Chapter 18 Delilah
Chapter eighteen
Delilah
I spend the rest of the day writing. Glued to my desk, working. It doesn’t matter that it’s a Saturday. It has to get done, and it’s something to do. Something to do other than staring at my phone and waiting for a text from Graham. Or Harrison.
I don’t hear from either of them, so in the evening I muster up my courage to call Graham.
The phone rings and goes to voicemail. He sounds kind of silly in it.
“Hey, you’ve reached Graham Whitaker. Leave a message.
” Curt, clipped, voice deep and professional-sounding.
It’d make me smile if there wasn’t a pit in my stomach.
I call again.
He doesn’t answer.
So I throw on some trash TV, snuggle up on the couch with Pickles, and eventually fall asleep.
I don’t hear from Graham on Sunday. Or Monday. And by Friday, the pit in my stomach knows what that means. It’s just my brain that’s refusing to catch up.
So, against my better judgement, I drive by their apartment. He and Harrison work different schedules, and when Harrison’s truck is missing from the parking lot, I take that as my sign. I stride past Graham’s truck, up the apartment stairs, and knock on the front door.
Anxiety swirls through my belly, but not enough to stop me. Not enough to quell my need for answers.
When Graham opens the door, he doesn’t look surprised. He looks sad. “Delilah,” he says as a greeting. I never really liked the nickname Trouble, but now I’m missing it.
“I called you,” I say simply, and I can’t help but feel like every desperate girl in the world going after a man who no longer wants her. Is that what’s happening right now?
“I know,” he says, looking down at the wood paneling under my feet.
I stand there waiting for more, but he doesn’t continue. As if that’s enough of an answer. And finally, anger blooms. Up until now, I’d been sad, hopeful. But now, I’m angry. “That’s all you have to say?” I snap, hating the bite in my voice.
Graham looks up, his eyebrows drawn together. “What do you want from me?” he asks, and my heart clenches. “We knew this was a bad idea, and it blew up in our faces.”
I swallow. Sure, he’s right but … wasn’t it … more? I open my mouth, but Graham beats me to it.
“We just need to move on and wait for this to all blow over. And in the meantime, we should probably not interact. It’s not like we did much before.”
I feel like I’ve been doused with water. Hit by a truck. The air knocked out of me. I stand there, frozen in place, feeling ice-cold and scalding hot at the same time.
“You don’t want …?” I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. Because what am I even asking for? A relationship? Love? Me?
Something flickers across Graham’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a look I can only describe as cold.
What happened to the Graham from the last few weeks?
The one who spilled his guts around a campfire, who made me breakfast, who held me while I fell asleep?
“I think we pretty much finished what we set out to do. Right?”
I take a physical step back, like I’ve been punched in the gut. I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t know what to say. So I simply nod. Once. Not trusting the lump now forming in my throat, I have no words for him. So I simply turn on my heel and leave.
I wait until I hear his door shut behind me before I allow the tears to fall.
And as much as I hate him for it, Graham was right. He was a hundred percent right, and I really have no business feeling the way I do right now.
This was, and always had been, a terrible, terrible idea.