“Hi, Delilah.”
Most neighbors would greet you, hug you, or wave you inside their home. Delilah skips all the formalities when she presses her back to the front door as my cue to enter. It used to confuse me. Sometimes when I’d hang out with Will in high school, she wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was over. At first I thought that meant disapproval until I figured out it was just her personality. Now it’s what I love most about her. I’ve never had to act like I owed her anything.
“I’m not catching you in the middle of something, am I?” I ask.
Her house is silent. Eerily so. Evidence of Will’s concerns map a path around me. The large clock that used to lean above the fireplace is missing. Same with the TV that sat on the now-empty console table. The dining room is a sea of wood without the rug in my studio breaking up the brown tones. And all that’s left of the gold mirror that used to hang in the entryway is the nail that held it up.
“Nope. Just got off the phone with Phillip. I was about to pour myself some brandy. Want some?”
With anyone else I’d check the time, but with Delilah I know that means it’s mid-afternoon. She’s the five-o’clock-somewhere type. She also goes to bed early.
“I’d better not, but thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, waddling toward the kitchen. I scrutinize her appearance now that she’s facing away. The shuffle is not new. Will told me once she got in a motorcycle accident when she was younger. Shattered her right leg. When in need of a bone graft, she refused that part of the reconstruction process. Stubborn Delilah… would rather live with slightly uneven legs for the rest of her life than be reliant on crutches for a month.
The kitchen is a lot like the view from the entryway, but I’m glad to see it hasn’t spilled over into permanent things, like the cabinets still attached to the walls. She opens one of them. It holds the bottle of brandy and is fully stocked with food. The only thing missing is her full-size fridge replaced with one you’d find in a dorm room. I tread lightly.
“So, how have things been?”
“Sounds like I should be asking you that.” She barks out a laugh. I listen for signs of sickness, but all I hear are years ofsmoking. Even though she quit cold turkey when Will moved in, the damage had already settled into her lungs.
I scrub my neck. “I take it you’ve seen the internet.” There’s an open laptop on the counter next to me. I guess that explains the lack of TV.
“They lettin’ you come back?” she asks.
“Trying to. I have to finish three songs for my album first.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
She makes it sound so easy.
Well, you see, Delilah, I’ve got a toddler strapped to my hip, a career that’s been put on hold, and an imminent speech evaluation that threatens to upend my life. Whatisn’tthe problem?
I’m learning I could use some advice.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
Delilah lost her husband, Edward, to a heart attack when Will and I were seniors. If there’s one person who might understand what it’s like when I think about El, it’s her.
“Ed would have wanted me to move on,” she grunts.
I nod, gathering what she means. Dwelling doesn’t help a person move forward. Doesn’t mean you forget them either.
She takes a swig of her drink and looks me dead in the eye.
“Do you like her?”
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry?”
“These fences are tall, boy, but that voice is as chipper as they come. Ivy doesn’t hidethatmuch.”
I smirk. I should have known Delilah would notice the extra adult with my parents out of the country. Summer’s spent every night since Tuesday hunting for bugs with Quinn in the backyard.
“Have you been spying on me?”
“There’s not a lot to do now that you boys are grown.”
It’s the first time I’m catching any sort of comment tied to Will.She misses him, that much is obvious. But she’s determined to keep the conversation on Summer when she says, “Not easy raising a kid on your own. I’m glad you got yourself some company.”
