Chapter 24
DELILAH
I’m twisting the key in the front lock when I hear him.
“Delilah—shit, wait!”
I stop as Troy jogs up the sidewalk, breathless, holding something wrapped in foil and completely out of place on this quiet little street where nothing ever moves fast.
He looks flushed, like he ran the last block. He’s wearing his burgundy UMS hoodie, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes too bright.
He stops in front of me, panting lightly. “Sorry. I’m late.”
I keep staring, dumbfounded.
He blinks. “Wait. I—hold on.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I never told you I was coming, did I?”
“Nope. You sent me a cryptic text about pickles and then went MIA.”
“Cool, cool. Awesome. Okay, so, uh—surprise?” He lifts the foil-wrapped bundles like peace offerings. “These were supposed to be your lunch. But then something came up. Emotions. Tears. Sandwiches got… delayed.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs. “Can I… can we go to yours? To eat? I kind of need to not be in that house for a minute.”
I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s more that…I don’t usually have people over to my place. Not unless they’re delivering something or fixing something or very occasionally, staying the night and leaving before sunrise.
My place is my space. My escape. My weird little sanctuary above the crystal shop with the squeaky stairs and the slanted floorboards and the window that whistles when the wind hits it wrong.
But something about the way he’s looking at me, shoulders tense, smile stretched too tight, like he’s holding back something, makes it impossible to say no.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “Okay.”
We climb the stairs quietly. I let us in and flick on the small lamp by the couch.
It casts a warm yellow glow over the room, soft and a little dusty. There’s a stack of books I meant to return to the shop, a hoodie over the back of the chair, and a tea mug I forgot to rinse this morning.
Troy doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.
We settle on the floor by the coffee table, legs crossed like we’re back at camp again, and carefully unwrap the foil from the sandwiches.
The smell hits me first—egg mayo.
I take one bite and groan without thinking.
“Oh my god,” I mumble through a mouthful. “You made this?”
Troy chuckles. “You liked them at camp. Every time they served egg mayo sandwiches, you’d eat more than I saw you eat any other night.”
My eyes widen, still chewing.
“You… noticed that?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “I notice a lot of things.”
I clear my throat. “My mom used to make these. When I was a kid. Not often—she wasn’t around much. But when she was… it’d be egg mayos and whatever other topping we had and toasted bread on the stove in a pan.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps chewing, watching me.
“It’s stupid,” I add quickly. “It just made me feel like someone was there. That’s all.”
“It's not stupid,” he says. “What was she like when she was around? Your mom?”
The question catches me off guard. No one ever asks for more when I mention my mom. They usually just nod awkwardly and change the subject.
I nod once, look down at my sandwich. I don't mean to keep talking, but the words sort of sneak out.
“She was always coming and going. I never knew what mood she'd be in, or if she'd come home at all. But when she did… and she made these… it felt like something solid.”
The silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full. I take another bite to fill the space.
Troy exhales through his nose, the kind of breath you take when you're about to either make a joke or say something real. And when he finally speaks, it's not a joke.
“I don't think I'm built for relationships.”
The words drop into the space between us.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “That was a sharp left.”
He gives a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. “I mean it. This stuff, connection, closeness. All the ways you can fuck it up and really hurt someone… I don't know if I'm built for that.”
I chew my bite more slowly now. Not because I need to, but because I suddenly don't know what to say.
“And I swore—I fucking swore—I'd never be that selfish.” He takes a deep breath.
“But relationships? They make you selfish. You have to be sometimes. You have to ask for what you want, put yourself first occasionally.” He's quiet a moment, eyes flicking toward the window.
“My whole life has been about taking care of people.
Mom, Tara, sometimes even my dad when he decided to show up again. And I don't know how to turn that off.”
My fingers still on the edge of my sandwich. I listen, seeing him in a new light. The guy who everyone thinks has it so easy, who dates casually, who never seems to care too much—he's been fighting this battle the whole time.
“Every relationship I've had crashes and burns for the same reason,” he continues, frustration evident in his voice.
“I can't figure out how to fit a girlfriend into the equation when my family always comes first.” He bites his lip as he looks at the floor.
“With Amber sophomore year, I'd be up at midnight helping her with papers, listening to her problems, being there whenever she needed.
But the one weekend I couldn't make it to her family thing because Tara was going through some stuff? She said I wasn't committed enough.”
“That's not fair of her,” I say.
“Maybe not. But she wasn't wrong either.” He shrugs. “I've got this... need to fix everything for everyone. To be the reliable one. And when I care about someone, I try to solve all their problems too. But then I get stretched too thin, and something's gotta give.”
I watch him, seeing a new layer to the cocky, carefree guy I thought I knew.
“And when I try to hold back—to not immediately jump into fix-it mode—then I come across as completely detached.” His jaw tightens. “I’m not proud of some of the flings I’ve had…I’ve kept my distance from people. Never overpromising but also never giving them what I know they want.”
“So it's either all or nothing?” I ask.
“That's how it's felt,” he admits. “Either I care so much I forget where they end and I begin, or I have to keep walls up to protect the priorities I already have.” He looks at me directly. “I've never figured out the middle ground.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It's like... I've got this hardwired program running that says 'take care of everyone else first,' and I don't know how to rewrite it. I either dive in too deep or stay too far away.”
I fold my hands in my lap, sandwich forgotten.
“With you, it's different,” he admits. “And that scares the shit out of me even more.”
I arch a brow. “Because I'm terrifying?”
A huff of laughter. “Because I actually want to get it right.” His voice drops. “Because for the first time, I'm not sure I could bounce back if I messed it up.”
I hold my hand in my lap to stop it from reaching out to him. When did Troy Hawkins—campus golden boy, walking ego, perpetual thorn in my side—become so real? So honest?
“I watch Freddie and Alex, or Alfie and Tara, and they make it look so easy. Like they know exactly who they are together. But what if I don't know how to do that? What if I'm too... broken from all that early shit to ever get it right?”
I don't have a sarcastic comeback this time.
Because I understand exactly what he means.
The fear that maybe we missed some crucial lesson about love that everyone else somehow learned.
The terror of building something with someone only to watch it crumble because you didn't know how to hold it properly.
“And the stupid thing is,” he continues, looking at his hands, “I've spent years being the guy who doesn't care too much. The one who keeps it casual, who doesn't get attached. And now...” he trails off.
“Now what?” I ask quietly.
He meets my gaze, and it costs him something. But he holds it. “Now I find myself wanting something I'm not sure I know how to have. Because you make me see myself clearer than I have before.”
We sit in silence for a while after he says it.
That he wants something he doesn't know how to have.
Like it's just a fact. Like he doesn't realize how easily that sentence could splinter something inside me if I let it. I fold the tinfoil slowly, trying to keep my face neutral. Trying not to look too long at the way he's studying the scuffed floor like it's safer than looking at me.
And I can't help it—my brain goes to all the girls who must have heard versions of this before. Who thought they were special enough to fix him. Who thought they could be the one to break through those walls.
I don't usually let myself feel jealous. I try not to. I learned a long time ago that comparing yourself to others is just a shortcut to disappointment. But right now, I feel it—deep and sharp.
What makes me different? What makes me the one who could possibly navigate this minefield when others have tried and failed?
I glance at him.
He was supposed to be the guy who kept it casual. The one who never got in deep enough to get hurt. The boy who charmed his way through college without ever having to try too hard, to care too much. The guy who never had to face rejection because he always left first.
But maybe, that was just an armor he built to protect himself. Maybe underneath all that easy confidence is someone as afraid as I am.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. My mind flashes back to the other night—his hands on my skin, his mouth... God, I can't even think about it without feeling flushed.
“About the other night,” I say before I can lose my nerve, my voice barely above a whisper. “When we...” I trail off, not quite able to say the words.
His eyes darken slightly. “When I made you come?”
Heat floods my cheeks. Leave it to Troy to be blunt when I'm struggling to find words. He doesn't hide behind euphemisms or dance around what he wants. It's infuriating and oddly refreshing at the same time.