Chapter 10 Graham #2
She takes it silently, cracking it open and taking a sip. The fire builds, crackling steadily.
“What you said earlier about your project going well,” I say. “That true?”
She shrugs, her jacket rustling softly against mine. “I mean, I’ve made progress on the non-sexual parts of the story. Which is still progress …”
“That’s good,” I say.
There’s a pause. Then Delilah asks, “Work going well?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “Sure. Same old stuff.”
It’s funny, how odd this feels. This is typically as deep as our normal conversations go. Our whole lives, we’ve orbited around Harrison, and therefore small talk is the only real kind of talk we have.
But now … it feels different. Small talk is too small.
We settle into a strained silence for a few moments.
“So …” Delilah eventually starts. “Why’d you bring me out here?”
I’m quiet for a long moment. Then, “I get the feeling you’re someone who spends a lot of time in their head. I thought being out here might help with that.”
It takes me a few seconds to realize that Delilah is looking at me, and when our eyes meet, she smiles softly. “That’s perceptive of you, Graham.”
“You seem surprised.”
“I never took you as the perceptive type.”
“People can surprise you,” I offer.
She nods. “I suppose they can.”
“Like who knew I was such a nice guy, willing to help out a friend’s little sister in her greatest time of need?”
Delilah smacks me in the chest with a laugh, and I chuckle.
“And who knew your affection for the color purple is borderline obsessive?”
At this, she gasps. “Excuse me?”
I smirk. “Your apartment is very purple,” I point out.
“It’s a good color,” she defends.
“Yeah, but you can have too much of a good thing.”
She shakes her head vehemently, although she’s grinning. “I don’t think so.”
“Agree to disagree?” I say.
“No,” she says with a smirk.
I snort, taking a sip of beer. “You’ve always been contrarian, even when we were kids.”
“Have not!”
I shoot her a look, and she giggles, although she doesn’t concede.
A memory sparks deep in my mind. “Hey, remember those cute, little stories you used to write? You’d make me and Harrison sit in your parents’ living room while you read them aloud to us.
Basically knockoff Nancy Drew mysteries.
” I laugh at the memory, of me and Harrison with fake grins plastered on our faces, waiting for the story to be over so we could get back to whatever video game we’d been playing.
Delilah groans. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”
“Come on, they weren’t bad. And look at you—you’re a writer now, so that dedication obviously paid off.”
She just keeps shaking her head. “Yeah, a writer of other people’s stories.”
The comment surprises me, and I turn to her. “Do you not like your job?” The possibility honestly shocks me. Delilah’s only ever been a storyteller, and landing her agent all those years ago was seemingly the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“No, no, nothing like that,” she says quickly. “I mean, I love my job. I get to sit in my apartment all day and write.” She chuckles. “It’s just … sometimes I wish I was writing my own book.” She shrugs again, staring into the fire.
“Why don’t you?”
She purses her lips. “It’s not that simple.”
“Well, then explain it to me.”
She snorts at that.
“What?” I press. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
This pulls another laugh out of her. “No one wants my story,” she eventually says. “I ghostwrite for established authors and celebrities—people who you’d want to read a story from. Who’s gonna care if ‘Delilah Slater’ writes a book?”
“Plenty of people.”
She smiles sadly. “That’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not the reality.”
As much as I want to argue with her, I keep my mouth shut.
Besides, she knows her own industry better, why would she take advice from me?
Regardless, I can’t stop myself from adding, “Well, you should write it anyway. Even if only one person reads it. You don’t have to quit your day job, but that shouldn’t stop you from doing what you love. ”
A soft grin curls at the side of her lips.
“I, for one, would love another Nancy Drew knockoff.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. After a beat and another sip of beer, she asks, “What about you, Graham Whitaker? Are you living your life’s dream as a cowboy?”
I smirk at the change of subject but go along with it. “I mean, yeah. It’s a great gig.”
“Riding around on horses and cows or whatever.” She waves a hand. “I don’t know what you guys do all day.”
I laugh out loud. “Well, for starters, we aren’t riding the cows.”
“I said I don’t know what you do all day,” she defends.
“And I’m explaining it.”
She rolls her eyes again. I swear they’re gonna roll right out of her sockets one day. She shivers slightly against the cold, and I reach behind me for the second blanket I’d pulled from the truck. “Here,” I say, shaking it out and then draping it over her shoulders.
“Oh,” she says in surprise. She pulls it tighter around herself, snuggling in. “Thanks.”
I tug my own jacket closed a bit more. It’s gotten a little nippy out.
“What about other aspects of your life?” Delilah asks, her voice a bit softer.
I arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”
She wags her head a bit before answering, “Relationships?” She shoots a glance at me, then looks back at the fire. “I’m aware of your reputation, Graham. Have you ever thought about finding someone and settling down?”
Amusement flickers through me. “Are you offering?” It’s a joke, but for some reason, I regret it the instant it leaves my lips.
“We’re trying to avoid Harrison killing us, remember?” Delilah snorts. “No, I’m just curious.”
An odd mixture of relief and something else I can’t quite identify shoots through me. I clear my throat. “I honestly don’t ever plan on getting married or anything like that.”
Genuine shock skates across Delilah’s face. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Why?”
I take a deep breath. It’s not a topic of conversation I broach often—or ever. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve shared the details of this decision with anyone. Not even Harrison. Although if I had to guess, I think he’s probably deduced it for himself.
So I’m not exactly sure what it is that has me considering actually answering Delilah in this moment.
Not brushing it off or lying. Maybe it’s because she’s seen me at almost every point in my life—even if we were never particularly close.
“You know how when we were kids and I always came over to your and Harrison’s house?
He never really came to mine?” The words tumble out of me before I really have time to process what I’m sharing.
She frowns. “Yeah.”
“It’s because of my parents.”
She’s silent, waiting for me to continue.
I stare into the fire ahead, watching the flames dance, casting shadows across our feet.
“They fought. Like, all the time. Sometimes just bickering, sometimes full-on meltdowns. They might have loved each other, who knows? But they were miserable. And they still are. They’re still, to this day, together, fighting.
” I sigh. “And it’s not just them. I see it all the time.
People get married, and they get miserable.
And from the outside, all I can see it as is some sort of awful … trap.”
The admission falls heavy into the silence, and for a second, I regret ever giving in and answering her question.
But then there’s a tug at my wrist, and I look down to see Delilah intertwining her fingers with mine.
It’s so sudden and soft and small, and yet it has my heart doing the strangest of things.
Aching. Like it wants to burst out of my chest or something.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “For having to deal with that growing up. I’m not going to argue with you—you’re the only one who can decide what’s best for you.
But there are people who are happily in love.
They exist. I think it has more to do with the people in the relationships than the relationships themselves. ”
I nod. I don’t know if I agree with her. But I don’t know if I necessarily disagree with her either.
“I’m gonna sound like the most cliched mom on the planet, but you probably just need to find the right girl,” Delilah says with a small laugh.
The right girl. Fuck. Normally I’d be shooting that comment down within seconds, but something about it has my heart doing that weird fucking thing again, and I’m lost for words.
So instead, I simply clear my throat and ask, “Hand me another beer, will you?”