24. 24
Delaney’s things come sooner than I expected. The girl does not mess around. She doesn’t have her hairbrush, which is apparently vital to her life. I offered her mine or to grab one from the drugstore on the corner, but she quickly declined.
I’ve talked her into calling her grandmother and telling her about me. She has to tell her family too, doesn’t she? Though after yesterday and the press conference, I’m guessing they all know. Still, if her grandmother is her favorite person and she hasn’t personally told her, she needs to.
I sit in my studio, giving her privacy while men bring her things up to my loft. And sure, she isn’t moving in an entire household, but the girl has stuff. And a lot of it. My studio is full of work, so I point them in the direction of my apartment. They can set it wherever they can find room.
The paintbrush in my hand is on automatic as men carry things in through my propped-open loft door. Delaney is on the phone, and while I am not an eavesdropper, I know that she’s talking about me, about us, and I’m too curious to not pay attention.
With my less dominant hand, I paint who-knows-what and hear her words without even straining.
“I know. It’s been so long—too long. I’m sorry and—” She pauses. Grandma Judy must be commenting. I hope I’m right. I hope the woman she spoke of will accept and forgive her instantly. She sounded like the kind of person who would do that.
“But I should have called,” Delaney says. My brush is on pause but picks up again with the positive note in her voice. “Miles—” Annnd, we’re on pause again. “You’ll love him. He’s an artist and just a really decent human.”
I swallow. Decent. I mean, she isn’t wrong, but she uses that word a lot.
“Oh!” Delaney pipes. “And wait until you hear who he was named after.” A short pause, and then she’s speed-talking again. “No, you will know. I promise. Grandma, listen—who is your favorite hottie from your favorite soap?”
I shut my eyes. Thanks, Mom. Because of you, I’ll get grandma-approval from my sort-of-wife’s family.
“Where do you want this?” a man asks. We’ve told them to put everything in the loft. So, I’m not sure why he’s asking. Until— “My songbird painting. Where did you get this?”
“The guy downstairs said to bring it up. You want it in here with the others?”
Lars. He’s mad I’m getting my building so he’s kicking out my watercolor?
I swallow, my jaw clenched. “Yeah. In here is fine.”
He sets it down, propping it against a stack of more unfinished canvases, and exits. I’m ready to seethe when I hear Delaney say, “You do to remember their names. Stop being silly. It was your guilty pleasure. We both know it.” She sighs. “Fine. I’ll tell you. Miles Howard.”
A giggle from Delaney makes me forget all about how I’d like to introduce my not-so-pacifist fist to Lars’ face—actually no, I wouldn’t. My hand still hurts from last night, and I am indeed a pacifist. Last night was not the norm.
“I told you!” She listens for a minute, and I keep dabbing with the yellow paint on my brush. “I’ll visit soon. I promise. I’ve got some time now.” Her voice cracks. “Ah, yeah. I’ll see if Miles can come. He wants to meet you too.”
There’s a quiet, short goodbye—and then, all at once, I’m pretending I’m not listening as she steps through the open studio door.
“How’d it go?” I ask though I’m pretty sure I could guess.
“Good.” She exhales like she’s endured some straining physical activity. Her hair wisps out of place in a way that makes me smile. “So much better than I thought. You were right, Miles. She was totally understanding.” She plops onto the stool next to me. “I mean, I know she’s not my mom who understands nothing, but I just couldn’t disappoint her. You know? She’s the one person who’s always stood by me.”
“You haven’t disappointed her,” I say, then, for some reason, I lay a hand on her knee. I shouldn’t be touching her—it does things to my insides. “And you aren’t lying to her either. I am excited to meet her.”
She cringes. “You heard that.”
I remove my hand from her kneecap—maybe she didn’t notice my momentary insanity. I rub at the back of my neck and clear my throat. “Just that last part.” But I’m not the most skilled liar; she sees right through me. Ironically, it’s exactly what makes me wrong for her, for this kind of marriage. It will be a miracle if someone doesn’t find us out.
She scoffs out a laugh. “Sure. Okay.” Standing, she steps over to my songbird painting, leaning against a pile of others. She tilts it forward to look at it better.
I grunt. “Yeah. I guess Lars is tired of having it on display. He told the guys to bring it up with your stuff.”
Her manicured brows pinch. “Lars didn’t tell them that. I—” She lifts one shoulder. “I bought it.” Her head tilts, giving the smallest of shakes. “Lars didn’t mention that it sold—”
“You bought it?” I blink… and I can’t seem to stop.
“Well, yeah. I like it.” Her eyes fall back to the watercolor. “I like it a lot, actually, and I couldn’t let it go.”
“Oh.” She likes my work. She bought my work. My head spins. My wife bought my painting. I swivel on my stool, facing her. “You know, I would have given it to you. You didn’t have to buy it. You’re—”
“Miles.” She drops the painting back in place and stands in front of me, hands on hips. “That isn’t how it works. You’re doing a service, an artistic service. And you’re selling that service. It’s called making a living. You sell. I buy.” She grins.
“Right. Only usually not many buy.”
“Is that because you’re always giving things away?” Her hands reach out, one holding to each of my shoulders. Her lips quirk upward, drawing my eyes there.
She told me I’d have to kiss her one day.
I told her I didn’t think so.
Today—I might not argue with her…
What hope is there for me if we are on day three of our marriage and I’m already considering giving in?
”I don”t give everything away,” I finally say—but my mouth has gone dry. Unfortunately, my wife is pretty much a bombshell, which actually wouldn”t affect me so much if she weren”t so real, so down-to-earth, so kind-hearted.
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like Delaney Jones.
Delaney smothers a laugh and drops her hands from my shoulders. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be ready to meet Walt.”
Twenty minutes later, my left-handed painting has some sort of direction and Delaney is ready to go. Her hair falls down her back like a waterfall, the blue barely visible. Her jeans are light and whitewashed, and her shirt just hits where her high-waisted jeans end. When she moves, I get a peek at her slim, tan tummy—except that I’m not looking. Why would I look?
“How’s your hand? You were painting, so—”
“Better this morning.” I peer down at the purple bruise forming over my right fist. It hurts like crazy, but I can move it; nothing is broken. I’m just babying it for the day—and apparently getting an abstract piece of art in the process. Left-handed painting is interesting. “I’m fine.”
“I’m glad, Miles.” She rocks on her heels once. “Are you ready?”
I study her. I know that we’re conning the world, but— “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to spend your vacation this way.”
She swallows, those blue eyes peering into my soul and making me do things I’ve never considered before. ”I know that,” she says. ”If it”s okay with you, I”d like to. We may not stay married for life, Miles. But I think we could be friends. If you”re okay with it, I”d like to meet Walt.”
I run a hand below my chin and blink away from her piercing gaze. “Yeah, I’m okay with it.”
“Good! Should we run by Target? Should I bring Walt a gift? How does this work?”
I chuckle. “We’re headed to his group home. If you buy Walt a gift, you’ll need to get something for everyone. Or you’ll have a revolt on your hands—rock star or not.”
No matter my insistence that we don’t need to come with gifts—because a visit is a gift in itself—we head to Target. Delaney insists. She only gets stopped twice—one of the women even recognizes me, which weirds me out to no end and sends Delaney into a fit of giggles. Once we find a nice hiding spot down the stuffed animal aisle, she picks up a gift for all six men who live in the group home with Walt.
“Are you sure stuffed dogs are the way to go? We could have looked at watches or video games or—” She tilts her head, staring at the brown stuffed pug in her hands.
“Most of them wouldn’t care about a watch or a game, but they’ll love the dogs. Yes, these men are grown, Walt is forty-two. But you have to remember that his mind isn’t forty-two.”
“Right.” Her grin is kind and small when she returns her eyes to the pug. “Good. I’m with Walt: the dogs are much cuter than a lame-o man watch.”
“Lame-o?”
”Yeah.” She nods. ”If you”re going to be married to me, Miles, you have to understand that at times I revert to a thirteen-year-old.” She shrugs like this is just a fact and she”s passing on information.
“Thirteen?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I think I knew that already.”
“Hey.” She moans as if she were offended, though she’s the one who said so.
“What?” I glance over at her. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to scrub off that marker mustache?”
“You drew that on yourself! I had nothing to do with that particular mustache.” She laughs, her lips parting into a huge grin. “It’s strange. We haven’t known each other long.”
“Less than a week.” I fill in that fact not only for her but myself.
“And yet,” she says, and my heart drums, beating out the word y-e-t. “It feels longer. Doesn’t it? Like we’ve been friends a while?”
“Yeah. It does.” It really, really does.