“How did you do with Drake?” Brent asked.
I shrug. “He’s a good instructor, but I think I need about a dozen more lessons before I’m any good. He said he’d help me as long as I want.” But I’d rather get help from Delilah.
“Any fun plans for the weekend?” Brent asks as he locks up behind us.
“No. Delilah’s going out of town, so…”
He smiles down at me. “So, it’s true, then, the rumor about you and Delilah?”
“There’s a rumor about us?” Delilah will hate that.
“Well, not like a Harborside rumor or anything. Jesse mentioned it to me. I’ve known Delilah for a long time. She’s a sweet gal.”
“Yeah. She is.” And I want my sweet girl back.
“Where you headed? Wanna grab a soda?” Brent asks.
“A soda? Wow, you’re a real party animal tonight.” I smile with the tease.
“Yeah, well, when Delilah and Wyatt’s parents were killed, it was a wakeup call.” We walk a few feet toward the pier. “You game? We can grab a drink at Brooke’s.”
Going to Brooke’s will make me think of Delilah, which will make me sad. “How about we just grab a can from the machine and sit on the beach? We’ve been in the shop all day.”
He furrows his brow. “Okay. Is today’s mood caused by trouble in paradise or just a bad mood in general?”
I shrug, but I’ve worked for Brent since I first came to Harborside, and he knows my moods too well to let me off that easily.
“Okay, so we have girlfriend problems.” He slips money into the soda machine and steps aside for me to make a selection. I press a button for Mello Yello, and he gets a Coke. We take our drinks across the boardwalk and sink down into the sand near a night volleyball game. It should probably feel weird sitting with my boss, talking about this kind of stuff, but Brent doesn’t feel like a boss. He feels like a big brother, like Wyatt, Jesse, Tristan, and Brandon. I have a lot of brothers around here, but I’d trade them all to have Delilah back by my side.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure you and Delilah will figure it out, but it’s a good reminder why I don’t do the whole girlfriend thing.” He chugs his Coke.
“I hope so, but I don’t think this is that easy.”
He nods, looking out over the water. “Want to talk about it?”
I shrug again. “Yes. No. I have no idea. How’s that for indecisive?”
“About as good as it gets, I suppose. If you weren’t into her, you wouldn’t care, right? So at least you have that part figured out.”
“Oh, I’m into her. I’m so into her I don’t want to find my way out.” I sip my soda and close my eyes as the cold liquid slips down my throat. Liquid. That’s what I feel like right now. Like I’m slipping through each minute without any idea of how to become solid again.
“Wow, that’s pretty into her. So, have you called her, tried to talk?”
“Mm-hm. She needs space.”
“Ouch.” He finishes his soda and crushes the can, then sets it beside him. “Space. That’s not a good sign. You must have done something pretty harsh.”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
The side of his mouth quirks up. “Because she’s the one asking for space.”
“Oh. Right.” We sit in silence for a while. “So, you don’t do the whole girlfriend thing because it’s too hard? That seems lonely.” Relationships are hard, but Delilah’s worth whatever it takes.
“No. Not because it’s too hard. I just…don’t. There are too many things that can be misconstrued, and when you’re a guy, you get blamed for everything, even when you don’t do anything.”
I know what you mean. “Then maybe you’re picking the wrong girls.” I can’t imagine him doing the wrong things very often. The way he and Jesse watch out for everyone else, it seems like they were brought up doing all the right things.
He shrugs. “Maybe you did, too.”
“No. I have no doubt that Delilah is the right girl for me.”
He slides me an arched-eyebrow look that reads, Then why’d you do something wrong?
“It wasn’t what I did. It was what I didn’t do.”
“Been there, too. It’s all the same.”
“Well, some girls aren’t worth taking those extra steps for, but Delilah is. I was just stupid.” I don’t really know why I didn’t tell Delilah about Sandy’s texts. I’d like to believe that I thought so little of them I didn’t want her to worry. But the truth is, I think I might have been keeping them as a reminder of what I didn’t want to repeat. The problem is, I am with Delilah, and although she’s not anything like Sandy, she isn’t out. She isn’t openly affectionate in public, and that was what those reminders were supposed to keep me from repeating.
But all the texts and reminders in the world couldn’t make me walk away from Delilah.
“You’re not a stupid girl, Ash. I’m not buying it.”
I’m not either.
We walk back toward the parking lot. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked. Needed the fresh air.”
“At seven thirty this morning?” He takes me by the elbow and leads me to his Harley. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
“You don’t have to.” Although the idea of walking home alone is not at all appealing. I don’t live far, but I feel lonely with the fissure that’s formed between me and Dee.
“I know.” He lifts a helmet from his bike. “Can you tie your hair back?”
I slip an elastic band from my wrist and secure my hair at the nape of my neck. Then he puts the helmet on me and smiles. “Cute.”
“Thanks. I feel like one of those bobblehead dolls we sell.”
He puts on his helmet and helps me onto the bike, then straddles the bike. “Hold on tight.”
Minutes later we’re at my apartment complex. I give Brent the helmet and thank him for the ride. He takes off his helmet and holds it under his arm as he reaches for my arm.
“Ashley, I’m sure that Delilah will come around. Just don’t shove whatever you did or didn’t do to the side. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that owning our mistakes can help us heal. Unless, of course, the reason we made them in the first place was to give ourselves an out. And if that’s the case, cut your losses and walk away, because if you wanted out once, you’ll want out again.”
As his taillights fade into the distance, I know one thing for sure. I do not want an out from being with Delilah.
Chapter Twenty-Three
~Delilah~
I DRIVE OVER to group, but I don’t want to talk about grieving and depression and moving past our pain when another type of pain is sinking its claws into my heart. A pain that feels worse than the lingering pain of losing my parents, and that makes me feel guilty, too. I should go back to work and help out, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t. I turn my Jeep around and drive home, adding another layer of guilt to my already guilt-laden shoulders.
I park in the driveway behind Brandon’s motorcycle and head inside, cringing when the door slams behind me.
Brandon sits up from where he’s sprawled on the couch with his laptop perched on his stomach.
“Whoa. You okay?” He sets the laptop on the coffee table.
“No.” I take the stairs two at a time and stomp into my room. I grab a duffel bag from the closet and pack my stuff—realizing too late that I left my hairbrush at Ashley’s. Damn it.
I snag my shampoo from the bathroom, and when I come back out Brandon is sitting on my bed, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded behind his head.
“Skipping group?”
“Yup.”
“Been there, done that. Anything I can do to help?” Brandon’s parents had put him into a peer counseling group when he was a teenager because they thought he was too…everything. Rebellious, different, uninterested in schoolwork, despite his excellent grades.
“Nope.” I toss shorts and tank tops into my bag, then go back to my dresser for underwear. Whe
n I open the drawer, I see Ashley’s underwear and bra and stare at them for a few seconds while my throat thickens.
“Thought you were leaving tomorrow.”
I grab my underwear and slam the drawer shut. “Changed my mind.” I stuff it into the bag, throw in a pair of flip-flops, and zip it up.
Brandon sits up as I grab the handles and he clutches my wrist. “Delilah, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
He nods at the bag. “This is not nothing. Wyatt will freak if he finds out you’re driving home at night.”
I shrug and pull my wrist from his grip. “Wyatt can’t control everything I do.”
Brandon follows me out of the room and down the stairs. “Want me to come with you so you have company in the car?”
I sigh loudly as I stalk out the door. “No. You have a gig this weekend with your band. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you should call Wyatt so that he doesn’t tear me a new one when I tell him I let you go.” Brandon opens the passenger door and takes my bag, throws it in, then closes the door. “You sure you’re not too upset to drive?”
“You’re a good friend, Brandon. I’m too upset not to drive. I’ll call Wyatt in a little while.”
“Once you’re out of Harborside?”
“A smart friend, too. If you talk to Wyatt, don’t let him tell you that you let me do anything. I don’t need permission to leave.” I climb into the Jeep and put my phone on the passenger seat. The message light is blinking. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?
I start the Jeep and scroll through the messages. Janessa. Wyatt. Ashley.
Tossing the phone back on the passenger seat, I wave to Brandon and pull out of the driveway. I’m in no mood to answer to anyone, and I know what Ashley’s text is going to say. The same thing she’s been texting all day. She’s sorry. She wasn’t thinking. She loves me.
I drive toward the highway with my head swimming in too many thoughts to try to decipher them. Traffic on the highway is light, and I drive for an hour, listening to Ashley’s iPod. As I near the site of my parents’ accident, I become consumed with thoughts of them.
What were they thinking right before it happened? Were they arguing about me? Were they thinking about how much I disappointed them? Were they wishing that I didn’t exist?
My hands begin to shake and I grip the steering wheel tighter and move over to the right lane as I near the point of their accident. I’ll never be able to drive by this mile marker and not think of them. The skid marks have faded from the road, and broken glass no longer litters the pavement. They’ve been swept away like they never even existed. Thousands of people drive by this spot every day. Did any of them see the accident? Hear about it? Does anyone think about the children my parents left behind?
My Jeep veers onto the shoulder as if it has a mind of its own. I park way off to the side and put on my hazards. I can’t take my eyes off the middle of the road where the truck hit them. My father’s face appears before me, and it’s not the loving face I want to see. The warm eyes I desperately need to see right now. It’s the disheartened look of disappointment staring back at me, his green eyes hooded and serious. His lips curved down slightly at the edges. Sobs rumble from my lungs, burning my throat as my vision blurs and my tears wash away my father’s image.
I bury my face in my hands and close my eyes tight. My fucked-up mind conjures my mother’s face with her own disconcerted look.
Stop. Please, please stop.
I stumble out of the car and run into the grass, away from the blurry headlights coming in my direction. My fisted hands press against my eyes, and at first the screams seem like they’re miles away, and I wonder who’s yelling. Then I realize the pained cries are coming from my lungs. My burning chest. My broken heart as I collapse to my knees and claw at the grass, like I can dig my way out of the pain. Every tear I’ve ever held back is falling, one chasing the next and the next, with no reprieve on the horizon. I sink back on my heels and my arms fall limply to my sides as I give in to the sadness.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” My words are drowned out by the sounds of the traffic whizzing by.
By the place where my parents lost their lives.
The place where their lives were stolen from me and Wyatt.
The place that swallowed my hope of being able to talk to them again. To try to wipe that look of disappointment off their faces.
Fucking hell.
Life sucks.
It’s so unfair.
I sit on the side of the road gulping in air, trying to regain control of my breathing.
I can’t go back.
I can’t fix what happened. I can’t change what I said or make them look differently at me.
I can’t do a damn thing.
I listen to the fast noises of the traffic. No one stops to see if I’m okay. Wyatt doesn’t come racing up behind my Jeep to swoop me into his arms. Ashley doesn’t come to my rescue.
There’s only me and the fucking pavement that will forever mark my parents’ deaths.
Me and the memory of their disapproving looks.
Me and the guilt of knowing they think it’s wrong for me to love Ashley.
And I do love her.
I love her so much.
But of course I can’t tell her, because my fucking parents have left me buried in guilt so thick I can barely breathe. They left me scared of never being able to love a woman—to love Ashley the way she deserves to be loved. The way I want to love her—publicly, without concern over looks and disapproval from others.
They left me a broken girl.
I imagine Wyatt telling me it’ll be okay. I can practically feel his arms around me, and I see myself falling into that comfort—and it pisses me off.
I don’t want to be that broken girl.
I don’t want anyone else to fix me. Not even Wyatt.
I push to my feet and wait until my wobbly legs become solid again, and then I force myself to walk back to my Jeep with one goal in mind.
Every step, every breath, comes a little stronger, with more determination.
I’m going to heal myself, because no one else can do that for me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow my parents’ guilt and disapproval to take me under.
I pick up my phone and type a text to Ashley—I miss you already—but I don’t send it. I can’t give her hope for us until I know I can be whole. She told me herself not to tell her I loved her until I could say it loud and proud.
I’m going to try.
Chapter Twenty-Four
~Ashley~
I DON’T WANT to get out of bed. I don’t want to shower, and I don’t want to go to work, and I don’t want to do anything but lie here smelling Delilah’s shampoo on my pillow with the phone in my hand while I wait for her to call. She didn’t return my texts last night, and even though Brandon called to tell me that she left for Connecticut, I wish she’d call. Wyatt called me too, to ask what the hell was going on. Or rather, to demand to know what was going on. There was no use lying. He was worried, and honestly, so was I. Driving to Connecticut by herself in the dark without telling Wyatt, without even mentioning it to me, tells me just how bad our situation is.
There’s a knock on my apartment door, and I fly out of bed, hoping it’s Delilah. Funny how a sliver of hope can instantly heal a broken heart. I fling open the door and feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut when it’s not Delilah, but Brandon leaning one hand against the doorframe, his head hanging between his shoulders. He lifts his head just enough for me to see his eyes and raises his brows.
“Nice outfit.” His voice is craggy and thick.
I don’t say anything to defend wearing Delilah’s T-shirt and shorts. I simply turn and walk into the living room and flop on the couch, leaving Brandon to follow me in and close the door behind himself.
“What’s the lowdown?” He sits beside me in his black jeans and T-shirt,
leans his elbows on his thighs, and locks his eyes on the floor.
I shrug, which he obviously can’t see, but he must feel the couch move. He cocks his head so he’s looking at me out of the corners of his eyes.
“Bullshit.”
I get up, walk into the bedroom, and grab my phone, then return to the living room and toss it to him, before sinking onto the couch again.
He eyes me carefully, as if I might get up and do something else, then scrolls through my texts. When he gets to Sandy’s, he eyes me again, then proceeds to read them. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. I know how it looks. I watch him scroll through texts to Delilah. I’m not embarrassed by the number of texts I’ve sent her or what they say. I don’t really care who sees them, least of all Brandon. He’s never judged me, not once since the day we met.
He leans back, hands me my phone, and drapes his arms over the back of the couch. We sit in silence, me with my feet tucked beneath me, hovering in the corner of the couch, and him sprawled out like he hasn’t a care in the world. Only his dark eyes are treading in a pool of worry. Upon closer inspection, I notice that dark circles hang beneath his eyes and his clothes are disheveled and wrinkled. I worry something in his life has gone awry, and I’ve been too wrapped up in Delilah to notice, but I don’t have the energy to ask.
“Wanna go out for coffee?”
I shrug again. I’ve decided that shrugs can take the place of any answer. It makes it easier to let the other person make the decisions.
“Wanna go for a…walk?” Walk is full of sarcasm.
I shrug again.
“Strip club?”
I laugh softly, then wipe the smile from my lips. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Okay, no laughing. Well, this fucking sucks, doesn’t it?”
I nod. Nodding works almost as well as shrugging. Brandon’s not much of a talker, but I can tell he’s got something he wants to say.
“Go shower. I’ll make coffee.”
“I don’t want to shower.” I sound like a petulant child.
Discovering Delilah Page 19