“I will,” she says.
I want to believe her, to trust that this time is different, that she’s not going to vanish while I’m gone, that I won’t come back to an empty flower shop and a forwarding address.
But the doubt is there, curled up in the corner of my mind, whispering.
She left before. She’llleave again.
I push it down and kiss her forehead, then her lips, then pull her close and hold on.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go. But I’m calling you every day.”
“That often?”
“Twice a day.”
“That seems excessive.”
“Three times.”
She laughs, and the sound eases the tension in me. “Fine. Call me however many times you want.”
“I will.” I tip her chin up, looking into her eyes. “And Delilah? Don’t run.”
She flinches, just slightly. But she holds my gaze.
“I’m not running,” she says. “I meant what I said.”
I nod and kiss her again.
And I try not to notice how much it feels like goodbye.
FIFTEEN
DELILAH
Levi has been gone for forty-two hours.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m absolutely not refreshing my phone every four minutes to see if he’s texted. Not analyzing the tone of his last message (Made it to LA. Miss you already.) for hidden meaning. Not lying awake wondering if he’s remembering why he loved his old life.
“You’re spiraling,” Mom says from the kitchen doorway.
“I’m making coffee.”
“You’ve been staring at the coffee maker for three minutes without turning it on.”
I look down. She’s right. The machine is justsitting there, unplugged, while I hold an empty mug like a prop in a play about someone losing her mind.
“I’m not spiraling.”
“Sweetheart, you watched three episodes of a show about competitive dog grooming last night. You don’t even like dogs that much.”
“Ruffy is right there.”
“Ruffy is an exception. And you still cried when the poodle got eliminated.”
“She had a good attitude. She deserved to win.”
