Chapter 8
eight
Mitch
My knuckles are white around the steering wheel as I pull up to Bill's house. Two days since I promised Delilah I'd do this, two days of rehearsing what to say, how to say it. Nothing sounds right. There's no good way to tell a man you've slept with his daughter. No easy way to admit you've betrayed his trust. But I'm done hiding, done lying. Bill Carter has been like a brother to me for fifteen years. He deserves the truth, even if it costs me his friendship. Even if it costs me a hell of a lot more than that. Because Delilah is worth it. What we have is worth it. And I can't build something real with her on a foundation of lies.
This morning, Delilah sat on the edge of our bed—and yes, it's become our bed, not just mine—watching me dress with solemn eyes.
"You sure you don't want me there?" she asked, pulling her knees to her chest. She looked young in that moment, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.
"I'm sure." I knelt in front of her, taking her hands in mine. "This needs to be between me and your father. Man to man."
"He's going to be furious." Her fingers tightened around mine. "He might try to hurt you."
I smiled at that, at her protective instinct. "I can handle myself. And your dad throws a mean right hook, but I've taken worse."
"Not funny." She squeezed my hands. "I hate that you have to do this alone."
"Not alone." I pressed a kiss to her palm. "You're with me every step of the way, even if you're not physically there."
Now, as I step out of my truck and walk up the familiar path to Bill's front door, I hold onto that moment, onto the feel of Delilah's hand in mine. I knock with more confidence than I feel.
Bill answers, his weathered face breaking into a smile that twists the knife of guilt in my gut. "Mitch! Right on time." He steps back, gesturing me inside. "Got the grill fired up. Steaks should be ready in twenty."
I follow him through the house to the back deck—the same deck where I first saw Delilah after she came home, where this whole thing started. The irony isn't lost on me.
"Beer?" Bill offers, already pulling two bottles from a cooler.
"Thanks." I accept the cold bottle but don't drink. I need a clear head for this.
We make small talk while he tends the grill—work projects, the town's plans for the Fourth of July, a mutual friend's new truck. Normal. Easy. Everything our conversation won't be in about five minutes.
"Bill," I start, setting my untouched beer on the railing. "I need to talk to you about something."
He glances up from the steaks, his expression curious but unworried. "What's up?"
My mouth is dry. I clear my throat. "It's about Delilah."
His brow furrows slightly. "Everything okay? She said she's staying with that college friend, but I worry about her."
"She's fine," I assure him quickly. "She's... she's been staying with me."
There's a moment of silence, broken only by the sizzle of meat on the grill. Bill's face remains neutral, processing.
"With you? Why would she—" He stops, understanding dawning in his eyes. "What are you saying, Mitch?"
Here it is. The point of no return. I square my shoulders and meet his gaze directly.
"Delilah and I are together. We've been seeing each other for the past month. It's serious, Bill. I'm in love with her."
The spatula in his hand clatters to the deck. For several long seconds, he just stares at me, as if waiting for the punchline to a joke. When none comes, his face begins to change—confusion giving way to disbelief, then shock, then something darker.
"You're what?" His voice is dangerously quiet.
"I'm in love with your daughter," I repeat, standing my ground. "And she loves me. I wanted you to hear it from me, not find out some other way."
Bill steps away from the grill, moving toward me with deliberate slowness. "My daughter. My twenty-two-year-old daughter. And you—" He breaks off, shaking his head as if to clear it. "How long has this been going on?"
"About a month," I say honestly. "Since she came home."
"A month." He repeats the words like they taste bitter. "You've been sleeping with my daughter for a month and didn't say a word to me."
I don't deny it. There's no point. "I should have told you sooner. I know that."
"You shouldn't have touched her at all!" The explosion comes suddenly, his voice rising to a shout. "She's half your age, Mitch! I trusted you with her!"
"She's not a child," I say, keeping my voice calm despite the anger radiating from him. "She's a grown woman who knows her own mind."
"She's my little girl!" Bill steps closer, his face flushed with rage. "And you—you were supposed to be my friend. Like a brother to me. I let you into our home, into our lives?—"
"I know." Guilt surges fresh and hot in my chest. "I never meant for this to happen, Bill. But it did, and I can't pretend it didn't. I can't pretend I don't love her."
"Love?" He spits the word like a curse. "You think this is love? You think I'm going to believe that? Men like us don't go after girls like Delilah because of love."
The implication stings, anger flaring in response. "Don't talk about her like that. Don't reduce what we have to something dirty."
"What you have is a betrayal!" His fist slams against the railing, making the bottles jump. "Fifteen years, Mitch. Fifteen goddamn years I've treated you like family, and this is how you repay me? By sneaking around with my daughter?"
"It wasn't like that," I insist, though in some ways, it was exactly like that. "And I'm not here asking for your permission. I'm here out of respect—because you deserve to know the truth."
"Respect?" He barks a harsh laugh. "Don't talk to me about respect while you're fucking my daughter behind my back!"
The crude language makes my jaw clench, protective instinct flaring. "Watch how you talk about her."
"Or what?" He steps closer, chest puffed out, years of friendship disintegrating in the heat of his rage. "You gonna make me, Mitch? You gonna hit me for insulting the girl you claim to love? The girl whose diapers I changed? Who I taught to ride a bike? Who you watched grow up?"
Each question lands like a blow, highlighting the very concerns I've wrestled with myself. But I stand my ground, refusing to be cowed.
"I know how this looks," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I know the age difference bothers you. I know you feel betrayed. I get it, Bill. But what I feel for Delilah is real. What we have is real."
"She's twenty-two!" he shouts, as if I might have forgotten. "She doesn't know what she wants! She's barely out of college!"
"She knows exactly what she wants," I counter. "She's not some naive kid, Bill. She's smart, she's determined, she knows her own mind. And for whatever reason, she wants me."
Bill turns away, hands gripping the railing so tight his knuckles go white. For a moment, there's only the sound of the steaks burning on the forgotten grill, the distant chirp of birds, the heavy breathing of a man trying to contain his fury.
"How am I supposed to look you in the eye now?" he asks finally, his voice lower but no less angry. "How am I supposed to trust you ever again?"
The question hits me where I'm most vulnerable—the friendship I've valued for so long, the bond I've just shattered beyond repair.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "That's up to you. But I'm not going to apologize for loving her, Bill. I'm sorry for the way it happened, for not telling you sooner. But I won't apologize for what I feel for Delilah."
He turns back to face me, his expression hardened into something I've never seen before. Not just anger, but betrayal so deep it's carved new lines around his mouth, his eyes.
"Get out," he says quietly. "Get out of my house."
I nod, having expected nothing less. "I want you to know—she tried to make me tell you from the beginning. This secrecy wasn't her idea. If you're going to be angry at someone, be angry at me."
"Oh, I'm plenty angry at you both." His voice is cold now, controlled in a way that's somehow worse than the shouting. "But you—you're supposed to be the adult here. You're supposed to know better."
The dismissal stings, but I let it go. This isn't the time to argue semantics or point out that Delilah is every bit the adult I am, just with fewer years behind her.
"I hope someday you can understand," I say, moving toward the steps that lead down from the deck. "Not approve, maybe, but understand."
"Don't hold your breath." He turns his back on me, a dismissal as final as a slammed door. "And Mitch? Stay away from my daughter."
I pause at the top of the steps, one hand on the railing. "That's not your decision to make anymore, Bill. It's hers. And she's chosen me."
He doesn't respond, doesn't turn around, his shoulders rigid with anger. I descend the steps, each one feeling heavier than the last, the weight of fifteen years of friendship pressing down on me.
In the driveway, I pause to look back at the house where I've spent countless evenings, where I've celebrated holidays and birthdays, where I first laid eyes on Delilah in her cut-off shorts and knew I was in trouble. Bill is still on the deck, a solitary figure silhouetted against the evening sky, unmoving.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Delilah.
How's it going?
I start to type, then stop. This isn't something to explain over text. I need to see her face, hold her, reassure her that despite everything, we're going to be okay.
On my way home. We'll talk when I get there.
As I drive away from Bill's house, a curious lightness spreads through my chest despite the pain of the confrontation. The truth is out. The worst has happened. Now we can move forward without the weight of secrecy, without the constant fear of discovery.
Bill's anger was everything I expected and feared. The loss of his friendship is a wound that will take time to heal—if it ever does. But as I turn onto the road that leads to my house, to Delilah, I feel no regret. Only a deep certainty that I've done the right thing, finally.
She'll be waiting for me, probably pacing the living room, her bottom lip caught between her teeth the way it is when she's anxious. She'll ask me how it went, and I'll tell her the truth—that it was ugly, that her father is furious, that this won't be resolved quickly or easily.
But I'll also tell her that I meant every word I said to Bill. That I love her without reservation. That I'll stand by her through whatever comes next, whatever price we have to pay for choosing each other.
Because some choices define you. And I've made mine.