“I guess.”
“And gorgeous. She was on the cover of Vogue.”
“So people keep telling me.”
Another pause. This one feels heavy.
“She was at the meeting?” Delilah asks.
“She was. The label’s pushing this collaboration hard. They think it’ll boost my numbers.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I don’t want to do it. I told them no. I’ve been telling them no. They keep asking anyway.”
“And Mia?”
“She asked me to dinner.”
The silence this time stretches so long I check to make sure the call didn’t drop.
“I said no,” I add quickly. “Obviously. I told her I’m with someone.”
“Did you.” It’s not a question. It’s flat. Almost cold.
“Delilah, what’s going on? You sound...”
“I’m just tired.”
She’s three thousand miles away and I can’t reach through the phone and hold her and make her tell me what’s wrong.
“I don’t care about Mia Monroe,” I say. “I don’t care about duets or crossover appeal or any of it. The whole time I was in that meeting, you know what I was thinking about?”
“What?”
“That fish. The one that attacked me. And the way you laughed so hard you almost fell off the bench.”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even respond for a moment.
Then, quietly: “Levi, I should go.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m just…I need to think about some things.”
“Think about what? Delilah, talk to me.”
“I can’t. Not right now.” Her voice cracks, just slightly. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“You’rescaring me.”
“I’m sorry. I just…I need some time.”
“Time for what?”
But she’s already gone. The call ends, and I’m left staring at my phone in a hotel room that suddenly feels even emptier than before.
I call back. Voicemail.
