Chapter 10 #2
“She’s going to post those pictures online within the hour. Her mom, I mean. Brittany would never—she’s good people.”
“I figured.”
“Diane’s going to see them.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “Oh no.”
“The alpaca farm theory is about to be debunked.”
“I don’t want an alpaca farm.”
“I know. But now everyone’s going to know you’re in Twin Waves.”
“I’ll deal with it.” Somehow. Probably. “Let’s just work out.”
The weight room is half-full. A few guys I don’t recognize on the bench press. An older man doing something questionable with a resistance band that looks medically inadvisable. A teenage boy curling five-pound dumbbells while staring at himself in the mirror with frightening intensity.
And on the row of treadmills against the far wall—
Delilah.
She’s running at a steady pace, earbuds in, ponytail swinging. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her hair is damp at the temples. She’s wearing black leggings and a faded t-shirt with a cartoon flower on it.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
Dean follows my gaze and says nothing, because Dean is annoyingly perceptive and also enjoys watching me suffer.
“Bench press?” he offers, with the casual tone of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Sure.”
We set up at the bench closest to the treadmills. This is strategic. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not going to pretend it’s accidental either.
“You’re transparent,” Dean mutters.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You picked this bench because it has the best sightline to the treadmills.”
“I picked this bench because it was available.”
“There are four other available benches.”
“This one has better lighting.”
Dean stares at me. “Better lighting.”
“For proper form. You can’t check your form without good lighting.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I’m a professional musician. Lying is half the job.”
“And the other half?”
“Looking tortured and pretending you wrote songs about experiences you actually had.”
I load the bar, lie back, and start my first set. Halfway through rep three, I see Delilah glance at the mirror in front of her treadmill.
Our eyes meet in the reflection.
She stumbles, grabbing the handrails to keep from face-planting on the moving belt. The treadmill beeps in alarm. The guy next to her—a middle-aged man in a tank top that says GYM, TAN, LAUNDRY—gives her a concerned look.
I rack the bar, trying not to smile. “You okay over there?”
She pulls out one earbud, cheeks flushed—from the running or from getting caught, I can’t tell. “Fine. Just...the treadmill. It’s uneven.”
“The treadmill is uneven.”
“Faulty equipment. It’s a safety hazard, really.”
“You should file a complaint.”
“Maybe I will.”
She puts the earbud back in and increases her speed, staring determinedly at the wall in front of her. But I catch her watching in the mirror again as I start my next set.
“Subtle,” Dean says as he spots me.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking many things.” He takes my place on the bench. “Mostly about how you just added twenty pounds to your normal weight.”
“I’m feeling strong today.”
“You’re showing off.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what you’re talking about. You’re flexing for a woman you’re pretending not to notice while she’s pretending not to notice you noticing.” He starts his set, pauses mid-rep. “That sentence made my head hurt.”
“Then stop analyzing my behavior.”
“I’m your brother. Analyzing your behavior is my only source of entertainment.” He finishes his set and sits up. “This is like watching two middle schoolers at a dance. Just go talk to her.”
“I’m working out.”
“You’re peacocking.”
The old man with the resistance band has given up on his questionable exercise and is now just standing in the corner, watching us with open curiosity. I nod at him. He nods back. Neither of us addresses the fact that he’s been doing the same stretch for fifteen minutes.
I move to the dumbbells. Bicep curls. I pick up the thirty-fives, then reconsider and grab the forties.
Dean, between reps, mutters, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Worth it.”
I’m not even subtle about it now. I position myself where she can see me clearly in the mirror and proceed to do the most unnecessarily intense bicep curls of my life. Each rep slow and controlled. Maybe I flex a little more than strictly necessary at the top.
Delilah’s treadmill pace drops to a walk.
The teenage boy with the five-pound dumbbells has moved closer and is now mimicking my form with an intensity that borders on religious devotion. I pretend not to notice. Dean notices and doesn’t pretend at all—he just snorts.
“You have a fan.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s going to pull something.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“It’s going to be your problem when his mom sues you for corrupting her son with your irresponsible weightlifting techniques.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror again—mine and Delilah’s, not mine and the teenage boy’s. This time, she doesn’t look away.
Something hot and reckless moves through my chest.
She hits the stop button on her treadmill, grabs her towel, and heads for the women’s locker room.
I watch her go.
“You’re hopeless,” Dean says.
“Completely,” I agree.
“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?”
“Probably.”
“Just don’t get arrested. Jo’s got enough wedding stress without having to bail out the best man.”
“I’m not going to get arrested.”
“That’s what you said the night before senior prom, and we both know how that ended.”
“That was different. That involved fireworks.”
“And a goat.”
“The goat was incidental.”
“The goat was the main event. You’re lucky Principal Morrison had a sense of humor.” Dean racks his weights and grabs his towel. “I’m going to shower. Try not to cause an incident while I’m gone.”
“No promises.”
I finish my workout on autopilot, thinking about the curve of her neck when she looked back at me. The way her shirt clung to her shoulders. The fact that she nearly fell off a treadmill because I made eye contact with her.
That shouldn’t make me this happy. It absolutely does.
Dean showers faster than I do—some kind of firefighter efficiency thing—and texts that he’ll meet me in the parking lot. Which leaves me alone in the men’s locker room, taking my time, trying to figure out if I should find Delilah before I leave or if that would be too obvious.
Too obvious, probably. But when has that stopped me?
I grab my gym bag and push through the door into the hallway that connects the locker rooms—a short corridor with water fountains and a bulletin board covered in flyers for yoga classes and personal training specials.
Delilah is standing at the water fountain.
She’s changed into jeans and a blue lace top, her damp hair loose around her shoulders. She looks up when she hears the door, and something flickers across her face. Surprise. Nervousness. Something else I can’t quite name.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
We stand there like two idiots who have forgotten how conversation works.
“Good workout?” I try.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.”
More silence. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“I saw you,” she says finally. “In the mirror.”
“I saw you too.”
“You added extra weight. To the dumbbells.”
“I was feeling ambitious.”
She gives me a knowing smirk. “You were showing off.”
“Maybe.” I take a step closer. “Did it work?”
She doesn’t step back. “Did what work?”
“The showing off. Were you impressed?”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve seen better.”
“Liar.”
“Prove it.”
I don’t know which one of us moves first. Maybe both of us. Maybe neither of us. But suddenly the space between us is half of what it was, and her chin is tilted up, and I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean—and her eyes are very green this close.
Her smile fades. Not into something sad—into something honest. The kind of expression she used to get right before she said something that would wreck me.
“Levi,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“I know.”
Neither of us moves. Her hand comes up and rests against my chest—not pushing, just feeling. My heartbeat doing something embarrassing and fast underneath her palm.
I reach up and brush a strand of still-damp hair from her face. Her breath catches.
“Levi—”
“Well, well, well.”
The voice cuts through the moment like a knife through butter.
We spring apart. Delilah’s face goes pale.
Penelope Waters is standing at the end of the hallway, gym bag over her shoulder, smile sharp enough to cut glass. She’s about mid fifties in athletic wear that probably costs more than my first guitar.
“Penelope,” Delilah says. Her voice has gone flat. Guarded.
“Delilah Smart.” Penelope’s gaze slides from Delilah to me, and her smile widens. “And Levi Cole. Isn’t this cozy? Just like old times.”
“We were just—” Delilah starts.
“I have eyes, sweetie. I can see what you were ‘just.’” Penelope laughs, a sound like wind chimes made of razor blades. “I have to say, I’m impressed. You move fast. Wasn’t it just last week you were telling everyone you were ‘focused on the business’ and ‘not interested in dating’?”
“That’s not—”
“And Levi.” Penelope turns her attention to me, eyes glittering. “So sweet that you’re...reconnecting with old friends.”
There’s something in her tone. Something sharp and knowing.
She tilts her head. “But I know a lot about you. Or rather, I know a lot about what Delilah used to say about you.”
Delilah goes very still.
“Penelope,” she says quietly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Make conversation?” Penelope’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m just being friendly with my tenant. Catching up. Making sure everything is going well with the beach house for him.”
“You’re renting a beach house from her?”
I nod.
“So are you actually staying this time, Delilah? You do have a habit of leaving, don’t you?”
“That’s enough,” I say.
“Is it?” Penelope looks at me with something like pity. “I just think it’s interesting. That’s all. The two of you, picking up right where you left off. As if nothing happened.” She pauses, letting the words hang. “But things did happen, didn’t they? Things you might not know about, Levi.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask her.” Penelope’s eyes slide back to Delilah. “Ask her why she really left. Both times. Ask her what she told me the night before she disappeared.” She hoists her gym bag higher on her shoulder. “But maybe wait until after the wedding. Wouldn’t want to ruin the romance before the big day.”
She walks past us, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine, and pushes through the door to the parking lot.
The hallway is silent.
I turn to Delilah. She’s staring at the floor, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“Delilah. What was she talking about?”
“Nothing. She’s just—Penelope likes drama. She always has. It’s nothing.” But her hands are shaking.
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s ancient history.” She finally looks up, and her eyes are bright with something—fear? Shame? I can’t tell. “We were friends, a long time ago. Before I left the second time. I said some things I shouldn’t have. Things I didn’t mean.”
“What things?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t—not right now. I need to go.”
“Delilah—”
“I’m sorry. I just—I need to think.”
She grabs her bag from where she dropped it and practically runs for the exit.
I stand in the empty hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and wonder what on earth just happened.
My phone buzzes.
Dean: You coming or what?
I stare at the message for a long moment.
Then I walk out to the parking lot, where my brother is waiting and Delilah’s car is already pulling away.
My phone buzzes. Diane again.
Diane: Brittany’s mom just tagged you in a gym selfie. 47 comments and counting. Call me.
I look at the message. I look at the empty space where Delilah’s car was. Two worlds closing in at once—the one I came here to escape and the one I’m not sure I’m allowed to want.
I pocket my phone and get in the truck.