Track 6 Delilah #2
Emmett looks curious. “Are you allowed to ask someone if they were the one who wrote something?”
Delilah shrugs. “You can always ask,” she says. “But they’re not always allowed to tell. Usually there’s either a pretty tight NDA or a mention of them on the cover or in the acknowledgments. There’s not much of an in-between.”
“Sounds like a lonely business.”
“It pays the bills.” Delilah takes another sip of her drink and sets it aside. “Ghostwriting covered most of my rent until Alex picked me up and started getting me decent money for gigs. And then…”
Emmett fills in the blank for her. “And then you had Sam.”
“Right.” She picks at what remains of the nail polish on one thumb.
“I’m sorry.” Emmett puts down their fork. “I shouldn’t have brought her up.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m just still in the moping and bitching phase of this whole situation.”
Emmett’s expression softens, but it’s not a pitying look. Just a sort of calm, understanding acceptance, and Delilah’s heart gives a startled little flutter.
If the circumstances were anything other than what they are, Emmett would be—well, maybe not her type exactly, because Delilah’s never really had a type beyond better-looking than me and probably going to break my heart, but—
Well, fuck, maybe they are her type. Iris is going to have a field day when Delilah calls her later.
She puts another bite of salmon in her mouth and tries not to think about it.
It’s only when she’s down to her last few pieces of pickled broccoli and Emmett has mostly cleared their plate of noodles and summer vegetables that something they said earlier drifts back to her. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Emmett blinks at her, fork pausing halfway to their mouth. “Um,” they say. “Yes?”
Delilah sits back. “All right, I’m going to try to say this in a way that doesn’t sound awful, so bear with me.” Emmett just watches her patiently, neither rushing nor helping. Fuck it, she thinks. “You…look much more religious than you act.”
“Was there a question there?”
“Not one I’m articulating well,” she mutters.
Emmett snorts. “I guess I’m just—I mean, I grew up on a street of really Orthodox guys who gave me dirty looks if I wore a shirt that showed too much cleavage, and with a mom who would stop for a cheeseburger on her way to Kol Nidre services.
I don’t have a lot of experience with all the Jewish stuff in between the two extremes.
You’re clearly…” She gestures at them, hoping the indication of kippah and tzitzit is obvious, then says, half guessing, “More involved? Than I ever was, but you don’t…
” She gives up. “I’m not doing this very well. ”
“No,” Emmett agrees, not unkindly. They mirror her posture across the table, leaning back in their seat and looking thoughtful.
“I come from a very observant family,” they say finally.
“There were…there have always been expectations. Some I met, some I didn’t, though not for lack of trying.
Jacob could trace his family’s scholarship and lineage back centuries, and he had very strong beliefs about what he thought he needed to do to be worthy of that heritage. ”
“And what you needed to do,” Delilah guesses.
Emmett inclines their head in acknowledgment.
“And he wanted you to believe the same things he did?”
Emmett hesitates. “I don’t know. Part of me wonders if he even thought I was capable of belief. Of my own beliefs, I mean, not just the ones he gave me. What he told me was true.”
Delilah frowns, offended on Emmett’s behalf.
“What, he didn’t think you were smart enough to decide for yourself?
” She’s known them for less than a day, and she can already tell there’s a sharp intelligence lurking behind those polite smiles.
Emmett might be a little unworldly, a little shy, but they’re certainly not stupid.
“I don’t know if it was about my intelligence exactly,” Emmett says slowly. “I think it was more that…that he didn’t believe I should question him.”
“He sounds like a pretty controlling guy.” Emmett keeps looking at the table rather than at Delilah, and she gets the hint.
Blatant shit-talking of Emmett’s not-dad: not something they’re willing to confirm or deny.
“I mean, I get it. I had a boyfriend who was like that. Ex-boyfriend, whatever. He always knew best, I was a tiny naive baby who didn’t know anything, etcetera, etcetera.
I could never be right about anything—didn’t matter if it was politics or where we went for dinner.
It’s a shitty way to live, even if you love the person. ”
Emmett does glance at her then, and there’s something almost shrewd in their eyes. “An ex-boyfriend,” they repeat.
Delilah raises her eyebrows. “Yes? Sorry, we’re not about to do biphobia, are we? We were getting along so well.”
“No, that’s not…” Emmett purses their lips. “It just sounds like Sam was like that too.”
It takes more self-control than Delilah wants to admit to keep from chugging the rest of her espresso martini. She takes a sip of water instead, feeling very proud of herself. “Yeah, well. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.” Delilah forces a smile.
It’s not that she ever thought things with Sam were perfect.
Sam was spoiled and more than a little privilege-blind.
She knew more about the music business than Delilah and was never shy about pointing it out.
She could be petty, and she held grudges, and sometimes she acted like she was doing Delilah a favor by sharing her connections and experience and know-how.
But she was also the first girlfriend Delilah ever had who sat with her when she had panic attacks.
She doodled little comics for Delilah in the margins of their shared sheet music.
She memorized Delilah’s safety plan and her therapist’s phone number.
She always picked up a treat for her when she went to the grocery store herself instead of sending an assistant.
She washed Delilah’s hair for her when she was too depressed to shower.
She’d made Delilah feel like she mattered.
Except, apparently she hadn’t. At least, not enough for Sam to stay.
Delilah stretches her smile until her cheeks hurt. “Maybe the next time’ll be the charm.”
“I hope it is,” Emmett says, and they sound more sincere than anyone ever should when talking to someone they’ve known for less than twelve hours. They reach up and push a few strands of dark hair away from their face. “I didn’t answer your original question, did I?”
“No,” Delilah says. “But it was kind of a dick question to ask in the first place. You don’t owe me any kind of answer about your faith. Or lack of faith.”
Emmett looks thoughtful. “I don’t know that I’d say it’s a lack,” they say after a few moments of consideration. “More that…that I’ve just never had to put it into words before.”
“Why not?”
“No one’s ever asked me.”
Delilah decides not to say any of the first several things that come into her head, most of which would have been decidedly disrespectful of the dead. “Family’s complicated, I guess,” she says instead. “Even when it’s in good ways.”
“Yours?” Emmett guesses.
She nods. “I told you about my dad’s family. My mom’s always been there for me, but—I mean, it sucks to be rejected by people who never even tried to know you, y’know?”
That gets her a soft, humorless laugh.
“Yes,” Emmett says. “It…sucks.”
They say it like it’s an expression they’ve never used before, and Delilah smiles before she can stop herself, and this time it feels real.
Hi, honey, it’s Mom. I’m looking at the itinerary you sent me, and I think you should be in Brooklyn by now. I’m sure you’re going to be changing a few things on the trip—Send me a new list of your stops when you get a chance. I love you!
Hi, honey, it’s Mom. Iris just texted to see if I’d heard from you—I hope you two were able to have a good chat before you dropped her off, and that she managed to get it through your head that you didn’t do wrong with this mess with Sam.
You’re probably halfway to Philly—don’t forget to stop at the good bathrooms we found that time! I love you.
Hi, honey, it’s Mom. Why the hell do I have a voicemail from Alex letting me know you picked up a random hitchhiker? Delilah Eve, you’d better call me back right the fuck now. Do not make me hear your name on a true crime podcast. My blood pressure cannot handle it. I love you.
Hi, honey, it’s Mom. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but a selfie as “proof of life” is not a phone call.
But yes, since you asked, I will accept your offer of a video call tonight when you stop.
Don’t think you’re not in trouble, though.
If I don’t hear from you by midnight, I’ll be calling you on repeat until I do, and don’t think for a second I can’t be ten times more annoying now than I was when you went off to college.
I’ve had practice now, and I have gotten very skilled!
All right, I know you’re driving, so I’ll talk to you later. Good luck.
I love you.