Chapter 16
DELILAH
I check the screen.
Mom.
I stare at the name for a second, thumb hovering.
She only calls for two reasons—she needs something, or she’s feeling lonely. Usually both.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Hi, baby!” Her voice is bright. Too bright, my heart rate picks up. “How’s my little architect? Building any bridges to the future today?”
I smile, but I clutch the phone tighter. “Hey, Mom.”
She hums like she’s settling into a conversation, and for a second, I pretend—just for fun—that this might be one of the good days. That she actually wants to talk. That she misses me.
“I was just thinking about you,” she says. “Thought I’d check in, see how school is going.”
“It’s going okay,” I say, adjusting my scarf. “I’ve got this big project. It’s part of a campus grant competition. Partnered work, cross-disciplinary, sustainability-based. I’m doing it with—”
“Hold on,” she interrupts. “Let me just grab my tea. I forgot it in the microwave.”
I pause mid-step. She’s not listening.
I know the pattern too well, she starts calls like they’re about me, then drifts. Distracted. Distant. Already somewhere else.
I wait. Cold air biting at my cheeks. My hand tightens around my phone.
She clicks back on a few seconds later, out of breath. “Okay, I’m back! You were saying?”
“I was saying I’m doing a big project,” I repeat, slower now. “It’s actually kind of a big deal, but…”
I trail off.
She’s too quiet on the other end.
I imagine her nodding vaguely while scrolling through Facebook, or checking her texts, or whatever else seems more pressing than listening to the daughter who’s been holding her world together since she was nine.
“You’re not really listening, are you?”
“What? Of course I am,” she says quickly, with a nervous laugh. “I heard something about… architecture?”
I exhale through my nose. My chest feels tight in a familiar way.
“Why are you calling, Mom?” My voice is strained and I hate that. She doesn’t answer right away. And to her credit, she doesn’t lie.
“I was wondering… I hate to ask, sweetie, you know I do. It’s embarrassing for me too. I mean I wouldn’t even ask if I didn’t need to…but could you maybe help me out a little this week?”
Here we go.
“It’s just a small thing,” she rushes to say. “Work short paid me again and John’s being an ass about hours and the system’s down or whatever, so I’m just a little tight until next month.”
My jaw tightens.
I’ve heard every version of this story before. A hundred times. Work mess-ups, bad luck, new medication, the power company “overcharging” her.
But I know the truth. She blew through her paycheck again.
On what?
Whatever. Clothes. Shopping. Some subscription box she forgot to cancel. Online poker. Anything that gives her a hit of dopamine before the crash.
She never means to. That’s what makes it worse. It’s always “just this once.”
“How much?” I ask quietly.
There’s a pause. Like she knows she’s already asking too much, but that I’ll give it, anyway.
“Just five hundred.”
Just.
I close my eyes. I know I’ll do it. Of course I will. Because no matter how wrong I know it is, or how many times I’ve tried to help her with her spending and budgeting, she’s still my mom. And I can’t let her down.
“I swear it’s only until next month,” she says. “You’ll get it right back.”
She won’t. I know she won’t. But I don’t say that.
“I’ll send it after this call,” I tell her. “But this is the last time.”
My voice sounds flat and rehearsed and I can’t wait to put this phone down.
There’s a pause. Then she sighs, relieved. “Thank you, baby. You’re a lifesaver. I’ll pay you back as soon as—”
“I know.”
“And anyway! I also just wanted to hear your voice. Check that you’re ok. You’re so far away up there.”
And maybe that’s true. Maybe she did.
But I’ve learned the hard way that just because someone wants you, doesn’t mean they know how to keep you. Or care for you. Or show up when it counts.
“I’m fine,” I say softly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know I don’t. I always said my little Delilah is an old soul.” She chuckles. “You’ve always been so good at taking care of yourself.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says brightly, like this was a perfectly normal, warm, mother-daughter call. “Love you, baby.”
I hesitate.
“You too.”
“Oh! Send it to my second account, baby. You know the number, yeah? 5-0-3—”
I hang up. I know the account, I’ll send the money now.
And yeah, I’ve still got savings. I’m careful. I work hard. I plan ahead because I have to. But it still stings every time.
I tuck my phone away and keep walking, the cold biting at my cheeks, sharp and bracing.
And somewhere beneath the numbness, there’s that same old ache in my chest. The same two conflicting points that are somehow both true simultaneously.
The one that says: “She’s your mom, you can’t not pick up.”
But also: “She’s your mom, you know you can’t count on her.”
And I keep walking.
I find Troy exactly where I expect him—leaning against the railing outside the engineering building, coffee in one hand, looking like he doesn’t have a single real problem in his entire life.
I got a ride from Lacey this morning and texted Troy he didn’t need to come.
His response.
Hawk the dork
K Greer, but I better not find you walked in and froze your fingers off.
Freddie Donovan is next to him, nodding along as he talks, but the second Troy spots me marching toward them, his mouth twitches into a grin.
I only recognize Freddie because I’ve, against my will, seen a photo of him topless that Brianna has saved on her phone from when they were seeing each other.
I already regret this.
“Hawkins,” I say when I reach them.
“Greer,” he mimics, sounding way too pleased to see me. “I missed our morning drive.”
I ignore him and turn to the real reason I’m here. “We need to go over some details for the project.”
“Right now?” Troy tilts his head, sipping his coffee leisurely. “Damn, Greer, I didn’t know you missed me this much. We’re meeting in like”—he checks his phone—“three hours anyway.”
I exhale sharply. “If I could discuss it with literally anyone else, I would.”
“Brutal,” Freddie mutters.
“She likes me,” Troy tells him, winking.
I groan. “Can you be normal for five minutes?”
“Unlikely.”
“The soil sample results came back from the lab,” I explain, pulling out a report from my bag. “The drainage is more severe than we anticipated.”
Troy takes the paper, scanning the results with surprising focus.
“This could add at least three thousand to our budget,” I continue. “We need to decide if we want to scale back some of the other elements or find cheaper alternatives for the materials.”
“What about using recycled aggregate for the drainage bed?” Troy suggests, still looking at the report. “I know a professor in Civil Engineering who's been experimenting with crushed glass aggregate. It's basically free because they're trying to find uses for it.”
I blink, actually impressed. “That... could work. Would it meet filtration standards?”
“According to his research, it outperforms traditional gravel in some applications,” Troy says. “I could get us the specs by tomorrow.”
Before I can respond, Troy suddenly changes the subject.
“Wait—what's going on with your bike again, Greer?” Troy cuts in, swinging a hand toward Freddie. “This guy's the man to ask.” He claps Freddie on the back.
“Oh. Uh, it’s fine.”
“You said it broke, right?” Troy presses. “You figure it out yet?”
I open my mouth, not even sure what’s about to come out.
“It’s—”
Before I can dodge the question, Troy turns to Freddie.
“Think you can fix it?”
Freddie shrugs, easygoing. “What kind of bike?”
I pause. Every part of me goes tight. This is the exact thing I don’t want. Help. Pity. Owing someone something. A quick favor here and there and before I know it I’m in debt to the man.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I can handle it.”
Freddie lifts a brow. “It’s not a big deal. I fix bikes all the time. My pa taught me—been doing it since I was, like, ten.”
“I’ll just get a new one,” I blurt, already regretting it.
It’s a lie. A dumb, obvious one. And Troy knows it. I can see it in the subtle shift of his face—the way his jaw ticks, his eyes narrowing slightly like he’s holding back from saying what he really wants to say.
And then, before he can, a voice cuts in.
“Oh my god, what are we talking about?”
A girl with shiny brown hair bounds over, full of wide-eyed energy, with Tara trailing behind her, half-laughing.
“Delilah’s getting a new bike,” Freddie offers casually.
The girl gasps, scandalized. “You’re getting a new one? No, no. Let Freddie fix it. He’s a master. Like, he literally rebuilt mine last semester after I crashed it into a tree. You must let him at least try. It’s such a waste to just buy new every time something breaks.”
“You crashed into a tree because you were texting and riding, Alex,” Tara deadpans.
“Irrelevant.” Alex waves a dismissive hand, turning back to me. “Point is—he’s good. Let him help.”
I open my mouth, ready to refuse again, but she isn’t done.
“And honestly,” she continues, grinning at me like I’ve already won her over, “I already like you for using a bike instead of a car, so I’ll make him do it.”
I force a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. My stomach knots as I nod along, pretending like I’m not drowning in discomfort.
Then she glares at Troy.
“What?” Troy lifts his hands, looking deeply offended. “Alfie has a car too!”
“Yes, and I also lecture him about it.” Alex huffs, before turning to me with a sudden, sunny smile. “I’m Alex, by the way. And you’re…?”
“My girl,” Troy says smoothly.
I slap his arm without even thinking. “Project partner,” I correct. “Delilah.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh! You’re that Delilah.”
Okay. That’s ominous.
I feel like I’ve somehow been written into the middle of a sitcom I didn’t audition for. The whole group is loud, chatty, way too attractive, and seem to operate like some strange, emotionally co-dependent wolf pack. I am not built for this level of enthusiasm.
And then I remember—this is the Alex that Brianna wants to dethrone. Alex, as in, Freddie Donovan’s current girlfriend. Which suddenly makes me want to vomit. She seems really sweet. Before I can formulate an escape plan—
“Oh my god, Delilah, you should come over Friday night!”
That was Tara.
“What?”
“We’re having a night in,” she says, “Freddie can fix your bike, and Troy’s making fajitas!”
I whip my head toward Troy. “So you do actually cook?” I say, equal parts skeptical and horrified. “I thought that was just a rumor. Like Bigfoot. Or decent campus Wi-Fi.”
Troy smirks, and god it’s smug.
“Cooking is my love language, Greer. Didn’t I tell you?”
I stare at him, momentarily stunned. Troy Hawkins, boy with the ego of a Greek god, who flirts like it’s a professional sport and I assumed thought seasoning means “extra protein powder” cooks? For his friends? On a quiet Friday night?
I don’t know why it shakes me. Maybe because it's another surprise about him I wasn’t prepared for. And judging by the spark of amusement in his stupid ocean eyes?
He knows it rattled me.
Smug bastard.