cervical cancer, if Claire remembered correctly—and her dad married Isabel, Astrid’s mom, when she and Astrid were eight, so they’d practically grown up together.

Astrid told them that Delilah was a quiet kid from the beginning, attached to her father like a barnacle, which Claire supposed made sense. She understood single parenting. She also understood being a young girl with only one parent to rely on—it was a precarious, desperate, somewhat panic-fueled existence. But then Delilah’s dad died suddenly of an aneurysm when the girls were ten, and there were no grandparents, no aunts and uncles, so Isabel had sole custody of Delilah.

Claire remembered the first time she ever went over to Astrid Parker’s big Georgian-style brick house to swim in the crystal-blue pool in the backyard. Delilah was a shadow, peering at them through that mass of hair around the back patio’s stone pillars. Astrid had asked her if she wanted to come play once or twice, but Delilah never did, and Iris hardly ever had very nice things to say about her. Eventually, the shadow disappeared, and that’s how it went for years, on and on. Delilah was a ghost, a wraith. Claire always tried to be nice to her—Iris was a little more teasing, but they were kids and Delilah was strange. They didn’t know how to handle strange.

Since becoming a mother, Claire had sometimes thought of Delilah. At least she thought of the awkward girl she’d been growing up. Claire’s own daughter was a quirky kid, artistic and precocious, easily lost in her own head. She wondered if that’s all Delilah was, and she simply didn’t have the right parent to help her navigate it. Isabel wasn’t exactly the most maternal of mothers, and Astrid had been just a kid herself.

Now, Astrid shook her hair out of her face and held up her glass. “It’s fine. It’ll be great.”

“It will,” Claire said, clinking her glass with Astrid’s.

Iris joined in, but she shot Claire a look and mouthed phone number before taking a sip.

Claire flipped her off.

ALL THREE WOMEN were sufficiently buzzed by the time Astrid’s phone buzzed on the table. She snatched it up to read the text, glassy eyes turning a little crazed, if Claire was being honest. She and Iris locked gazes. They knew exactly who it was. They also knew their night of drinking and best friend revelry was about to come to an end.

“I’ve got to go,” Astrid said. Iris mouthed the words right along with her. Claire fought a laugh. Because really, it wasn’t funny. “That was Spencer.”

“It’s only nine thirty,” Iris said.

“I know, but he’s tired,” Astrid said, gathering her purse.

“And?” Iris said. Claire wanted to kick her. Astrid was already stressed enough.

“And I’m tired too,” Astrid said, standing up. “See you in the morning?”

“Eleven a.m. sharp,” Iris said.

“Don’t even joke,” Astrid said.

Iris laughed, then stood up and kissed Astrid on the cheek. “Ten o’clock with bells and penis necklaces on.”

“You’re a horrible person,” Astrid said, but she was smiling.

“You love me.”

“God knows I do.” Astrid came around to hug Claire before disappearing out the door.

“Another round?” Iris asked.

“I should go too,” Claire said. “I’ve got to open up the bookstore before the brunch.”

“You know Brianne can do that.”

Claire nodded but said nothing. Brianne, her very capable manager, was doing that, but she was starting to feel itchy. Nine thirty was Ruby’s bedtime, usually. She wanted to say good night. She wanted to make sure there was a good night to say, that Josh wasn’t going to let her stay up until midnight watching crappy movies and eating bowls of sugar like he did the last time he’d been in town.

Okay, fine, he didn’t feed her bowls of sugar, but he did forgo dinner for homemade chocolate chip cookies.

“You’re full of shit, you know that?” Iris said, but she took out her wallet. “You okay to drive?”

Claire blinked into the still-packed bar, gauging herself. She wasn’t sloppy drunk, but her head definitely felt floaty enough that she didn’t want to risk getting behind the wheel. “No, but I can walk to Josh’s.” He lived downtown, about two blocks away.

Iris lifted a brow. “But you can’t walk from Josh’s back to your place.”

Claire shrugged. If she ended up sleeping on the couch, waking up to make sure Ruby got up at a reasonable hour and ate some protein before the brunch, so be it.

Outside, it was dark, a light drizzle frizzing up Iris’s hair and fogging up Claire’s glasses. Claire linked her arm through her best friend’s as they walked down the cobbled sidewalk. Streetlights spread an amber glow through the town center, turning the light rain into golden droplets floating through the air. A few businesses flew rainbow flags for Pride. At the corner of Main and Serenby, Iris slapped Claire’s ass in goodbye.

“I’m going to go have sex, just so you know,” Iris said, jutting her thumb toward the entrance of the building where she rented the top-floor apartment with her boyfriend, Grant.

“No one likes a bragger,” Claire said.

Iris laughed, but Claire noticed her eyes tighten, as they always seemed to lately when it came to Grant. He was a chemical engineer in Portland, and they’d been together for two years. More importantly, he was desperate to have kids. He wanted to get married and pop out at least four redheaded amalgams of him and Iris, go on vacations to Disneyland during the summer, and coach Little League.

Iris . . . did not. She loved her brother’s twins, visited them in San Francisco often. She spoiled them, sent them lavish birthday gifts, and had pictures of them all over her refrigerator. She doted on Ruby and was Aunt Iris in every way. But she didn’t want her own kids. She never had. It was a sore spot with Grant, and Claire worried it was getting sorer.

“Everything okay with you two?” she asked.

Iris waved a hand. “Same argument, different day.”

Claire pulled Iris into her arms and kissed the top of her head. Iris softened, just for a second, then pinched Claire’s butt before pulling away and heading off down the sidewalk.

Claire watched her for a second before she moved on too, passing River Wild Books, her recent favorite reads displayed in the window, along with a rainbow flag she’d set up three Prides ago and had decided to leave up year-round. Paper Wishes came up next, its green-and-white-striped awning fluttering in the damp breeze. Josh’s apartment was one more block down in a recently renovated building, above a new acupuncture studio that just set up shop a couple of months ago, around the time he rolled into town. It probably wouldn’t last. Hardly any business ever did in this little corner of the block, and the townspeople liked to joke that the space was cursed.

Incidentally, Andrew Green’s boutique architecture firm had been the last thriving business to take up that space—Delilah’s father.

Claire shook off yet another Delilah-shaped thought and let herself in the outside entrance, then climbed the stairs. At Josh’s door, she stood there for a few seconds, listening. Music trickled into the hallway, that indie folk rock that Josh loved, and she could hear Ruby laughing.

So, no nine thirty bedtime, then.

Rolling her shoulders back, she lifted her hand and knocked.

And waited.

And then waited some more.

She considered just opening the door and barging in—she grew the kid inside in her own body, after all—but she decided to try one more knock before going all SWAT team.

Finally, the music turned down and the door swung open, revealing the father of her child covered from head to toe in makeup. His lips were pink, his eyelids a glittery purple slash, and royal blue sparkled on his fingernails.

“Hey,” he said. He was breathing hard and grinning, like he’d just been laughing. “Everything okay?”

She let her eyes flick down to his painted toes. “I should be asking you that question.”

He blinked for a minute, and she saw it bloom into his eyes—that fear that everything wasn’t okay, that he’d done something wrong.

“It’s late” was all she said when he just stood there.

“Oh. Yeah, well”—he jerked his thumb toward his living room, in which Claire could see some sort of blanket fort draped between the couches—“we were having a makeover.”

“I see that.”

“Lost track of time.”

“Mm.”

He tapped a finger on the doorframe, and she lifted a brow at him.

“Oh shit, sorry,” he said, opening the door wider. “Come in, sure.”

“Thanks, I just wanted to say good night.”

“Right,” he said, but his voice was flat.

Inside was all fresh paint and sparse furniture—which Claire was pretty sure Josh rented along with the apartment—but even the simplicity of Josh’s space couldn’t hide the mess. The small kitchen, which opened into the living room, was covered in used pots and pans, red sauce splattered on the counters. Bits of dried pasta clung to a colander, and the oven was still on.

Claire clutched her stomach, wondering if the appliance would’ve continued to churn out gas heat all night long if she hadn’t come by. She took a few steps, checked to make sure nothing was actually cooking—there wasn’t—and pressed the off button with a little more vigor than necessary.

“I hadn’t cleaned up from dinner yet,” Josh said. “Obviously.”

She just nodded. She could already feel it—anger, sadness, terror, something else she couldn’t name—brimming to her edges. Any minute it would slosh over, but she worked hard to tamp it down, just like she always did.

“Mom!” Ruby said, poking her head out from under the blanket fort. She was covered in makeup too, the job much more pristine than Josh’s own face. She assumed they’d made over each other. Josh was a good illustrator, his hands nice and steady.

“Hey, Rabbit,” Claire said, walking over to the fort and bending down. Inside, fairy lights glowed, fastened to the cotton walls with clothespins, and a nest of quilts swirled around Ruby like a cloud. She was in her pajamas at least. “What’s all this?”

“Dad made it. Isn’t it cool?”

“The coolest.”

“He cooked too. Did you know he could cook?”

She did. When they were together, he would cook all their meals. She hated cooking. Always had. When it was just her and Ruby, she made do, forced herself into Taco Tuesdays and had perfected many a casserole, but that was just throwing stuff into a baking dish. Josh cooked.

“I remember something about that,” she said as Josh sat down next to her, crossing his legs like a kid and grinning. His hair was long on top, short on the sides, and looked stupidly adorable in the soft glow from the fairy lights. His hazel eyes twinkled at her. Ruby’s eyes. Their daughter had gotten his hair too. Thick and wavy, strands of gold slipping between the brown.

“He made this homemade sauce with all these fresh tomatoes and garlic and olive oil and ugh”—Ruby flopped back onto the quilts, holding her stomach—“it was so good.”

“Sound delicious,” Claire said. “Isn’t it time for bed?”

Ruby stilled and sat up, but it took a second to get her body to do what she wanted. She was all arms and legs, that awkward, lanky phase settling on her the last few months. “It’s summer.”

“I know, baby, but—”

“And I’m at Dad’s.” Her daughter glared at her, this withering stare that Claire had become very accustomed to lately. “Dad’s rules.”

Next to her, Josh cleared his throat. “Um, Rube—”

“We were about to watch Inside Out.”

Claire glanced at Josh, and he just smiled that ridiculous smile he always smiled whenever this happened. The one that said, I’m just a big dumb kid myself. What are you gonna do?

“It’s ten o’clock,” she said.

“It’s the weekend,” Ruby said.

Claire let her eyes travel over the fort. Ten o’clock was no big deal, she knew. Neither was ten thirty. Eleven, for an eleven-year-old, was pushing it. But a movie would last until midnight, and Ruby was a beast when she didn’t get enough sleep. Cranky and whiny and prone to tears at the slightest problem, all of which Claire would have to deal with tomorrow when Josh dropped her off. All of which he would know if he was part of their lives on any consistent basis. But now, sitting here in front of the, admittedly, most amazing blanket fort she’d ever seen, she’d be the bad guy if she said any of this. Just like she always was when it came to Josh.

“Rubes,” Josh said, leaning toward his daughter. “Maybe we should call it a night. Your mom’s right; it’s late, and we can watch a movie anytime.”

Claire pressed her eyes closed, waiting for that to land. She knew Josh was just trying to help, but now that he’d sided with her, he’d just put a stick of dynamite on top of a ticking bomb.

“Ugh, fine!” Ruby yelled, untangling herself from her own legs and crawling out of the fort and standing. She balled up her little fists, jaw tight. “Why’d you even come over here?”

“Ruby,” Josh said sharply.

“It’s just one night, and now you have to go ruin everything like you always do!” Ruby’s eyes brimmed with tears, and Claire’s heart lurched. It was true that over the past few months, her daughter had grown a little moodier, a little more temperamental. She’d read this was normal for her age—hormones were starting up, and god knew middle school was the worst few years in Claire’s own life, but this, these instant tears and the yelling over a simple bedtime suggestion, this happened every time Josh came to town. It’s like Ruby ran on a constant low level of panic, always worried he was going to leave, always waiting for him to leave, so that every moment he was actually with her felt like a rare jewel, a prize, and anything Claire did to try and maintain a modicum of normalcy was met with tantrums and eye daggers.

Claire stood, tried to reach out for her daughter. Sometimes a hug worked.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth,” Ruby said, slapping her mother’s arm away.

And sometimes it didn’t.

“Want to come and watch me and make sure I floss?” Ruby said.

Inside, Claire flinched, but she knew she couldn’t let Ruby get away with talking to her like that, no matter the circumstance.

“That’s enough,” she said.

And it was, apparently, because Ruby rolled her eyes and stomped off toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. A door slammed, causing Josh to jump. Claire, she was used to it.

They stood there for a second in silence while Claire wracked her brain for what to say. She wanted to take her daughter home, tuck her into her own bed, and watch her sleep, but she knew that wasn’t an option. Not unless she wanted to declare war, and she didn’t. Not tonight.

Josh cleared his throat. “Hey, I’m—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, turning and heading toward the door. She knew better than to even try to say good night to Ruby, and honestly, right now she was so pissed off, she didn’t trust herself. She hated fighting with her kid, but she hated this even more—this feeling that she was the boring parent, a stick in the mud, a wet blanket thrown over all the glitter and fairy lights of Ruby’s time with her dad.

“Claire, hang on.”

She stopped at the door and dug inside her bag for her keys. She was sure as hell sobered up now. “We’ve got Astrid’s wedding brunch in the morning at ten, so I need Ruby home by nine.”

“God, Astrid’s getting married?” Josh said, stopping with her at the door and leaning against the wall.

She flicked her eyes up to him. “I told you she was.”

He nodded, even though she knew he didn’t remember. “Poor guy.”

“Oh stop,” she said, but cracked a smile. Josh had grown up with all of them in school, so he knew Astrid was a lot. Particular, high-maintenance, wound tighter than even Claire, but poor guy wasn’t even nearly accurate in this situation. More like poor Astrid.

“When’s the wedding?” Josh asked.

“Two weeks.”

“Am I invited?” he asked, grinning.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said as she opened the door. He held it for her, his arm over her head, and she got a whiff of his familiar scent—clean laundry and mint from his aftershave. Even with all that makeup on his face, her knees went wobbly, just for a second. She’d loved this man once upon a time. He was her first kiss with a guy, first time with a guy, first relationship with anyone. She’d made out with Kara Burkes her junior year in high school, at a Halloween bonfire not long after she came out, but she’d never dated anyone seriously until Josh.

He leaned closer to her, his smell wafting over her even stronger. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she knew she had to get out of here now. She’d made this mistake too many times, sleeping with him on one of his trips back, the emotion and stress of having him reappear in their lives and what it might mean gathering like a storm until it broke and they tumbled into bed together. Not even Iris knew about that. The last time was over two years ago, right before she started dating Nicole.

“Claire,” he said, stepping closer, his voice like butter. This was why she’d desperately needed to get someone’s number at Stella’s tonight. She squeezed her eyes closed, Delilah Green flashing in her mind. That had certainly backfired.

“Look, I’m sorry about tonight,” he went on. “I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“Didn’t you?”

Hurt filled his eyes. “No. Come on.”

She sighed and fiddled with her keys. “I know. It’s just . . .”

“I get it. I’m unreliable. But not this time. I swear it.”

She looked up at him, all their history growing thick between them like life-choking vines. He reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She almost leaned into him. It would’ve been so easy.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, backing away and then slipping out the door before she could do something stupid like kiss him. She knew it wouldn’t go further than that, not with Ruby in the apartment, but still. She didn’t need the complication. She didn’t want it either. She was just horny. That was all. She knew she didn’t love Josh, not like that. But her skin was hungry. Iris’s phone number quest had sufficiently riled her up.

Or maybe it wasn’t only the quest.

When she got back to the small Craftsman she’d scrimped and saved for years to make her own, her body still felt electric, plugged in. Once in bed, she slipped a hand between her legs, desperate to get rid of the ache so she could sleep. But when her fingers started moving, it wasn’t Josh she envisioned. It wasn’t even some nameless fantasy woman she made up in her head for times like these. No, this person had a riot of dark curls and sapphire-blue eyes, tattoos vining up her arms like snakes.