Chapter 19
NINETEEN
DELILAH
Levi told me he’d send a car.
I said that was ridiculous. I have a car. I can drive myself to say goodbye to my…whatever he is. Boyfriend feels too small. Soulmate feels too dramatic. Person I’m terrified of losing feels too accurate.
So I’m driving myself to the airstrip.
Because apparently Levi doesn’t fly commercial like regular humans. He flies private. Because of course he does.
I knew he was successful. I’ve heard his songs on the radio and seen the awards mentioned in articles.
But somehow, in my head, he was still just Levi, the boy who used to steal fries off my plate at the diner and wore the same flannel so often in high school that I started calling it his “uniform.”
The GPS tells me to turn left onto a road I didn’t even know existed.
I turn.
The road is paved. Smoothly. Like, suspiciously smoothly. And lined with actual landscaping. There’s a gate with a security booth and a guard who checks my ID and waves me through like this is normal.
This is not normal.
I pull into a parking area and that’s when I see it.
The jet.
It’s just sitting there on the tarmac, gleaming white with some kind of subtle logo on the tail.
It’s not huge, not like the commercial planes I’ve flown on exactly twice in my life, but it’s sleek and expensive-looking and very much a private jet that belongs to someone with more money than I will ever comprehend.
“Oh my,” I say out loud, to no one.
I sit in my car for a full minute, just staring.
This is Levi’s life, what he’s going back to. Private jets and fancy hotels and people who probably don’t think twice about things like grocery budgets or whether the electric bill is due.
And I sell flowers.
I arrange flowers in a shop I inherited from my mother, in a small town where the biggest news is usually whose dog got loose at the farmer’s market.
What am I doing?
My phone vibrates.
Levi: You coming? I can see your car.
I look up. Levi is standing near the jet, hand shielding his eyes from the sun, watching me have an existential crisis in the parking lot.
Great. Very dignified.
I get out of the car.
“You okay?” Levi asks as I walk toward him. “You were sitting there for a while.”
“I was just...taking it all in.”
“The tarmac?”
“It’s a very impressive tarmac.”
He grins, and for a second he’s just Levi again, not private-jet Levi or country-music-star Levi. Just the guy who made me laugh yesterday while a fish slapped him in the face.
“You’re freaking out about the plane,” he says.
“Okay, maybe a little.” I gesture at the jet, which is right there, being intimidating. “When you said ‘private airstrip,’ I thought you meant, like, a guy named Doug with a crop duster. Not...this.”
“You thought I was flying to LA on a crop duster?”
“I didn’t think it through!”
He laughs. Pulls me into a hug. I breathe him in, soap and coffee and that cologne he wears that I’ve never asked the name of because I’m afraid it costs more than my monthly rent.
“It’s just a plane,” he says into my hair.
“It’s not just a plane. It’s a ‘I have more money than some small countries’ plane.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Is it, though?”
He pulls back, hands on my shoulders, looking at me with that soft expression that makes my chest hurt. “Does it bother you? The money stuff?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” I take a breath. “It just hit me. How different our lives are. You have a jet, Levi. I have an old Honda with a check engine light that’s been on for months.”
“I like your car.”
“You’ve never been in it.”
“I’m sure it has character.”
“It has a mysterious smell I can’t locate. That’s not character. That’s concerning.”
He’s laughing again, and I realize I’m laughing too, and some of the panic is loosening in my chest.
“Delilah.” He takes my hands. “I don’t care about any of this stuff. The plane, the money, whatever. It’s just…stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Easy to say when you have it.”
“Fair.” He nods. “But I’ve had it for a while now, and you know what I’ve learned? It doesn’t make you happy or keep you warm at night. It doesn’t catch fish with you on a pier or bring you coffee when you’re stressed.”
“The fish wasn’t really caught. It escaped. Victoriously.”
“Not the point.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hands. “I’m just…processing.”
“Take your time. The pilot’s not in a hurry.” He glances toward the jet. “Actually, he is. He has a dinner reservation in LA. But he can wait.”
A woman appears at the top of the stairs with a sleek ponytail and a tablet in hand, the kind of efficient energy that makes me feel like I should be standing up straighter.
“Mr. Cole, we should really...”
“Five more minutes, Harper.”
“The flight window...”
“Five minutes.”
She purses her lips but retreats back inside. I watch her go, then turn to Levi.
“Mr. Cole?”
“That’s my stage name.”
“I know that. It’s just weird hearing someone actually call you that. Like you’re a real celebrity.”
“I am a real celebrity.”
“You’re Levi. You got slapped by a fish on the pier.”
“Celebrities can get slapped by fish.”
“Can they?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s happened before. Somewhere. Statistically.”
I smile, but it wobbles. Because we’re doing the thing we always do, joking around to avoid the hard stuff. And the hard stuff is standing right here between us, impossible to ignore.
He’s leaving again.
“Hey.” He tips my chin up. “I’m coming back.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says you’re already planning how to survive when I don’t.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not...”
“You are. I can see it.” His thumb traces my jaw. “And I get it. I’ve given you reasons to doubt. But I need you to hear me. I’m coming back for you, for us, for whatever this is.”
“That’s very specific.”
“I’m working on the language. The point stands.”
Harper appears again at the top of the stairs. She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, radiating impatience.
“I have to go,” Levi says.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call you when I land.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll text you constantly. Annoying amounts. You’ll get sick of me.”
“Doubtful.”
He kisses me. Slow and sweet and thorough, like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s leaving part of himself behind.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Don’t run,” he whispers.
He kisses me once more, quick this time, and then he’s walking toward the jet, jogging up the stairs, pausing at the top to wave.
I wave back.
The stairs fold up and the door closes. The engines start, a low hum that builds into a roar.
And then the plane is moving, taxiing down the runway, picking up speed until it lifts off the ground and angles up into the blue April sky.
I watch until it’s just a speck. Until it disappears completely.
Then I walk back to my old Honda with its mysterious smell and its check engine light and its complete lack of glamour.
I sit behind the wheel.
I don’t cry. Not exactly. My eyes just…leak a little. Allergies. Definitely allergies.
My phone buzzes.
Levi: Already miss you.
I smile despite the leaking.
Me: You’re still in the air.
Levi: Missing you doesn’t require landing.
Me: That’s either very romantic or very cheesy.
Levi: Why not both?
I laugh. Wipe my eyes. Start the car.
He’s coming back. He promised.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll still be here when he does.
I don’t go home.
Home means Mom asking questions I don’t have answers to and making that sympathetic face that makes me want to cry. So I go to the shop instead, because flowers don’t ask questions and Ruffy is always happy to see me.
When I unlock the door, Ruffy greets me with his usual intensity, full body wiggle and dramatic sniffing, a low whine that says where have you been and why do you smell like expensive cologne.
“I know,” I tell him. “It’s been a day.”
He follows me to the back room, where I start prepping arrangements for tomorrow’s deliveries. Mindless, good work, the kind that keeps your hands busy while your brain processes the fact that the man you might be in love with just flew away on a private jet.
I’m elbow-deep in hydrangeas when the bell chimes.
“Be right there!” I call out, wiping my hands on my apron.
I walk out to find a man standing at the counter. He’s maybe sixty, wearing a Hawaiian shirt in April, and he’s got the energy of someone who has made a series of questionable decisions and is about to make another one.
“I need flowers,” he announces.
“You’ve come to the right place.”
“They need to say something specific.”
“Okay. What do you want them to say?”
He takes a deep breath. “I need them to say, ‘I’m sorry I bet on the wrong horse at the track and lost the vacation fund, but in my defense, the horse’s name was Lucky Susan and your name is Susan so I thought it was a sign.’”
I stare at him.
“Her name is Susan,” he adds, like that clarifies things.
“Sir, I’m not sure flowers can communicate all of that.”
“They don’t have to communicate all of it. Just the sorry part. And maybe the part about how I love her more than horse racing.”
“Do you? Love her more than horse racing?”
He considers this. “Depends on the horse.”
“That’s...honest.”
“Susan says I’m too honest. That’s part of the problem.”
I grab my notepad. This is going to require some creativity.
Thirty minutes later, Hawaiian Shirt Man leaves with two dozen roses, a handwritten card I helped him compose, and a tentative plan to maybe attend Gamblers Anonymous “if Susan thinks it’s a good idea.”
I wish him luck. He’s going to need it.
Ruffy has claimed his spot by the front window, where he can watch the sidewalk and judge everyone who walks by. I’m about to join him when my phone lights up.
Levi: Landed. LA is loud. Miss you already.
Me: You’ve been gone three hours.
Levi: Three very long hours.
Me: I just helped a man apologize for gambling away his vacation fund.
Levi: ...I need the full story.
Me: Lucky Susan. That’s all I’ll say.
Levi: I’m somehow more confused now.
I smile at my phone like an idiot. He’s only been gone a few hours and I already miss him. That’s either really romantic or really pathetic. Maybe both.
The rest of the afternoon is quiet. A few customers trickle in, a woman buying tulips for her sister’s birthday, a teenager nervously picking out a corsage. I make arrangements, sweep the floor, and try not to check my phone every five minutes.
By evening, the sun is starting to set and I’m thinking about closing up early. Ruffy is still at his window post, watching the sidewalk and judging everyone who walks by.
The bell chimes.
“Back already?” I look up, expecting my gambler friend.
It’s not him.
Penelope Waters is standing in my doorway.
She’s wearing white linen and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Delilah,” she says. “I was hoping we could chat.”
Ruffy growls.
For once, I completely agree with him.