Chapter 31
DELILAH
I’ve been pacing for ten minutes. I stare at Troy’s message for then hundredth time, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Hawkins
Still on for Thanksgiving?
No pressure, but Mom needs a head count for pie.
I want to say yes. I almost text back.
But instead, I scroll past his name and tap another one, there’s something I need to do first.
Mr. Abernathy picks up on the second ring.
“Elliot’s Books & Oddities, where paper still beats pixels,” he says, cheerful as ever.
I smile. “Hey, it’s me, Delilah.”
“Well now, Miss Delilah Greer. What a pleasure.” His voice softens. “You’re not calling to say you’re quitting, are you? Because I refuse to train another college student who doesn’t know what a first edition is.”
“God, no.” I sit on the arm of my couch, twisting a blanket tassel around my finger. “Actually… I was wondering if I could maybe take a couple days off this week.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“…You?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve worked here three years and haven’t asked for a single shift off unless you had the flu or finals.”
I wince. “I know.”
“Didn’t even take your birthday off last year. Said books don’t care about your age.”
“Books don’t give you hangovers either.”
He chuckles. “True enough.”
Another pause. Then, speaking quietly, he asks, “Are you spending the holidays with someone?”
I hesitate. “A friend. His family.”
There’s a crackle on the line, like he’s nodding. “That’s good. You should go.”
“I didn’t mean to spring it on you last minute—”
“Delilah,” he interrupts gently, “please go.”
His voice shifts—not annoyed, but… wistful.
“Spend the time while you can. With people who make you feel seen. Who make you feel warm.” He clears his throat, and the sound of it catches a little. “The world changes fast, and the heart forgets slow.”
My chest aches. I think of the photo behind the counter—Mrs. Abernathy smiling in a garden, clutching a paperback copy of The Secret Garden, her hair braided with marigolds.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I’ll bring back something. Pumpkin pie or that lemon shortbread you pretend not to like.”
He chuckles again. “Only if you promise not to alphabetize the fiction when I’m not looking.”
“Tempting.”
He hums. “Be safe, Delilah. And let yourself enjoy it.”
I hang up and stare at the blank ceiling above me for a long time.
Then I open Troy’s message.
Yes. I’m in.
He replies in under a minute.
Hawkins
Picking you up tomorrow. Coffee on the way. Bring layers. Mom keeps the house freezing.
Oh, and you don’t have to bring anything, but I know you will want to, so fyi my mom loves flowers and weird teas.
I stare at the message, my heart doing this strange uneven thing in my chest. I don’t reply. I just get up, grab my coat, and head downtown.
The florist is overpriced, and the teas are aggressively herbal, but I settle on a bouquet with dusty pink roses and something dark and moody tucked between them—because I refuse to show up without something too and—and a box of blood orange and hibiscus blends that scream “I don’t know you, but I’m trying.
” The tea isn’t really in my budget, but showing up empty-handed would be worse.
I don’t want to look cheap or ungrateful, so I found a fancy-looking box that is technically on sale.
The price makes my eyes water but, at least, I will look like a good houseguest. This is what normal people do, right?
Back in my apartment, I carefully peel off the discount sticker. The glue residue is still faintly visible if tilted under light. I hope this isn’t the sort of thing Mrs. Hawkins would notice. Then, I open my closet to pack.
It takes five minutes to realize I own nothing “family appropriate.”
Another ten to sit on the bed and stare at the bag like it’s mocking me. It’s not the clothes. Or the tea. Or the fact that I have to make small talk with someone’s mom.
It’s the what ifs of meeting the rest of Troy’s family.
What if they don’t like me?
What if I’m too much?
What if I’m not enough?
Troy knocks like he always does—one loud bang, two soft ones.
I open the door and he’s standing there, holding two coffees and smiling like he’s not the reason my nervous system is short-circuiting.
He holds one out. “Vanilla cappuccino,”
I smile. “Thanks,” I say, accepting the coffee.
He shrugs, then smiles. “I listen.”
And somehow, that’s worse.
He’s in a dark green hoodie and a puffer jacket, his hair wet from the rain. I glance down and realize he’s wearing sweats and sliders.
“You do realize we’re going to the mountains?”
“I do, Mittens.”
I roll my eyes and grab my bag. “Don’t sass me.”
He takes my bag from me before I can protest, and when our fingers brush, it’s not even electric. It’s grounding.