Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
LEVI
I’m making waffles.
This is not a drill or a metaphor. I am actually standing in my rental kitchen at seven in the morning, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt I’m pretty sure I slept in, making actual waffles from scratch because Delilah Smart is coming over for breakfast.
Delilah Smart, in my kitchen, for breakfast.
I’m not panicking. Definitely not freaking out.
The waffle iron beeps. I open it and discover that one’s a little dark. Not burned, just aggressively toasted. I’ll eat that one and she gets the good ones.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I don’t look at it. I already know who it is. Diane has called four times since I landed yesterday, and each voicemail has been progressively more pointed. The last one included the phrase “contractual obligations” and I stopped listening after that.
The light pours through the windows, turning everything gold.
The ocean is doing its thing outside with waves rolling in and gulls wheeling overhead.
Brett Walker really knew what he was doing when he designed this place with its floor-to-ceiling windows and open layout that makes even my mediocre cooking look intentional.
I pour more batter into the waffle iron. This one’s going to be perfect. I can feel it.
The doorbell rings.
I jump, bump the counter, and knock over the batter bowl.
This is fine. Everything is completely fine.
By the time I get everything cleaned up and open the door, I’ve accepted that breakfast is going to be a beautiful disaster.
Delilah is standing on my porch, and the sight of her actually makes my chest hurt. She’s wearing jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, her hair down, and she’s holding a bag from Twin Waves Brewing.
“I brought coffee,” she says. “In case yours is terrible.”
“My coffee is excellent.”
“You drink it black. That’s not excellent, that’s punishment.”
She steps inside, taking in the open layout and the ocean view before her gaze lands on the mess I made.
“Did something explode in here?”
“I had a minor incident.”
“I can see that.” She’s trying not to laugh. “There’s some on the ceiling.”
I look up. She’s right. There’s batter on the ceiling.
“That’s decorative.”
She loses the battle and starts laughing, and the sound fills up the space and makes everything better.
I watch her standing here with soft light turning her hair to honey, grinning at my mess, and I think: This. I want this every day for the rest of my life.
Which is a totally normal and not at all terrifying thought to have before eight a.m.
“Something’s burning,” she says.
“What? No, nothing’s—” I spin around. Smoke is rising from the waffle iron. “That’s not burning. That’s…caramelizing.”
“It’s very black.”
“It’s well-done.”
“Levi, it’s actually on fire.”
She’s not wrong. There’s a small flame situation happening. I grab the iron and yank the plug, then flip the whole thing into the sink and douse it with water. The room fills with smoke and the smell of charred batter.
Delilah is laughing so hard she has to hold onto the counter.
“I had it under control,” I say.
“You really didn’t.”
“I was trying to impress you.”
“Consider me impressed.” She wipes her eyes. “That was the most dramatic waffle death I’ve ever witnessed.”
I lean against the island, defeated. “I also scorched the first one.”
“How many were you planning to make?”
“Four. So we’re down to two possible waffles.”
“Those are not great odds.”
“I’m aware.”
She crosses the kitchen and kisses me, her hands on my chest, still smiling against my mouth. She tastes like the fancy latte from Michelle’s shop, something with vanilla and probably too much sugar.
“I don’t care about waffles,” she says. “I care about you.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I’m a romantic person.”
“You’re a person who just watched me set breakfast on fire.”
“And I’m still here.” She grins up at me. “That should tell you something.”
We salvage breakfast.
The remaining two waffles turn out acceptably. The bacon survives, mostly because Delilah takes over and I’m not too proud to admit she’s better at it. The eggs are fine since scrambled is hard to mess up, even for me.
We eat at the table by the windows, the ocean stretching out in front of us like a painting someone forgot to frame.
“This is nice,” Delilah says, her voice soft in a way that makes my heart do things.
“It is.”
“I could get used to this.”
The words hang in the air. She means them. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me, open and hopeful with just a hint of fear underneath.
I could get used to this too. That’s the problem. I’m already used to it. I’m already planning mornings like this for the next fifty years, and I haven’t even figured out what I’m going to tell the label.
My phone vibrates on the table.
Delilah glances at it. “You should probably get that.”
“It can wait.”
“It’s gone off all morning.”
“Diane has boundary issues.”
“Levi.”
I pick up the phone, glance at the screen, and set it back down. “She can wait.”
“What does she want?”
“To talk about timelines and decisions I don’t want to think about right now.” I reach across the table and take her hand. “Right now, I just want to be here with you, eating slightly burned breakfast food.”
She smiles, but there’s a crease between her eyebrows that wasn’t there before. “We should probably talk about it eventually.”
“Eventually. Not today.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“That’s vague.”
“I’m a vague person.”
“You’re a stubborn person.”
“Also true.” I squeeze her hand. “I just…I spent so long waiting to be here with you. I’m not ready to let reality ruin it.”
She looks at me for a long moment before nodding, and the crease smooths out, and we go back to eating breakfast like two people who don’t have impossible decisions hanging over their heads.
It’s nice, but it’s also a lie, and we both know it.
After breakfast, we move to the porch.
The day has warmed into something soft and perfect with a salt breeze and blue sky overhead. Delilah curls up on the oversized chair with her feet tucked under her, and I settle next to her with my guitar because apparently I’m incapable of sitting still.
“Play me something,” she says.
“I played you the time capsule song already.”
“Play me something new.”
I strum a few chords, nothing in particular. My fingers find a melody I’ve been working on, something lighter than my usual stuff with a hint of hope underneath the longing.
“This one doesn’t have words yet,” I say.
“That’s okay. I like seeing you figure it out.”
So I play, and she listens, and for a few minutes everything feels exactly right.
Then I see her.
Penelope Waters is on the back porch of her house, coffee in hand, staring at us without waving or smiling.
“Levi?” Delilah has noticed me tense up. “What’s wrong?”
“Penelope’s staring at us.”
Delilah follows my gaze and her whole body stiffens.
Penelope raises her mug in a toast that somehow manages to feel like a threat. Then she turns and walks back inside, like she’s seen everything she needed to see.
“I hate that she owns this place,” Delilah mutters.
“I’m starting to think the below-market rent comes with strings attached.”
“With Penelope, everything comes with strings attached.” She wraps her arms around herself. “She’s always watching and collecting information.”
I think about what Penelope said at the gym. Ask her why she really left. Ask her what she told me the night before she disappeared.
I still haven’t asked. Part of me doesn’t want to know. Part of me is afraid that whatever Delilah told Penelope will change everything.
“Hey.” I set down the guitar and pull her into my arms. “Whatever she thinks she has on us, it doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that I’m not going anywhere.”
She relaxes, just a little. But I can feel the weight of whatever she’s carrying, the secret Penelope keeps threatening to spill.
I hold her tighter and wonder how long before it all comes out.
We spend the next few hours pretending everything is fine.
We sit in silence and talk about Jo and Dean’s wedding, the flowers and the venue and Dean’s surprisingly strong opinions about cake flavors. We avoid any topic involving the label or LA or what happens next.
It’s pleasant but also exhausting.
Around noon, Delilah says she needs to get to the shop for a bridal consultation and some arrangements to prep. I walk her to her car with the gravel crunching under our feet.
“Tonight?” I ask.
“Tonight.”
“I’ll cook.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’ll order in.”
“Much better.”
She kisses me, long and slow, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise and a question at the same time. When she pulls back, her eyes are searching my face like she’s looking for something.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just...” She shakes her head. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’ll always come back.”
She nods, but there’s something in her expression that says she’s not sure she believes me. That hurts more than I want to admit.
I watch her drive away, one hand raised in a wave she probably can’t see.
Then I head inside where my phone is buzzing again and reality is waiting exactly where I left it. I pick up.
“Diane.”
“Oh good, you remember me.” Her voice is crisp with impatience. “We need to talk. The label set a meeting for Thursday, and they want you there in person.”
“I just got back.”
“And now you need to go again. This isn’t optional, Levi. They’re talking about invoking the contract clause. The one about professional obligations and failure to perform.”
“They can’t do that.”
“They can if you keep dodging them.” She sighs, and some of the edge softens. “Look, I know you’ve got something going on there. Someone. But this is your career. Everything you’ve built. Are you really willing to throw it away?”
I look out the window at the ocean, at Penelope’s house where she was observing us earlier, and at the empty driveway where Delilah’s car was parked five minutes ago.
“I’ll be there Thursday,” I say.
“Good. I’ll send the details.”
She hangs up. I stand there with the phone in hand while the quiet roar of the waves fills the silence.
Thursday means another trip to LA and another conversation I don’t want to have with Delilah.
I’ll always come back, I told her.
I meant it. I really did. But the doubt in her eyes is still there, stuck in my chest like a splinter, and I don’t know how to make it go away.