by Roxie Noir
We take the second round slower, though not by much. Being with Delilah is otherworldly, elating and terrifying, addictive. I feel like some other version of myself, one unweighted by the outside world, pure and primal and on a plane beyond this one. I feel like the wrong parts of me are gone and whatever’s left is what’s right.
We’re still in bed when the sun comes up, pink rays nudging their way through the closed curtains. She half on top of me, fingers pushed through my chest hair, big toe wiggling slowly against my leg.
I know that like a drug, this is the high and the comedown will be here soon. I know it, but I tell myself that this time will be different. This time, when we’re done with each other, we’ll part on mutually friendly terms and go back to our lives.
I’ve told myself that for years now.
Finally, we fall asleep.
Chapter Eight
Delilah
Still Two Years and Three Months Ago
I toss the phone book onto the bed, then flop myself down in front of it. It’s late afternoon on Saturday, the sun trickling in between the curtains.
“Does anyone deliver out here?” I ask. “I think most places have a five-mile delivery radius, or something like that.”
On the other side of the bed, a very naked Seth shifts slightly, reaching one arm over his head.
“I don’t even know where we are,” he says. “Are we five miles from town?”
“We’re off Route 238.”
“That’s a long route.”
“Just past where it crosses Bitterroot Creek.”
“That’s the opposite direction from town,” he says, like he’s mildly surprised.
I flip a page, pretty sure he’s not expecting an answer.
“I didn’t think this part through when I drove here last night,” I admit. I don’t make eye contact. Instead, I read an ad for the Golden Dynasty Pan-Asian Buffet like I’ve never heard of mediocre Chinese food before.
“But you were thinking enough that you didn’t want to go to my house?” he says, still lazy. I can feel his glance, though, and I read about the buffet’s hours for the fifth time.
“I like this place,” I say. “It’s cute. It’s rustic. No neighbors.”
“My townhouse has very thick walls and a pantry,” he says.
“Of course it does.”
The instant it’s out of my mouth, I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I hadn’t said it. I know better than to passive-aggressively snipe at someone, but old habits die hard.
“You say that like I built the place myself,” he says, pushing himself to sitting.
“I say that like it was on your list of must-haves in a home,” I tell him, and finally meet his eyes.
We hold the gaze for a long, long moment, and I’m the first one to look away. I manage not to say anything else bitchy, like I’m sure your neighbors are glad to be spared the sound of you humping an endless parade of women.
Even so, now is when I start to hate myself. Now is when I start to come down from the high, when I start to remember the reasons that we don’t do this all the time.
The reasons have names, like Mindy and Danica and Laura and probably dozens more. The last time I saw him I was dumb enough to ask how many and who, and Seth told me in that brutally honest way he has.
And then I fucked him one more time, even after he told me, as if I thought a few more orgasms would make me forget that I knew. They didn’t.
I take a deep breath, look at the phone book again. It’s been years since I used one of these, but both of our phones are dead since we didn’t exactly plan this outing.
“I can go grab takeout,” I offer. “What are you in the mood for?”
“There’s a Thai place in town now,” he says. “And I’ll always eat pasta. Or…”
I look at him, raise one eyebrow.
“The Woodhouse has happy hour from five to seven.”
“You can’t get booze with takeout,” I point out.
“We could go,” he says, resting his hands on his head.
Duh. The combination of more sex than sleep and no food since yesterday means I’m not quite on top of my game, and for a long moment, I just watch him, two fingers tapping the open phone book.
I don’t want to. Sprucevale is a tiny town, and even on a Sunday night I’m practically guaranteed to run into someone I know, or worse, someone Vera knows. By this time tomorrow everyone will know that Delilah Radcliffe and Seth Loveless were having drinks together, and from there it’s half a step to bitchy comments about how little self-respect I have if I’m riding the town bicycle.
I know I’m far from the only notch on his bedpost. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“Why leave?” I say, and manage to smile at him. “It’s pretty nice here.”
“It’s nice there, too,” he says.
“I’ve only got what I was wearing yesterday.”
“No one will know.”
I sit up, lean on one hand, give him what I hope is a coquettish, flirty look.
“What’s wrong with staying in and eating takeout in bed?” I ask, tilting my head to one side.
It doesn’t work. I didn’t really think it would.
“What’s wrong with appearing together in public?” he asks, quietly.
I don’t answer, because he knows the answer. We just look at each other for a long time, and I think: we don’t usually get to the fight this fast.
“Right, someone might see us,” he says, finally looking away. “People might talk.”
“Forgive me for wanting to preserve my remaining shreds of dignity,” I say, sarcastically, as I stand from the bed.
“Dignity? Is that what you wanted when you fucked me in your car last night?”
I snort.
“I just wanted an itch scratched,” I say, starting to pace at the foot of the bed. “Not a referendum on why I shouldn’t mind being the hundredth name on your list.”
“A hundred, huh? That your guess?”
Suddenly, I feel nauseous.
It’s because you haven’t eaten, I tell myself.
“I’m not guessing,” I say. “I don’t care who you fuck or how many of them there are —"
“You’re not that far off.”
The nausea rises, and I swallow it down.
“I’m not asking and I don’t care,” I say.
Now Seth stands from the bed, walks to the window. He glances behind the curtain, casually, like he’s checking the parking lot.
“You sure seem like you don’t care.”
“You’re free to fuck whoever you want. I’m not getting in the way. God forbid.”
Seth laughs. It’s a single, hard bark of a laugh, just one ha! That makes goosebumps rise on my skin.
Then he’s across the small room, standing in front of me, looking down. He’s got my chin in his hand, tilting my head up.
“You got married,” he growls.
“Don’t touch me.”
His hand drops.
“You stood on that sidewalk outside the Whiskey Barrel and said you’d never loved me to begin with, and now you’re angry that I fucked someone else?” he says, venemous and angry. “As if you didn’t fuck someone else and more?”
His blue eyes are cold, hard, flat, his dark hair wild, stuck to his forehead on one side.
The guilt stabs me like it always does, and I think: at least he stabs me from the front, while he’s looking into my eyes. At least I know when I’m being stabbed.
“And you couldn’t even do that right,” he muses.
I’m vibrating with anger, its hot spikes pricking at my throat, behind my eyes. I hold my breath so it doesn’t spill over into furious tears.
I hate that I cry when I’m angry.
“Maybe I should have fucked our entire graduating class and their cousins instead,” I say. Seth blurs in my vision. “I’ve always wanted my name to be another word for slut.”
“You like it well enough to keep me in your phone, just in case yo
u get lonely.”
I snort, trying to sound derisive. A tear spills out of one eye, and I turn away from Seth, march to where my pants are spread on the floor.
“You haven’t turned me down yet,” I bite back. “Every time I think, surely he’ll have found someone new by now, but you never have.”
He strides to the other bed in the room, pulls his shirt from where it landed on a pillow.
“That door swings both ways.”
I button my jeans, biting my lip so hard I draw blood, but it doesn’t work. Another tear tracks down my cheek.
“Does it feel pathetic to wait around for someone who doesn’t love you back?” I say, my voice shaking.
“Love me back?” he says, incredulous, his shirt on, his jeans in one hand.
I feel like an idiot.
“I haven’t loved you in years,” he goes on. “These days you’re just a good fuck.”
I find my shirt and grab it, bra nowhere to be seen. I don’t care.
“Good,” I snarl, pulling it over my head. “I never loved you at all.”
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair where it’s lying, slam the door open, and walk out. The moment my bare feet hit cold concrete, I realize I forgot my shoes, but I can’t go back. Fuck going back.
Behind me, Seth is laughing. It’s an ugly, harsh laugh.
“Call me when your next boyfriend figures out who you really are,” he shouts. “I’m happy to fuck you without liking you.”
The door shuts. I stomp off the concrete walkway and onto the pavement of the parking lot, still cold beneath my feet, teeth gritted together, breathing ragged, eyes leaking.
At least I make it to my car before I start sobbing, the steering wheel in a two-hand death grip, nose running, mouth open. I think I’m drooling, and I don’t give a shit.
I don’t know how long I stay there. Five minutes? Five hours? I feel like an empty sack, crumpled on the floor. Like a hollow tree that’s finally fallen over. I’m just praying that Seth can’t see me through the window.
Finally, I get a hold of myself. Sort of. I get enough of a hold to sit up straight, buckle my seatbelt, fix the rearview mirror. I’m still crying, but not so much I can’t see through the windshield, so I start the car and turn the heat up and peel out of the motel parking lot with no shoes, bra, or underwear on.
And I drive and drive, and over and over again I think: why do I do this to myself?
Chapter Nine
Seth
Still Two Years and Three Months Ago
When the door shuts behind her, it feels like the air shakes, like the whole room rattles, but it’s just me, so angry I’m practically vibrating.
She came to me. She’s the one who showed up at my event, at my brewery. She’s the one who walked over to me last night, batting her eyelashes and practically rubbing herself on me like a cat in heat. She’s the one who pulled off the road into an abandoned driveway so we could fuck in the back seat of her car.
All that and she won’t have drinks with me, as if I owed her my celibacy while she married someone else. Fuck that. Fuck her.
Most of all, fuck me for letting this happen in the first place.
I take a shower after she leaves, because despite everything I’m tempted to look out the window and see if she’s still there. I’m tempted to go after her, because I thought of ten more things to say that will hurt her and I want her to hear all of them.
It’s not until I’m out of the shower and leaving the motel room that I remember my car isn’t there. It’s still at the brewery, where my horny idiot self left it last night.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself.
It feels good.
“FUCK!” I whisper louder.
Then I take a deep breath, suck in the fall air. It smells like rain and leaves and the hard promise of darkness and cold coming all too soon.
There are people I could call for a ride. Even though my phone’s dead, I’ve got numbers memorized and the room has a landline.
I walk back to the brewery instead. I don’t know how many miles it is, but it’s full dark by the time I get there, half moon, plenty of stars. Almost by accident I find the scorpion’s tail as I walk along the highway, peeking above the black forest.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, but my mouth is dry, my feet hurt, and I’m tired. Now, it just feels hollow.
“C’mon,” I mutter, leaning forward. “Come on, just — don’t fucking —”
Red splashes across my screen and I sigh, dropping my head. This is the fifth time in a row I’ve tried this stupid mission, and I swear, it’s gonna be the death of me.
“Okay,” I say. I crack the knuckles on my left hand, switch the controller, crack the ones on my right. “Just the stairwell and you’re done.”
I blink hard, because my eyes feel like sandpaper, and then go talk to the security guard again.
Just as I’ve hit Accept Mission, there’s a knock.
At first, I think it’s in the game, because after all I’m in some mafia-controlled apartment building, but then I hit pause and hear it again.
Then I start worrying, because it’s nine-thirty at night. If it were a good knock I’d have gotten a text first, so as I shout “Coming!” and walk to my front door, I’m inventing scenarios.
My mom got into a car accident. One of my brothers got into a car accident, or something happened with Rusty, or Levi’s fallen off a cliff, or —
I glance through the peephole first.
It’s Delilah. Standing on my front steps, something in her hands, as she looks off to the side, like she’s watching something in the dark.
I almost don’t open the door. It’s been three weeks since she drove off and left me at the motel, and I don’t ever want to see her again. Even if she showed up on her knees in nothing but a sexy French Maid outfit, I wouldn’t want to see her again.
“Seth?” she calls, through the door.
Maybe with the French Maid outfit I would.
“Can we talk?” she asks.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
It’s a fruit basket. The thing she’s holding is a fruit basket with a pineapple on one side, a bunch of bananas on the other, and some exotic-looking stuff in the middle.
“Hi,” she says.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a fruit basket.”
I don’t say anything, just watch her until she speaks again.
“Is now a good time?”
I fold my arms over my chest.
“Are you asking if I’m alone?”
“No, I’m asking if it’s a good time.”
In that moment, I wish I weren’t alone. I wish I’d found some random hookup and brought her home just so I could see Delilah’s face when she walked out. I wish I’d brought home two.
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
She looks down at the basket, then up at me.
“Can I…” she gestures at the door.
I lean against the frame. No, she can’t come in. She can stand there.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I came to offer terms,” she says, her voice soft, perfectly steady. Like she’s practiced this.
“Terms for what?”
“Our continued existence in the same town.”
If I were still angry, I’d tell her that I don’t want terms, that I’ve always lived here and she can fuck off. If I were angry, I’d laugh in her face and shut the door.
I don’t.
“Go on,” I tell her.
“I think it would be best if we pretend to barely know each other,” she says, unblinking. “We’re going to run into each other, obviously, and I think we should have a plan.”
“Which is?”
“If you can be polite to me, I can be polite to you.”
It sounds perfectly reasonable. Perfectly normal.
All the same, her words feel like tree roots, growing into my cracks, slowly pulling me apart. Delilah takes a de
ep breath.
“No purposeful contact,” she goes on, her gaze hard on mine. “No calling, no texting, no going to your brewery or coming by my shop.”
“You want us to be strangers.”
“I want us to be acquaintances.”
I take a long moment just to study her, the way she looks right now under my porch light. She’s holding the fruit basket, her leather jacket open over a brightly colored shirt, something just barely peeking up through the neck. It looks like tape. Maybe gauze.
She sees me looking and frowns down.
“Oh, oops,” she says, and pulls the neck of her shirt up a fraction of an inch.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
Another pause. I wonder what’s on her chest. I wonder what it is I want from her, exactly. I wonder why the fuck she brought a fruit basket.
“Seriously, it’s nothing,” she says again.
“Okay.”
“Okay…?”
“Okay, we’re acquaintances.”
She holds my eyes for another pause in this conversation full of them, then takes a deep breath and looks down.
“Thanks,” she says, then holds out the fruit basket. “Um, here. I brought you this.”
I don’t want it, but I take it.
“It’s fruit,” she says. “You know, never go to someone’s house empty-handed and all. Impolite.”
I don’t tell her that it’s impolite to fuck someone and then tell them they’re unfit to stand next to you in public. I don’t tell her that it’s impolite to strand someone at a motel in the middle of nowhere.
“Thanks,” I say simply, to the point. “Anything else?”
“That was it,” she says, jamming her hands into her jacket pockets. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“I guess,” I say.
Then I turn away and shut the door while she’s still on my porch, and it feels good. I put the fruit basket on my kitchen counter, collapse back onto the sofa, and start killing rival mafia members before I can start thinking.