Chapter 6
six
Nessa
“I’m not pretending to date you.” Hands on my hips, I lift my chin.
“I’m going to convince you to date me.” He winks. The asshole winks . “Don’t worry about that part.”
Head tossed back, I groan. God, why won’t he just go away?
“Satan is determined,” he says. “Liam said Jim’s already collected political donations. So, while I’m no ‘esteemed billionaire’”—he uses air quotes, the humor softening me slightly—“I am real competition for him.”
That’s all it takes to go rigid again. Competition?
As if he can read my mind, he shrinks in on himself a little. “I mean when it comes to the land deal part.”
I hum and head for the sidewalk. “You’re really serious about that?”
With a nod, he matches my stride. “Growing up, I struggled with school. I’m sure you know that.
But in New York, things just clicked. I get when and where to reinvest. So I’ve been careful with my money.
And I figured that if I intervened when it comes to you, that might encourage him to keep his distance.
You know? Because word is he’s hell-bent on talking to you too. ”
A shiver racks through me. No thank you.
“What’s wrong?” He surveys me, his brows pulled low in concern.
I stop short and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want Caleb anywhere near me.
I have nothing left to say to him. His family members are antisemitic turds.
He cheated. All the time. Even while he tried to convince me to drop out of school and marry him.
Like it was a tradeoff. I’d be extended the honor of being part of his family and allowed to enjoy the luxuries that come with the name—things I didn’t even want—and in return, he could have extra-curricular sex with whoever the fuck he wanted.
Bringing up your wealth does no good if you’re trying to win me over.
When I left Boston, he started to play games like this.
It’s just a power move. He’ll get bored… ”
I huff a breath to shut myself up. Shit. I said far more than I meant to. More than I’ve even told my friends.
“So,” he says, giving the respect of not responding to my rant, “I thought, why not keep up appearances? Stick with the stay away from my girl message? Men like him, who don’t listen to women, will listen to other men. It’s shitty, I know, but I can help.”
Peering up at me through thick dark lashes, with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, he looks almost boyish. “Common enemies have made for stranger bedfellows, Ivy.”
That’s where he loses me. Scoffing, I pull up short. “Do not expect to get anywhere near a bed with me again, jackass.” Taking off again, I pick up my pace. “I. Am. Not. Dating. You. We’ll have to keep in touch to work on the Sunflower Fest. That’s it.”
His expression is distant, his smile half-hearted. “Whatever you say. How about I take you to dinner one night this week? To discuss the festival.”
My stomach sinks. Dammit. We really do have to plan. “How about I come to you? Although, I’m thinking it would be better to just ‘break up’”—with a grin, I throw back his air quotes—“with you publicly and be done with both of you.”
“Sorry, babe. You’re going to have to stick this festival thing out.” With a smirk, he places a hand on my lower back and steers me toward home.
“Cordelia Danielle Shane, get your ass out here. Right. Now. DEFCON, um, five? The worst one,” I shout, sounding more like my mother than I’d like to admit. But the next words come out as a high-pitched whine. “I need you.”
Delia is the only person I trust to play therapist for me. Except, of course, my actual therapist.
Emerging slowly from her bedroom, she rubs her eyes, then takes in my disastrous state—hair up in a messy pile on my head, bra strap slipping below one sleeve.
“Were you mentally at town hall tonight?” I whine, pulling out one of the island stools.
Delia opens the fridge and then faces me, holding a bottle of white wine.
I give a soft nod, accepting the gesture.
She pours two glasses and slides one across the island, lips twitching. “Maybe? I was physically there for a while, but I snuck out to go to bed early since it’s my night off. That plan was foiled when you came in screeching my full name, Mom .”
I drop my head to the island and groan. “I suck. Sorry. Do you want to go back to bed?”
She lifts a shoulder. “You’ve got me here. Hit me with it. It’s not like you to cry wolf.”
“Caleb and Mateo are competing to buy Grant Morgan’s properties and the undeveloped farmland on the north side of town.”
“See?” She points a finger at me, eyes wide. “Actual. Serious. Shit.”
For a long moment, we sit in the silence, sipping our drinks. Delia knows by now that I plan my words carefully.
“The good news is that the dick confetti was the final straw,” I say.
Dick confetti, as in the package we sent to Lily’s ex-husband and his wife, making sure they understood what a bag of dicks they were for hurting Lily.
Our mutual acceptance that some stories aren’t shared bonded us.
Sure, it means she has no context for why Mateo has been on my shit list since I was fourteen but it also means I accept that her middle school falling out with Landan Sherman is good enough.
Tack on that Landan dated Grant but waited to sleep with him after he married Lily, she’s the living embodiment of a pick-me girl.
I’d love to pry—again—but I have to let Delia come to me in her own time if I want the same courtesy. So instead, I quickly add, “I only wish I could have hit her in the face with a vibrator the way Seth got walloped at the bridal shower.”
Silently, she holds out her glass, and we clink and sip quietly.
“Satan’s set his target on our town for his next gentrification project. Now Mateo is my only hope to prevent personality-free houses with overpriced amenities from destroying our culture. Plus, they’ll decimate anything nature-related.”
“Didn’t realize you were so passionately against housing expansion.” Delia cocks an eyebrow.
“No, this is Satan’s way of trying to get close to me. And now Mateo has swooped in, claiming he’s my boyfriend, yammering about how he doesn’t want to hear Caleb talking about my pubic hair styling ever again?—”
“Your what?” She throws her head back and cackles.
“Yeah, um. That’s where the moniker came from. You know? Satan’s Bikini Waxer? He was so obsessed with ‘aesthetics,’ and I was young and dumb, so I let him talk me into trying it, but it hurt.” I avert my gaze, cheeks heating. Why am I suddenly the one spilling my guts?
“But I’ve seen you in a bikini. It’s not like…” Delia huffs.
“Correct,” I say. “I’m not rocking the ’70s bush, but… I feel better when I look like an adult, which means I don’t remove all my body hair.”
“That makes sense. What the fuck is wrong with men? You’re allowed to—wait, hold on. Don’t distract me with beauty things. Didn’t Mateo just show up? He’s been here a matter of hours, and he’s already telling people you’re an item?”
“Yep.” I sag against the cool countertop. “He thinks that by claiming me, Satan will back off. Like if he pisses around me, marking his territory, the asshole will respect it.”
“Hey, even stupid gets it right sometimes.” She chuckles at her own joke.
I blow out a long breath. “Mom is out of town for work, which means I need to put in extra work with Dad while also co-leading the Sunflower Fest. With Mateo. I do not have time to deal with a dick-measuring contest too.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile.
Pinching the stem of my wineglass, I lower my focus to the table and clear my throat, eager to shift this conversation away from men.
“Want a sibling update? Way more interesting if you ask me,” I deflect.
Delia pauses, eyeing me, but eventually nods.
“Tal has decided to use they/them pronouns.”
“Good for them,” she says, her tone light. “Do they plan to change their name?”
“No, Tal is a genderless name. But Dad Gabe is having a field day with semantics. His first language was gendered. The conversations are driving everyone up a wall.”
Biting her lip, Delia nearly whispers, “Is your dad…?” She shakes her head and starts again. “Do you get the impression it’s about the queerness of it all?”
“Oh—” I suck in a breath. “No, no. Not at all. Since going into private practice, he’s focused on the legal spiderweb around parental rights for same-sex couples, legal name changes, and all kinds of affirming paperwork. This is all failed attempts to make jokes or debate for fun.”
Taking a fortifying sip, I give Delia a soft, nervous smile.
“Want the tea on Shae?”
“Always.” She smiles brightly.
“From the look of her socials, I’m convinced that she’s back to her party girl ways. Any time I bring it up, she scoffs and moves on. She talks about her work a lot, but then it’s just parties.”
“Isn’t she in public relations?”
Delia finishes her wine and turns to the sink, muttering.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says, turning back holding two glasses of tap water. “She’s twenty-five, and you aren’t her mom,” she adds weakly.
“Yeah, but our parents basically grew up on Mars. I get every phone call. They unload every stressor on me. I do not have time to babysit Mateo too.”
“Maybe you can let him babysit you.” She waggles her blond brows as she sips her water.
I stand and push in my stool with a little too much force. “Maybe when you tell me the real story with Landan.”
The glass hits the counter with a wallop. Mid storm-out, Delia pauses and glares at me over her shoulder. “Low blow.”
“Nighty night.” I wave as she heads toward her bedroom.
Eventually, I will wear her down. Something happened, and it’s making me crazy. Everyone is making me crazy.
I wipe down the counters, put my cup in the dishwasher, and head to my room. There’s really only one way to get myself over this and off to sleep.
I scroll through my e-reader until I find a passage in one of my favorite stories, then change into my silky nightshirt. I don’t need Mateo to babysit me, or for anything else. I can take care of myself. In more than one way.
I reach into my bedside drawer for my trusty vibrator and proceed to do just that: take care of myself.