“Thank you,” I say softly. “I’ll bring back something. Pumpkin pie or that lemon shortbread you pretend not to like.”
He chuckles again. “Only if you promise not to alphabetize the fiction when I’m not looking.”
“Tempting.”
He hums. “Be safe, Delilah. And let yourself enjoy it.”
I hang up and stare at the blank ceiling above me for a long time.
Then I open Troy’s message.
Yes. I’m in.
He replies in under a minute.
Hawkins
Picking you up tomorrow. Coffee on the way. Bring layers. Mom keeps the house freezing.
Oh, and you don’t have to bring anything, but I know you will want to, so fyi my mom loves flowers and weird teas.
I stare at the message, my heart doing this strange uneven thing in my chest. I don’t reply. I just get up, grab my coat, and head downtown.
The florist is overpriced, and the teas are aggressively herbal, but I settle on a bouquet with dusty pink roses and something dark and moody tucked between them—because I refuse to show up without something too and—and a box of blood orange and hibiscus blends that scream “I don’t know you, but I’m trying.” The tea isn’t really in my budget, but showing up empty-handed would be worse. I don’t want to look cheap or ungrateful, so I found a fancy-looking box that istechnicallyon sale. The price makes my eyes water but, at least, I will look like a good houseguest. This is what normal people do, right?
Back in my apartment, I carefully peel off the discount sticker. The glue residue is still faintly visible if tilted underlight. I hope this isn’t the sort of thing Mrs. Hawkins would notice. Then, I open my closet to pack.
It takes five minutes to realize I own nothing “family appropriate.”
Another ten to sit on the bed and stare at the bag like it’s mocking me. It’s not the clothes. Or the tea. Or the fact that I have to make small talk with someone’s mom.
It’s the what ifs of meeting the rest of Troy’s family.
What if they don’t like me?
What if I’m too much?
What if I’m not enough?
Troy knocks like he always does—one loud bang, two soft ones.
I open the door and he’s standing there, holding two coffees and smiling like he’s not the reason my nervous system is short-circuiting.
He holds one out. “Vanilla cappuccino,”
I smile. “Thanks,” I say, accepting the coffee.
He shrugs, then smiles. “I listen.”
And somehow, that’s worse.
He’s in a dark green hoodie and a puffer jacket, his hair wet from the rain. I glance down and realize he’s wearing sweats and sliders.
“You do realize we’re going to the mountains?”
“I do, Mittens.”
I roll my eyes and grab my bag. “Don’t sass me.”
