Silence settles over the room as Harrison stares at me. Not with anger, like I want him to, but with defeat. Finally, he shakes his head. “I can’t be here right now,” he mutters, before brushing past me and out the still-open door.
I have half a mind to follow him, but deep down, I know he needs to be alone. The door slams, leaving Graham and I alone once again.
“I …” I start. “I didn’t realize he’d be that mad …”
“You should go,” Graham says quietly.
My head snaps up in shock. “What?” I ask numbly.
Graham rubs his jaw where Harrison hit him—the skin starting to darken into a bruise. “You should go home,” he says, his voice soft.
Confusion rushes through me. “Are you …madat me?”
He shakes his head, but I don’t know if I believe him. “I just think you shouldn’t be here when Harrison comes back.”
He’s probably right. It’s logical. But something about what he’s saying feels … final. I stand there, frozen, for a few moments, trying to process everything that’s just happened. Finally, I force my feet back to Graham’s room, finding my dress from last night and changing back into it. I toss his t-shirt on the bed.
On my way to the front door, I pass Graham, but he’s not looking at me. Hewon’tlook at me.
I pause. “I’ll talk to you later?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
He nods. Doesn’t say anything.
And I leave.
Chapter eighteen
Delilah
I spend the rest of the day writing. Glued to my desk, working. It doesn’t matter that it’s a Saturday. It has to get done, and it’s something to do. Something to do other than staring at my phone and waiting for a text from Graham. Or Harrison.
I don’t hear from either of them, so in the evening I muster up my courage to call Graham. The phone rings and goes to voicemail. He sounds kind of silly in it.“Hey, you’ve reached Graham Whitaker. Leave a message.”Curt, clipped, voice deep and professional-sounding. It’d make me smile if there wasn’t a pit in my stomach.
I call again.
He doesn’t answer.
So I throw on some trash TV, snuggle up on the couch with Pickles, and eventually fall asleep.
I don’t hear from Graham on Sunday. Or Monday. And by Friday, the pit in my stomach knows what that means. It’s just my brain that’s refusing to catch up.
So, against my better judgement, I drive by their apartment. He and Harrison work different schedules, and when Harrison’s truck is missing from the parking lot, I take that as my sign. I stride past Graham’s truck, up the apartment stairs, and knock on the front door.
Anxiety swirls through my belly, but not enough to stop me. Not enough to quell my need for answers.
When Graham opens the door, he doesn’t look surprised. He looks sad. “Delilah,” he says as a greeting. I never really liked the nickname Trouble, but now I’m missing it.
“I called you,” I say simply, and I can’t help but feel like every desperate girl in the world going after a man who no longer wants her. Is that what’s happening right now?
“I know,” he says, looking down at the wood paneling under my feet.
I stand there waiting for more, but he doesn’t continue. As if that’s enough of an answer. And finally, anger blooms. Up until now, I’d been sad, hopeful. But now, I’m angry. “That’s all you have to say?” I snap, hating the bite in my voice.
Graham looks up, his eyebrows drawn together. “What do you want from me?” he asks, and my heart clenches. “We knew this was a bad idea, and it blew up in our faces.”
I swallow. Sure, he’s right but … wasn’t it … more? I open my mouth, but Graham beats me to it.
“We just need to move on and wait for this to all blow over. And in the meantime, we should probably not interact. It’s not like we did much before.”
