“I am humble. But I’m also honest.”
“Interestin’ way to describe your ego but okay.” She turns toward me on her side, folding her hands underneath her cheek. I can’t resist grabbing the loose strand of hair that falls over her face and tucking it behind her ear.
“Now it’s your turn to be honest. Why’d you kiss me and then freak out about me not wantin’ to fuck you in the front seat of your truck?”
She squeezes her eyes and releases a deep sigh. “Considerin’ everythin’ that’s happened tonight and how I waited four hours for you to get released, I’m gonna plead the fifth. I’m also not in the mood to talk about that right now.”
Grinning, I nod. “Fair enough. Will you at least listen to what I have to say then? You don’t have to respond, just hear me out.”
She lifts her shoulder. “Make it quick. You have two minutes before I fall asleep.”
“I’m anythin’ but quick, Delly…” Her nickname slips for the second time tonight and her gaze lowers to my lips when I say it.
I think she likes it.
“I’m not sure what enticed you to kiss me tonight or why you felt weird about it afterward, but I just wanna make it clear in case your brain is confused that I was in no way rejectin’ you. But public sex ain’t somethin’ I’m tryin’ to add to my rap sheet. I’m in enough trouble as it is…”
Andno random hookupsis what I promised my therapist.
Not that Delilah would ever be a random hookup, but it wouldn’t have ended the way I’d want because she would’ve felt remorseful and ashamed as soon as it was over. And I know that because I’d feel those same things when I used sex as an outlet.
Dr. Branson wants me to challenge myself on making real connections with women before falling into bed with them. Instead of using sex as a distraction, he wants me to focus on getting to know someone and only getting intimate if feelings are involved.
So far, I’ve gone twelve months without it—a record since I started being sexually active back in high school.
Delilah giggles with a little snort and it’s the cutest thing ever. I can tell she’s exhausted and fighting sleep.
“It’s good that you stopped us. I kissed you for the wrong reasons. I’ve not been myself lately, or rather, since my dad died. Between not ridin’ as much as I used to and the grief suffocatin’ me, I haven’t been managin’ my emotions in a healthy way.”
“I know a thing or two about that.” I lick my lips, wishing I could lean down and brush mine against hers. “Looks like we both need an outlet.”
She arches a suspicious brow.
“Ahealthyone,” I correct. Perhaps kickboxing would be a good activity to take up.
For her too.
I noticed a shift after her dad’s death and should’ve figured that was the reason for her mood and behavior changes. There’s no saying how I’d act out if I lost one of my parents or siblings. I’d probably lose my damn mind.
Delilah’s close to her family and after watching her dad suffer for years, I’m sure she’s feeling a mixture of emotions.
“I miss ridin’, but I don’t think I wanna trick ride professionally anymore. It’s all I’ve known for the past seven years, and it kept my mind busy, but now I need to figure out who I am without it.”
“I’m sure you will. That shit takes time, so give yourself some grace. You’re allowed to grieve and just be in your feelings for a while. There’s no rush.”
“Yeah, but I feel guilty, too,” she confesses. “Guilty that I wasn’t home to help more or there to keep my dad company. Guilty that I feel so angry at him even though I knew he was sufferin’ and is in a better place now. But mostly guilty that I’m still alive but not really livin’ because of how lost and empty I feel. The hole in my heart gets bigger every day.”
Tears fall down her cheeks and when she closes her eyes, I swipe the pad of my thumb underneath to catch them.
“I find some peace knowin’ he’s no longer in pain, but that doesn’t always take away mine,” she adds just above a whisper.
Mr. Fanning was in a wheelchair for the past eight years after a tractor accident took one of his legs. He suffered from chronic phantom limb pain. There’s no cure, only temporarytreatments, and he dealt with it daily. It fucked with his mental health. He spiraled into a deep depression and severe anxiety. As the years went on, he didn’t even want to leave his house anymore.
One day, he couldn’t bear it anymore and overdosed on pain meds.
By the time he got to the hospital, it was too late.
It was the wake-up call I needed to take my mental health seriously and seek therapy. After witnessing how distraught their family was and the aftereffects of his death, I knew I needed to make a change. Waylon begged me for years to get help, and I knew he was right but never wanted to admit it.
