Nobody says anything. Because what the hell do you say to that?
I glance back toward the kitchen. Sandwiches untouched.My plan to swing by the bookstore with Delilah’s very calculated “not a date” lunch feels pretty stupid now.
This—this is what matters.
Because as ridiculous as we all are, as loud and chaotic and messed up as we get, we always show up for each other.
I make sure Ethan’s ok before I resume what I was doing, I check the time. 4:15. I hope I can make it there before her shift ends.
24
DELILAH
I’m twisting the key in the front lock when I hear him.
“Delilah—shit, wait!”
I stop as Troy jogs up the sidewalk, breathless, holding something wrapped in foil and completely out of place on this quiet little street where nothing ever moves fast.
He looks flushed, like he ran the last block. He’s wearing his burgundy UMS hoodie, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes too bright.
He stops in front of me, panting lightly. “Sorry. I’m late.”
I keep staring, dumbfounded.
He blinks. “Wait. I—hold on.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I never told you I was coming, did I?”
“Nope. You sent me a cryptic text about pickles and then went MIA.”
“Cool, cool. Awesome. Okay, so, uh—surprise?” He lifts the foil-wrapped bundles like peace offerings. “These were supposed to be your lunch. But then something came up. Emotions. Tears. Sandwiches got… delayed.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs. “Can I… can we go to yours? To eat? I kind of need tonotbe in that house for a minute.”
I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s more that…I don’t usually have people over to my place. Not unless they’re delivering something or fixing something orveryoccasionally, staying the night and leaving before sunrise.
My place is my space. My escape. My weird little sanctuary above the crystal shop with the squeaky stairs and the slanted floorboards and the window that whistles when the wind hits it wrong.
But something about the way he’s looking at me, shoulders tense, smile stretched too tight, like he’s holding back something, makes it impossible to say no.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “Okay.”
We climb the stairs quietly.I let us in and flick on the small lamp by the couch.
It casts a warm yellow glow over the room, soft and a little dusty. There’s a stack of books I meant to return to the shop, a hoodie over the back of the chair, and a tea mug I forgot to rinse this morning.
Troy doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.
We settle on the floor by the coffee table, legs crossed like we’re back at camp again, and carefully unwrap the foil from the sandwiches.
The smell hits me first—egg mayo.
I take one bite and groan without thinking.
“Oh my god,” I mumble through a mouthful. “You made this?”
Troy chuckles. “You liked them at camp. Every time theyserved egg mayo sandwiches, you’d eat more than I saw you eat any other night.”
