I mean the comment to be playful, but he doesn’t smile. Instead, he looks … sad, worried, scared? He stares at me for a long moment before coming around the counter, taking a seat on the stool beside me and reaching for my hand. Nerves tangle in my belly, because that expression—I’ve never seen it on him before, and I’m trying my hardest to decode it before whatever he has to say spills out of his mouth.
“Delilah, I—” he starts.
Just as the front door to the apartment opens.
Graham and I both spin, mouths open, frozen in place. Harrison steps in, looking hungover and tired. When his eyes land on me, confusion is the first thing to register. But slowly, inevitably, everything washes over him.
Me, wearing one of Graham’s t-shirts, at their apartment at 8:30 in the morning.
He stands there for a long moment, his gaze darting from me to Graham. I scramble for something to say. Anything to say. But the harder I search my mind, the more the words elude me.
This was so stupid. So, so stupid. I should have left immediately after I got up. I knew that. Graham probably knew that. And now—
“The fuck are you doing here, Delilah?” Harrison asks the question slowly, not moving an inch forward, the front door still ajar.
“It’s not her fault,” Graham says quickly, standing and moving in front of me.
Anger—pure, unadulterated rage—flashes through Harrison’s eyes. An anger I have never once seen on him. “Oh, don’t worry, I never forone secondwould blame her for whatever the fuck is going on here,” he spits, gesturing wildly between us.
Graham holds his hands out in a placating motion, but I’m worried it’s only going to make Harrison madder. “Harrison,” he says slowly. “I can explain.”
“You can explain?” Harrison repeats, raising his eyebrows. “Then explain, Graham. Explain why it looks like you just fucked my little sister!” he shouts.
“Harrison!” I stand, trying to move between them, but Graham blocks my path.
“I’m sorry, look—” Graham starts, but those two words—the admission of guilt—seems to send something snapping in Harrison’s mind, because before Graham can finish, Harrison spans the distance between them and punches him square in the jaw.
I scream, and Graham staggers back, holding his hands out in defense.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” Harrison shouts. “Everywoman in this town isn’t good enough for you? You had to prey on my sister?”
“It’s not like that,” Graham says, moving away as Harrison lunges for him again.
“Yeah? What’s it like then?” he goads.
“Harrison, stop!” I yell, but he ignores me.
“I thought it went without saying,” Harrison seethes. “My baby sister is too good for you, and youleave her alone. Whore around with whoever you want—except for Delilah!”
Graham is shaking his head, his hands still out in front of him. Harrison is a big guy, but Graham is bigger. I know between the two of them, in a real fight, Graham is more likely to win. But he’s not fighting back. He’s barely trying to protect himself. “I know,” he admits, and the defeat in his eyes almost kills me.
I reach for Harrison, grabbing his arm and refusing to let him advance. “Istarted this,” I tell him, trying to get him to look at me, to pull his hateful gaze away from Graham.
“And he should have stopped it,” Harrison says without looking at me.
“I know. I should have,” Graham agrees, and my gaze darts to his. Something akin to hurt flashes through me, but I push it away. “I’m sorry, Harrison, I never should have done this.”
I swallow, feeling the need to agree, to pile on, to soothe Harrison in some way, but my mouth is suddenly dry. Does Graham really mean that? Should I feel the same way? And why … don’t I? My hand slides from Harrison’s arm to my side, and I simply stand there as Harrison and Graham glare at each other.
“I’m sorry, Harrison,” I mutter.
“Don’t apologize,” he snaps at me. “He’s the one who should be apologizing.”
“And he did!” I nearly yell. “Did you not just hear him? He admitted it was a terrible idea, okay?” Graham looks at me, but I avoid his gaze. “And besides, I’m not a child. I’m not an innocent in this, no matter what you want to believe.”
“No, Delilah, he’s—”
“I know what he’s like!” I interrupt. “I know what he’s like, I know what men are like, I know everything you’re trying to say right now—but it doesn’t matter. I’m an adult who gets to makemy own decisions. And if you’re angry at him, you’d better be angry at me too.”
