One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “It is inefficient,” I mutter to Eli.

  “It once took me ten minutes to find the paprika,” he mutters back. “I like her, though.”

  Levi and June take us on a hike one day, and Levi’s harder to read — is it skepticism or just his quiet, steady personality? —but by the time we’ve hiked two miles he and Delilah are deep in discussion about how the sky isn’t really blue, then about how red pigment comes from beetles, and by the time I hear her drop the bomb that the color magenta is a figment of our imaginations, I’m pretty sure she’s won him over.

  When we say goodbye that evening, he looks at her, then looks at me and nods.

  Caleb is the holdout. Whenever I mention her, he changes the subject. If I invite him and Thalia somewhere with us, he’s always got plans. He never comes out and says it, but I know what he’s thinking.

  I text Delilah all day, every day, about absolutely nothing. I send her pictures of bobcats that I think she’d like and she sends me back videos of turtles humping shoes. Before long, she knows all the gossip about the brewery employees, and I know what tattoos are popular this month.

  It’s working. Starting over and erasing the past is working. Keeping our clothes on is working, even though I feel like my skin might melt off in frustration.

  It feels like a miracle.

  I still hate that her cocktail shaker has another man’s initials on it, or that a picture of the dog they briefly shared is hanging on her wall with a hundred other pictures, or that her copy of Wuthering Heights says To Delilah, my wild-haired darling, Love Nolan inside the front over. I hate that she still sometimes wears a pair of earrings from him, and I’ve never once seen the necklace I gave her for her twenty-first birthday.

  But those things don’t matter. They’re a cocktail shaker, a photograph, a book, earrings. Just objects from a time that’s over and gone, and if I keep pretending they don’t exist then sooner or later, I’ll stop noticing them.

  The past is gone. Right here, right now is what matters, and it’s all that matters.

  Delilah aims her keys over her shoulder, and I hear her car lock behind us.

  “Shut up,” she says, when she sees me looking at her, and I laugh.

  “You know you don’t have to point —”

  “Yes, you do,” she says, putting her keys in her coat pocket, then taking my arm. “If the key isn’t pointing at the car it won’t lock, and that’s all, end of discussion, aren’t the hedges lovely this time of year?”

  “I can’t believe the butler hasn’t shown up to give us piggyback rides into the house yet,” I say. “Really slacking there.”

  Her hand slides down my arm until it’s in mine, and even though we’ve done this a hundred times over the last few weeks, an electric thrill still races through me from fingertip to fingertip.

  “Stop it,” she says. “You know full well that they’re nice, normal people who just happen to own a huge estate and spend tens of thousands of dollars every year on flower arrangements to liven up the place.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say, walking across cobblestones.

  In front of the Radcliffes’ house — mansion, really — is a circular driveway with a fountain in the middle and a garage tucked off to one side, which is where we parked. The fountain is off, since it’s winter, but it’s still impressive.

  “You never noticed that the front hallway always looks like someone’s either died or gotten married?” Delilah asks, lifting her eyebrows. “It’s kind of Vera’s thing.”

  “I’ve never been in here before, remember?”

  “Right,” she says. “Well, if these people act like they’ve met you before, just roll with it.”

  We climb the steps to the front door, where there’s a lion-shaped knocker. Delilah lifts it and lets it fall, ignoring the doorbell button to the right.

  “This is more fun,” she explains. “I feel like a barbarian at the gates.”

  “And you enjoy that?” I tease.

  “I like to play to my strengths,” she says.

  We wait. And wait. There’s no noise inside the house, and no one answers the door. I study the pie in my hand.

  “I should’ve put gold leaf on it,” I tell her.

  Delilah just sighs, reaches across me, and rings the doorbell.

  “Gold leaf is kind of gross,” she says. “It doesn’t taste like much, but the texture would make the pie weird.”

  “That’s precisely the sort of thing I would never have guessed,” I say, and the door swings open.

  “Ah, hello,” says the man standing there. He’s got on khakis, blue polo shirt tucked in, and slippers. “Come on in.”

  “Dad, you remember Seth Loveless, don’t you?” Delilah asks as we step inside. “From high school.”

  “Welcome,” he says, and holds out his hand. There’s a thick signet ring on one finger, and when he shakes my hand, he squeezes harder than strictly necessary.

  I look him dead in the eye and squeeze back.

  “Good to see you again, sir,” I say, and Delilah’s father grins.

  “Please, son, it’s Harold,” he says, clapping my shoulder with his other hand. “Sir was my father. Come on, let’s get that pie into the kitchen. I’ll let the girls know you’re here.”

  Harold turns and starts walking.

  “Sir?” Delilah whispers, giving me a look.

  “What? I was raised right,” I tell her.

  The entryway is big and open, and yes, there’s an enormous bouquet of flowers on a side table, next to a gilded mirror. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a staircase curves up and along one wall, leading to the second floor.

  The decorations are different but the house is intensely, achingly familiar. I was here all the time while we were dating, partly because my own house always felt like there were too many people in it, and partly because this house was more than large enough to give us privacy.

  Harold walks through the entryway, turns, leads us to the kitchen.

  “Weather Channel says it’s supposed to snow tonight. Real humdinger,” he’s saying as he walks. “Predicting six to ten inches, though the way the cold front is looking I’m expecting it’ll turn to rain or sleet right around sunrise, like it’s been doing all year.”

  “Typical,” Delilah agrees.

  “It’s nice if you’ve gotta go somewhere but I do love the look of fresh snow on the grounds,” he keeps on. “And if you’re talking skiing there’s just no comparison at all — hi, honey, Seth and Delilah are here,” he says into the kitchen.

  “Come in, come in,” she calls from where she’s standing on the other side of the massive kitchen. She wipes her hands on a towel, gives a final instruction to a woman standing over a cooking range that’s at least double the size of mine, and comes over to give us both hugs.

  “Darling, how are you, I haven’t seen you in weeks,” she says to Delilah, somehow enveloping her in a hug even though Delilah’s several inches taller.

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy,” Delilah.

  “I can tell, and I want to hear all about it,” Vera says, glancing at me and then giving Delilah a huge wink. “Seth, welcome back! My goodness, that’s a beautiful pie.”

  She takes it and also gives me a hug, and already I feel bad for making jokes about butlers and gold leaf. For all their faults and their enormous flower budget, the Radcliffes are warm, loving people.

  “Can we help with anything?” I offer, once she’s relinquished me, and Vera’s eyebrows fly up.

  “No, no, it’s completely under control,” she says, putting one hand on my arm. “But aren’t you the sweetest thing for asking?”

  “Huh, a 2015,” Harold is saying, mostly to himself, as he examines the wine bottle that Delilah brought. “That was supposed to be an unusual year for Californians. Guess we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”

  “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes,” Vera says tells him. “Why don’t you go select some wine for tonight so we can open
it and let it breathe before we eat?”

  “Sure thing,” he says, setting the bottle down on the table. “Seth, mind giving me a hand?”

  “Of course,” I say, the only possible answer to that question.

  Delilah stands up straighter, looks slightly alarmed.

  “Do you need any —"

  “Bree was just looking for you,” Vera cuts in smoothly, somehow making an interruption sound like the height of etiquette. “I do believe she’s tired of playing pterodactyls by herself.”

  Delilah and I share a so this is happening look, and I give her a smile.

  “We won’t be a minute,” Harold calls, and we leave the kitchen, wind back through the house until he opens a door under the main staircase, revealing the basement stairs.

  “Seems as if the brewery’s doing well,” he says, flipping a switch and descending. “What’s the market for small-batch beers like these days?”

  “Booming,” I say. “There’s been a huge uptick in craft beer sales across the board the past fifteen years or so. People are more and more interested in drinking well-made and local, and once you’ve had a really great beer it can be hard to go back to Bud Light.”

  “Never could drink the stuff myself,” he admits as he flips on another light, leads me through the basement. “Tell me, if I were to become interested in becoming a beer connoisseur, where would I start?”

  The questions keep up as we walk through the basement, which has been finished into a lounge of sorts: a large television, leather furniture, wood-paneled walls. At the far end is another door that leads into the temperature-controlled room that stores several hundred bottles of wine.

  It’s strange, walking through here again: the room is the same, though the furniture is slightly different. The television is different, too, the pool table the same, the wood paneling the same.

  We had sex on the pool table. We also had sex in the wine cellar, on the couch that used to be down here, and on an armchair.

  And her bedroom, the library, the study, the upstairs bathroom that she shared with her sisters, the downstairs bathroom, the pool house, the tack room in the stable, and I’m certain there are several places I’m forgetting. We were reckless, stupid, and nearly got caught a dozen times because we were horny teenagers and had more hormones than common sense.

  As Harold opens the door asks me another job-interview-type question, I glance over at the new couch. It looks comfortable.

  I’d fuck Delilah on it, given half the chance, though this time I’d make sure the doors were locked first.

  “I had no idea beers were collectible like that,” Harold is saying, leading me into the cellar. “Perhaps I ought to dedicate a corner down here. Now, what did Vera say was for dinner? Pork?”

  The door swings shut behind us. The wine cellar is almost exactly as I remember: four walls lined with bottles in specialized shelving, corks out, bottles backlit. A barrel in the center that’s great for bending your girlfriend over.

  “We’ll probably need a few,” Harold is saying to himself. “There’s what, eight of us? No, ten, though obviously Olivia won’t be drinking.”

  I wander to the wall, hands in my pockets, and start scanning the labels, pretending as if I might possibly have an opinion.

  Harold pulls a bottle out, reads the label carefully, blowing dust from it.

  “Son,” he suddenly says without looking up. “I don’t need to tell you to treat her right, do I? You seem as if you’ve become an adult.”

  There it is, the reason he wanted my help.

  “Of course, sir,” I say.

  “Harold,” he corrects me, finally looking up from the bottle for a moment. “That’ll work just fine on my wife, but not on me.”

  “Sorry, Harold,” I tell him. “And yes, I’ll treat Delilah right.”

  He puts the bottle on the barrel and starts looking at shelves again.

  “Figured as much,” he admits. “I can’t imagine her wasting time on you otherwise.”

  “Thanks, I think,” I say, and that gets a smile from the man.

  “Would you grab a Malbec from over there that looks good?” he says, gesturing at the shelves I’m standing by. “Freckles is a tough crowd. Her mom was the same way.”

  I grab a bottle from a shelf labeled Catena Zapata 2018 and bring it down. I’d forgotten that Delilah’s dad calls her Freckles, the only human on the planet allowed to do so.

  “I never met her mom,” I say.

  “No, I guess not,” Harold says, pulling out another bottle. “Don’t tell Freckles this, but she could be a carbon copy of Meredith. The spitting image. I still miss her sometimes.”

  He frowns, puts the bottle back.

  “What have you got over there?”

  “Catena Zapata,” I read, and Harold nods approvingly.

  “I’m happy with Vera, of course,” he goes on, pulling another bottle. “I wouldn’t trade her for the world. God knows Meredith and I got along better as exes than we did for one moment while we were married. But you know how it is. People leave their mark.”

  “They do.”

  “I never did tell the girls that you asked for my permission all those years ago,” he says, not looking up at me.

  “No?” I finally ask.

  I’ve spent so much time pushing the past away over these last few weeks that it’s strange to have it bubble to the surface like this, to talk to someone who treats it as a fact and not a secret.

  “At first I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he admits. “But after you high-tailed it out of here that night and I never saw you again, I figured it was best to keep my lips zipped.”

  “I appreciate it,” I say, because I do.

  “It wasn’t for you, it was for Freckles,” he says, perfectly matter-of-fact. “She never did tell Vera or her sisters the truth, and I can’t say I blame her. Should we have the 2012 or the 2014 Plâce de Peche Cabernet?”

  “The 2014,” I say with far more authority than I feel. Harold puts another bottle on the barrel.

  “Should the circumstance arise, don’t ask again,” he says, sliding the 2012 back into its slot. “Freckles doesn’t need my permission.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” I say, and can’t help but laugh.

  These days, I don’t think it would cross my mind to ask him for permission, but ten years ago I was a college senior. Barely legal to drink. Determined to do everything just right, by the book. Dot every i and cross every t.

  It still didn’t work. I haven’t let the possibility cross my mind again since.

  “Should I bring up a port wine for a dessert tipple?” Harold asks. There are now seven bottles on the barrel, and he’s turning them one by one, looking at the labels.

  “Delilah’s driving, so bring the whole cellar up,” I say, and Harold finally laughs.

  “I knew I liked you,” he says, and claps me on the shoulder again. “Grab some of these and let’s go.”

  We go back through the basement, climb the stairs, deposit the wine in the kitchen. Harold grabs a corkscrew, nods at me, and sets to work.

  “They’re probably in the family room,” he says, dismissing me. “You remember where that is?”

  “I think I hear them,” I say, and walk back through the huge house, past the formal dining room, past the formal living room, past the stairs.

  Before I reach the doorway, I can hear their voices, echoing through the hall.

  “ — invite Seth yet?” one says. Vera, I think.

  “Not yet,” Delilah says, and she sounds annoyed.

  I stop, just out of sight. Invite me where?

  “Delilah,” a third voice admonishes. “You have to stop holding that poor man at arm’s length like this. I can’t believe you haven’t invited him yet. You’re thirty years old, how many chances do you think —”

  “Could you not?” That’s Delilah.

  I’m still, silent. Eavesdropping, but too curious not to.

  “I know you don’t want to hear
it, but I’m just pointing out —"

  “Olivia. Spare me.”

  “This is why —"

  “Please?”

  “Pterodactyls don’t TALK!” shouts a small voice, and the adults laugh.

  “All right, what do pterodactyls do?” Delilah asks.

  All I hear is, “Like this!” the sound of small running feet, and Delilah’s laugh.

  I spent one more moment wondering where Delilah’s not inviting me, and then I push it from my mind and walk into the room where she’s standing at one end, arms out, gliding in a circle.

  “We’re pterodactyls,” Delilah explains.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Delilah

  Olivia carefully butters a single bite of dinner roll, then inspects it as if it might somehow transform into mercury-laced unpasteurized cheese. At last, she eats it.

  “If it’s a boy, sports, of course,” her husband Michael is saying. “If it’s a girl, I’m leaving that up to you, babe.”

  “Well, pink, obviously,” she says, taking a sip of water. ‘“But I don’t want it to be Disney princess themed. I think that’s been really overdone.”

  I slice the end off my asparagus and neatly take a bite, nodding along with Olivia for once at her decision not to Disney-princess-theme her unborn child’s room.

  “You could always do something gender-neutral,” I point out.

  All three of my sisters look at me with polite confusion and disdain, as if I’ve suggested having the baby sleep on the roof, or naming it Broccoli.

  “I’d love a real princess-themed nursery,” Olivia goes on, ignoring my perfectly valid suggestion. “She’ll be the queen of our little castle, after all. If it’s a girl.”

  She smiles and squeezes Michael’s hand, and he nods.

  I eat some more asparagus and try not to feel too much like an alien in my own family, because as hard as I’ve tried my whole life, I just don’t get it.

  I want to. Or, at least, I used to want to, before I gave up and just accepted that I’m a penguin among hummingbirds. I tried my hardest to get as excited as the four of them over engagements and weddings and dress fittings and nursery decorations and all those things that women in this world are supposed to love and that I never did.