Chapter 20 #2
I bit back a retort, knowing it would only lead to another argument. “I’ll think about it, Mom.“
“What about that nice young man from the country club, what was his name? Bradford?”
I winced. “I don’t think that’s going to work out, Mom. Bradford and I... we’re not really compatible.”
“Compatible?” She tutted. “Delilah, you’re not getting any younger. Bradford comes from a good family, has excellent prospects. What more do you want?”
What I wanted was a partner who saw me as more than my looks or my last name, who understood and supported my dreams. Someone, I was starting to realize, who made me feel the way Mason did. But I knew better than to say any of that to my mother.
“Darling, I’m only thinking of your future,” she pressed. “You need a good man to help clean up your image. Someone respectable, with the right connections. Have you met anyone promising lately?”
I closed my eyes, picturing Mason’s cocky smile. “I’ve been... seeing someone,” I said carefully.
“Oh?” Her interest sharpened. “Do tell! Where is his family from? Where did he go to school? What firm is he at?”
I hesitated, knowing Mason’s professional athlete status wouldn’t impress her. “He’s... in sports,” I answered, keeping it vague.
“Sports?” The disdain was immediate. “Delilah, really. After everything that happened, you need someone who can elevate your status, not drag you further down.”
I flinched. The sting hit fast. “Mom, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”
She sighed, packing a world of disappointment into one breath. “I just want what’s best for you, Delilah. After that unfortunate incident...”
The phrase hit like a trigger, reopening old wounds.
“Now, Delilah Mae,” she went on, her tone turning syrup-sweet in the way that always preceded a critique, “you need to find a good man who can help you... rebuild your image.”
Rebuild. Like I was some crumbling building, not her daughter. The raw hurt stirred, sharp and familiar, despite the years and miles I’d put between me and Alabama. “I know, Mom,” I said, keeping my voice as measured as I could.
I rubbed my temples as she drifted into talk of country club connections and social standings.
“...and you need to be careful, Delilah. People are watching. They’re always watching. One little slip-up and... well, you know how it is.”
She didn’t have to say it. I knew exactly what she was circling. The moment that had branded me in her mind, and in the minds of everyone back home.
“I’m being careful, Mom,” I said, forcing steadiness. “And I’ve moved on.”
Silence stretched, then she let out a huff. “I know you think you’ve moved on, Delilah. But people don’t forget. You need someone respectable by your side. Someone who can show the world that you’re not just... that.”
That. The word hung there, a shapeless monster from my past. I felt myself shrink, the same insecurities cinching tight. “Mom, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a big project due.”
“Fine, Delilah. But we will talk about this later. And please, start thinking about a dress. And a date. You know what people will say if you show up alone.”
I hung up before she could add anything else, my hands shaking slightly as the silence rushed back in.
“Oh, Delilah Mae,” I mumbled, mimicking her saccharine tone. “Have you considered marrying a nice oil tycoon? Or perhaps a senator’s son?”
I snorted, but the laugh fizzled fast. My mom had a talent for unearthing my insecurities with surgical precision. And as much as I hated to admit it, her not-so-subtle reference to my past stung.
As I set the phone down, the memory slammed into me. The room tipped sideways, the walls narrowing, and suddenly I was back there.
Seventeen again, standing under the harsh spotlight of the Miss Alabama State Pageant stage. The sequins on my gown sparkled like a thousand tiny stars, and my pulse raced with anticipation. This was my moment, the culmination of years of vocal training and my mother’s relentless ambition.
I stepped up to the microphone as the opening notes swelled from the orchestra pit. I lifted the mic and launched into the melody, reveling in the soaring highs and sultry lows. The audience watched, enraptured, as I lost myself in the music.
“Flying high above, on wings of hope and love...”
My voice soared, hitting each note with precision. For a blissful moment, everything was perfect.
“With wings of my heart, I’ll reach the stars…”
Just as I reached for that climactic high note, I saw it. A blur of brown fur darted across the stage. A tiny Yorkie in a bejeweled collar skidded to a stop right in front of me. Before I could react, the little dog lifted its leg at the base of my mic stand.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, no.
I tried to discreetly shoo it away with my foot, all while holding the note. Then, to my horror, a warm stream of urine splattered my sparkly heels and began to soak the hem of my custom gown.
Panic set in. I yelped and yanked the skirt back, but my heel caught on the fabric. I lost my footing in the rapidly spreading puddle.
Feedback screeched through the speakers as I flailed, arms windmilling while I fought for balance.
Too late. I went down hard, silk and chiffon tangling around me, and hit the stage with a thud.
I landed flat on my back with my legs in the air, my gown billowing up around my ears, putting my undergarments on full display for the entire audience.
And not just any undergarments. No. These were my lucky pageant shapewear, covered in cartoon bananas wearing sunglasses. Because nothing says “crown me” like tropical fruit plastered across your nether regions.
The microphone, freed from my grip, rolled away, its cord snaking behind it like a black serpent. Cruel, mocking laughter rippled through the crowd and echoed through the auditorium. As I lay there, spread-eagled and mortified, the Yorkie trotted over and enthusiastically licked my face.
This could not possibly get any worse.
BOOM. As if on cue, a shower of confetti exploded from somewhere above, raining down on me in a storm of colorful bits of paper. Because of course it did.
Oh God. Oh God. Get up, Lila. Get. Up.
But my body wouldn’t cooperate. My limbs were frozen, my muscles refusing to respond. I was a statue, a monument to my own humiliation, laid out for all to see. I didn’t need to look to know hundreds of phones were pointed at me, capturing every second.
Gasping for air, I yanked my gown down to cover myself.
With trembling arms, I pushed up onto my elbows, shame burning hot across my face.
And there, in the front row, was Mom. Her face was a picture of horror, her hands clutched at her pearls.
The disappointment in her eyes landed like a blow, leaving me more winded than the fall.
The audience roared, finger-pointing and mocking shouts ringing in my ears, each one a dagger to my pride. Camera clicks and flashes filled the air, loud and relentless, until it was all I could hear. Laughter, and the click click click of cameras, the flash flash flash of bulbs.
The memory faded, leaving me breathless and slightly nauseous. I was back in my living room, but I could still hear the audience, still feel the shame clinging to my skin.
The aftermath had been brutal. Everyone in town saw the video. I couldn’t go anywhere without feeling eyes on me, without catching snickers behind my back. My brothers teased me mercilessly, and my father’s attempt to brush it off with a gruff, “It’s just a silly pageant,” only made me feel worse.
But it was Mom’s reaction that cut the deepest. She couldn’t even look at me without that pained expression, like my failure physically hurt her. “Delilah Mae,” she sighed, shaking her head. “How could you let this happen? You’ve embarrassed the whole family. The ladies at the country club…”
I’d been branded. My name became synonymous with that clip of me flailing across the stage. The comments were brutal, attacking pageant girls in general and mocking me viciously.
Then a short piece of the video was clipped and went viral, turning into a popular meme. I was called the Epic Fail Girl.
Seven seconds. That’s all it took. Seven seconds on repeat, spreading like wildfire, turning me into a joke, a punchline, a cautionary tale. Seven seconds that followed me, haunted me, defined me.
Escaping my hometown and going to college wasn’t just a fresh start. It was witness protection from my meme-worthy past. I dyed my hair blonde, changed my name from Delilah to Lila, and left Alabama behind for good, all in an attempt to outrun that girl.
Time and distance helped. Even the two therapy sessions had helped a little. But the fear of public humiliation, of being exposed and ridiculed, had burrowed deep. It colored every interaction, every decision.
What if getting close to Mason meant stepping right back into that kind of scrutiny? How long before someone recognized me and dragged my humiliation back into the light?
I stood and paced the floor, restless, desperate to shake off the weight of my insecurities.
It’s in the past. You’re Lila now. No one here knows.
But deep down, I knew the truth. Epic Fail Girl was still tucked under my skin, just waiting for the spotlight to swing back and someone to hit replay.