The sun is barely up when I pull onto her street.
I’ve been awake for…I don’t even know how long. Time stopped meaning anything somewhere over Tennessee, when the pilot announced we’d be landing in forty minutes and I realized I still had no idea what I was going to say to her.
I drove straight from the airstrip. Didn’t stop at my place, didn’t shower, didn’t change out of the clothes I threw on in LA when Harper called to say the jet was ready. I smell like recycled airplane air and desperation, and I don’t care.
Her house looks the same as always, porch light on, Eleanor’s sedan in the driveway. The azaleas bythe front steps are blooming, pink and white, the ones Delilah planted last month because she said the house needed “curb appeal.” I remember teasing her about it, the dirt on her knees and the way she laughed when Ruffy tried to dig up what she’d just planted.
That was three days ago. It feels like a lifetime.
The Honda isn’t there.
Maybe she’s at the shop. Maybe she went to get coffee. Maybe there’s a completely reasonable explanation for why the spot where she usually parks is empty at six in the morning.
But I already know. I’ve known since she hung up on me last night, since my texts went unanswered, since I stared at my phone on that plane willing her name to appear and it never did.
She’s gone.
I’m out of the truck before I’ve fully stopped it.
The front door opens before I can knock.
Eleanor stands there in yesterday’s clothes, the same blouse I saw her wearing when I FaceTimed Delilah two days ago. Her face is pale, her eyes red.
She’s been crying.
“She’s gone,” Eleanor says. Not a question. She already knows why I’mhere.
“Where?”
Instead of answering, she hands me a piece of paper. A note, written in Delilah’s handwriting. I’ve seen that handwriting before, on order forms at the shop, on the little card she tucked into my jacket pocket before I left for LA.
Had to go. I’ll call you when I figure things out. I’m sorry. I love you.
I read it three times. Four. Like the words might rearrange themselves into something that makes sense.
“When did she leave?”
“I don’t know exactly. I got home from bridge club around eight-thirty. The note was on the table. Her bag was gone. Ruffy was gone.” Eleanor’s voice cracks. “I’ve been calling her all night. She won’t pick up.”
I pull out my phone. Call Delilah. It rings once and goes straight to voicemail.
She’s sending me to voicemail. Actively rejecting my calls.
I try again. Same thing.
Again, voicemail.
“Levi.” Eleanor’s hand on my arm. “She’s not going to answer.”
“She has to answer. She has to let me explain...”
“She’s not ready to hear it yet.”
I stare at the phone in my hand. At Delilah’s name on the screen. At all the texts I sent last night that she never responded to.
Please talk to me.
Whatever it is, we can figure it out.
