Chapter 34
TROY
Icheck the rearview mirror for the fifth time in as many minutes, watching Mom's house disappear around the bend. Somewhere behind us, Tara and Delilah are in Tara's car, “having girl time” or whatever excuse my sister conjured up to separate us on the drive back.
“You're going to break that steering wheel,” Alfie says quietly from the passenger seat.
I loosen my white-knuckle grip, forcing my shoulders to relax. “Just making sure we don't lose them.”
“They only left a couple of minutes after us.” Alfie doesn't look up from his phone, but I can hear the amusement in his voice. “And Tara knows the way home just as well as you do. And, you know, smart phones exist bro. They're fine.”
“I know they're fine,” I mutter. “That's not what I'm worried about.”
Alfie finally glances over, his expression frustratingly unreadable. He's always been like this—quiet, observant, revealing only what he chooses to. It's what makes him such a good listener and such a terrible person to try to get information from.
“So what are you worried about?” he asks eventually.
I stare at the road ahead, debating how much to say. Alfie's my best friend, has been for years. But talking about Delilah feels complicated.
“Did something happen at dinner?” I ask instead. “With Delilah, I mean. Did she seem... off to you?”
Alfie considers this with his typical care, like he's reviewing footage in his head. “No. She seemed to be having a good time. Laughed at your mom's stories. Asked Tara about her classes. Normal stuff.”
“But this morning she barely said two words to me,” I press. “And then suddenly, she's riding with Tara instead of me? I don't get it.”
“Maybe the weekend was a bit much for her,” Alfie suggests. “She strikes me as an introvert. Being 'on' for an entire holiday with your family might have been draining.”
I snort. “If she's trying to avoid an energetic Hawkins, Tara's the wrong choice. My sister talks more than I do.”
A small smile crosses Alfie's face at the mention of Tara.
“You've got a point there,” he admits. “But Tara's... different.”
“Different how?” I challenge. “She's literally bounced on someone's bed to wake them up since she was six.”
Alfie taps his fingers against his knee, thinking. “Maybe it's not about energy levels. Maybe it's about comfort. Tara's easier to read. You're...”
“I'm what?” I glance at him.
“Complicated,” he finishes. “At least with Delilah.”
I grip the steering wheel again. “I'm not complicated. I'm an open book.”
Alfie's silence is his version of calling bullshit.
“What?” I demand.
“You're not an open book, Troy. Not with her.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You're basically performing half the time, deflecting the other half.”
“That's not true,” I argue, but even as I say it, I know he's right. With Delilah, I'm always caught between wanting her to see the real me and being terrified of what she'll think if she does.
“Maybe she just needs space,” Alfie says after a moment. “Not everyone processes things at the same speed.”
I exhale slowly, trying to let the tension flow out with my breath. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The car falls silent except for the low hum of the radio and the occasional ping from Alfie's phone.
“So,” I say, desperate to change the subject, “you and my sister. Still disgustingly perfect?”
Alfie's mouth quirks up at one corner. “We're good.”
“Just good?” I raise an eyebrow. “That's all I get?”
“What do you want me to say?” Alfie asks, the closest thing to flustered I've ever seen from him. “That she's amazing? That I think about her all the time? That I'm planning to—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
I nearly swerve the car. “Planning to what?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “Forget it.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “Were you about to say what I think you were about to say?”
“I don't know what you're thinking,” he deadpans, suddenly very interested in adjusting his seatbelt.
“Holy shit!” I breathe. “You want to propose.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” I'm grinning now, my worries about Delilah temporarily overshadowed. “Alfie and Tara sitting in a tree, M-A-R-R—”
“Shut up,” he says, but there's no heat in it. “I'm not—it's not—we haven't even graduated yet.”
“But you've thought about it,” I press, enjoying his discomfort way too much.
Alfie is quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost miss it: “Yeah. I have.”
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I expected more opposition, more of our usual back and forth.
“Wow,” I say finally. “You really love her.”
“Yeah.” No hesitation. No doubt. Just simple certainty.
I wonder what that feels like—to be so sure about someone. To know exactly what you want and not be afraid to admit it. You do.
“Well, for what it's worth,” I say, “I'm glad it's you. If anyone had to steal my sister's heart, I'd pick you.”
Alfie smiles, a real one, not his usual subtle twitch. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“Just don't make me an uncle too soon,” I add quickly. “I'm way too young and hot to be Uncle Troy.”
He rolls his eyes. “There it is.”
“What?”
He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and looks out of the window.
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. He's right, and we both know it.
“So what's the deal with you and Delilah?” Alfie asks after a mile or two of comfortable silence. “Are you actually into her, or is this just another Troy Hawkins conquest?”
A few months ago, I'd have laughed it off. Made some joke about how no one's immune to my charm. But now...
“I don't know,” I admit, the words feeling raw in my throat.
“And... good?” Alfie sounds genuinely curious.
I think about Delilah's sharp eyes seeing through my bullshit. Her refusal to be impressed by my smile. The way she demands more from me—and somehow makes me want to give it.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It is.”
Alfie nods like I've confirmed something he already suspected.
“That's why you're freaking out,” he says. “Because it matters.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the road, not trusting myself to look at him. “Maybe.”
“For what it's worth,” he says, echoing my earlier words, “I think she feels the same way. She's just figuring it out too.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
I want to believe him. I want it more than I've wanted almost anything in a long time.
“Well,” I say, forcing my voice back to its usual lightness, “if that's true, she has terrible taste.”
Alfie snorts. “Must run in the family.”
I punch his arm lightly. “You calling yourself terrible, buddy?”
“I'm calling myself an acquired taste,” he corrects. “Like whiskey, or jazz.”
“Or those weird French cheeses Ethan eats that smell like feet.”
“Exactly.”
We fall into easy conversation after that, debating whether expensive cheese is actually good or just something people pretend to like, arguing over music choices, planning the weekend's activities.
But in the back of my mind I can’t forget Delilah’s face at breakfast, she looked hurt and it kills me not knowing why.
I'm heading back from the engineering lab, arms full of material samples and my mind running through load calculations, when I spot Jared leaning against the wall outside the building. My steps falter. He hasn't seen me yet, and for a second I consider turning around.
“Hawkins!” he calls, too loud, like he's performing for an audience that isn't there.
I keep walking, adjusting my grip on the samples. “Not now, Jared.”
He pushes off the wall, falling into step beside me. “Come on, man. Haven't seen you at any parties lately. Where've you been hiding?”
“Working,” I say flatly.
“Right. The toilet project.” He smirks. “With Greer. I bet that’s fun.”
Something in his tone makes me stop. “What about her?”
Jared holds up his hands. “Nothing, nothing. Just impressed, that's all.”
“Impressed?” I eye him warily.
“Yeah. Never figured you'd partner with someone just to fuck them. She’s a tease, I’ll give you that.” He shrugs like he's discussing the weather. “Strategic, though. I respect it.”
The samples nearly slip from my hands. “What did you just say?”
“Relax, it's a compliment.” Jared leans in, dropping his voice like we're sharing a secret. “She's feisty, not your usual type, but I can see why you want to smash that. Those legs, right? And the whole uptight thing she does—bet she's wild once you—”
I drop the samples on a nearby bench, hands suddenly free.
“Take it back,” I say, my voice low. “Now.”
Jared blinks, genuinely confused. “What? Come on, Troy. Don't tell me you're actually into her for real?”
“Delilah's ten times smarter than you'll ever be,” I say, stepping closer. “She works harder than anyone I know. And she doesn't need her daddy buying her way into competitions.”
The confusion on his face shifts to something uglier. “Jesus, she's really got you whipped, huh?”
“No, she's got me seeing clearly for the first time.” I shake my head, a harsh laugh escaping me. “You know, I've known you for what, four years? And I never realized what a complete loser you are.”
Jared's expression hardens. “Watch it, Hawkins.”
“No, you watch it.” I don't recognize my own voice, raw and sharp. “You don't talk about her like that. Not ever. We're done.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then his lips curl into a sneer. “Seriously? You're throwing away years of friendship over some random girl who probably won't even stick around after the competition?”
“She's not random. And we were never friends.” The realization hits me as I say it. “Friends don't try to tear each other down. Friends don't brag about their connections while others are working their asses off. Friends support each other.”
“Oh, and she supports you?” Jared scoffs. “She barely tolerated you a month ago.”
“She challenges me,” I counter. “Makes me better. When's the last time you did that for anyone?”
He steps back, studying me like I'm a stranger. Maybe I am—to him, to myself. I don't know anymore.
“Is she really worth losing all this over?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between us. “Worth throwing away your reputation, your social life? ‘Cause I promise you people will be on my side.”
I think about Delilah—hunched over blueprints at 2 AM, arguing passionately about sustainable materials, the rare smile she lets slip when she thinks I'm not looking. I think about how she pushes me, calls me on my bullshit, sees more in me than the carefully constructed image I show everyone else.
“Yes,” I say simply. “She is.”
I gather up my samples and walk away without looking back.
Behind me, Jared calls, “You're going to regret this, Hawkins!”