CHAPTER NINETEEN

Delilah

I didn’t lie when I told Macon I needed rest. Well, rest and wallowing. As soon as he’s gone, I tuck into a quart of coffee fudge ice cream that I hid beneath a bag of frozen peas, knowing that Macon hates peas and would never think to look behind them. Yes, I’ve become that chef, managing her client’s diet even when not around. Bah.

Bitterness coats my tongue, and I can’t blame the ice cream. Tossing the empty carton into the kitchen trash and cleaning off my spoon, I find myself at a loss of what to do next. I’ve slept too long, and the house is too empty. Outside is a wall of darkness, and the lights in the kitchen reflect my face back to me in the window. I look tired and puffy. And there is a zit on my chin.

“Lovely,” I mutter, instantly wanting to mess with the thing. Determined to rally, I march to my room, slather on a pore-tightening mask, and take a long hot shower. Bundled up in my robe, I put out an SOS call to my friends.

In high school, I used to think I’d get out of my small town, find my people, and fall into a glamorous life similar to Sex and the City. Didn’t happen that way. I made friends, but over the years those relationships have changed. People move away, get married, get mired in their careers. Some are even having kids now. Which all means there’s little time for hanging out in bars, and I talk to friends less and less.

Now, I’m starved for some conversation, anything to get my mind off things. Predictably, some friends are busy—it’s Friday night, after all—but Jia answers, asking me to come visit her and Jose at their restaurant. They are two of my favorite people, and the thought of hanging out with them gives me a boost of energy needed to get dressed.

Before I head out, I sit on the edge of my bed and pick up my phone. No messages. Why would there be?

Macon won’t text; he’s on a date.

Good.

Great.

Wonderful.

Loneliness washes over me with such stunning force I actually suck in a sharp breath as though it might drown me. The backs of my eyelids prickle with uncomfortable heat. I take another quick breath and find myself texting, even though I know it’s useless.

DeeLight to SammyBaker: I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I shouldn’t even care anymore, but I do. What I didn’t get to tell you earlier is that I’m living in Macon’s house. I’m constantly reminded of what you did—I know you told those stalkers where he’d be. I’m so ashamed of you for that. Maybe I could understand if you would TALK TO ME. But you’re hiding. Damn it, Sam, this needs to end. Macon deserves better than what you gave him. Yes, Macon. He’s not so bad. Not anymore.

I hit send, then rapidly type out another. It feels safe, somehow, texting to someone who won’t get the message. Like a silent confession.

DeeLight to SammyBaker: I like him, Sam. I like him a lot.

Quickly, as though Macon himself might sneak up on me and see what I’ve written, I close the text screen and head for my car. It’s only when I’m at Jia’s that I realize the texts to Sam didn’t bounce back to me this time.

Macon

I used to be decisive. It was one of my best qualities. I reflect on this bitterly as I pop a piece of sashimi in my mouth and chew like it’s tough steak instead of silky, fresh tuna. God damn, even the taste of the food makes me think of her. Delilah—the woman destroying my decisiveness.

I should be thinking about the woman sitting in front of me. Anya Sorenson. She’s utterly stunning: big liquid brown eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and flawless skin of mahogany brown. Anya has the natural shine of a star. People catch a glimpse of her, and they end up staring. She’s surprisingly easygoing.

I like her. And I’m being a shit date. I swallow down my food and bring up a smile. “How are things over at Gauntlet?”

Anya pauses, chopsticks midreach for a piece of avocado roll. “It’s wonderful. Perfect.”

Her smile is bright. But the edges are strained.

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

Her smile falls. “God, do I look exhausted?”

The worry in her expression is one I commiserate with. We’re not allowed to appear tired and worn.

“Not at all.” And she doesn’t. She’s as luminous as ever. “I’m simply speaking from experience.”

With a soft sigh, she lets her shoulders slump. “It’s insane, isn’t it? I feel wired, like I’m constantly humming.”

It’s one reason some actors get into drugs—to stay that way, or we’re afraid to actually crash and burn.

“I’ve learned to catnap like a boss.” I snag another piece of sashimi. “It helps.”