Chapter Five
Delilah
I’m committed to the process.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I slide another gel pen into the crook of my elbow like I’m assembling an emotionally unstable assassin kit. For war. Or for bullet journaling, which is basically the same thing.
It might have something to do with Rhys.
Specifically, the way his voice scrapes the word boundaries across my nerve endings.
Or the way his mouth does that little disapproving bow like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on self-regulation, but then he looks at me like I’m a fever dream he can’t sweat out.
So yeah. I’m in my favorite place: the holy land of stationery adjacent emotional warfare.
Office supply store? Emotional support battlefield? Target’s overstimulated, glitter-snorting cousin who just got dumped and discovered moon water?
I don’t know. But it smells like dry erase markers and seasonal depression, and I feel seen.
Rhys wants me to journal about my “progress.” About Hank.
Closure, growth, forgiveness. Yawn.
None of my current journals really scream Hank Closure. They scream Hex Your Ex or A Detailed Log of Intrusive Thoughts: Now With Stickers.
But then I see a journal that’s… trying.
Not aggressively inspirational, not screaming in gold foil affirmations.
Just watercolor swirls, soft and splotchy like a regretful bruise.
The kind of notebook that says, “I might be romantic or I might be emotionally avoidant, you won’t know ‘til page forty-seven.” It’s almost cheerful, but in the way a recovering people-pleaser is cheerful. It has baggage.
Perfect.
And if I’m gonna do this whole journaling thing right, maybe I need one for each of them.
Them being: Rhys. Jett. Benji. My brain’s own little fucked-up boy band. My personal trinity of danger, delusion, and dimples.
I head to the back and spot a three-subject binder.
Fate just moaned softly in my ear.
Three sections. Three men. Three emotional catastrophes waiting to be catalogued like sacred texts.
Yes.
Let’s get academically horny.
Back to the journals.
Rhys’s takes the longest to pick. Obviously.
The plain black composition notebook feels too cliché.
He’s not a poetry-under-the-lamppost kind of bitch.
He’s leather and stifled moans and precision.
After twenty full minutes of squinting and judging cover fonts, I find the one: matte navy, softbound, with a subtle embossed spine and paper so smooth it feels like sin.
It says, “I’ll critique your journaling technique while fantasizing about your hands. ”
Jett’s is easier.
Neon pink. Covered in little glitter skulls and chaotic lightning bolts.
Some of the skulls have hearts in their eye sockets.
I don’t know if that’s supposed to be cute or terrifying.
Which makes it wildly appropriate. The back cover has a warning sticker that just says “MAY CONTAIN FIRE.” It absolutely does.
Benji’s makes me laugh out loud in the aisle, which earns me a side-eye from a woman clutching pastel post-its like they’re a rosary.
His has a cartoon cupcake on the front with the words “TOO SWEET FOR THIS WORLD” in bubble letters.
There are sprinkles embedded in resin on the spine.
He’d blush so hard if I showed it to him, he might pass out.
I, meanwhile, might ovulate hard enough to knock over a shelf of ring binders.
With my arms full of weaponized self-discovery, I cross into the accessories section.
And that’s when the universe screams: “Hi, bitch.”
Because what do I see?
A pair of oversized heart-shaped sunglasses.
Hot pink. Coated in glitter. The kind you can hide behind like a celebrity caught in a scandal or a raccoon caught in the dishwasher.
I lock eyes with the sunglasses like we’re ex-lovers in a telenovela.
There’s tension. There’s destiny. There’s glitter. It’s fate with UV protection.
Next to them on a display is a massive floppy sunhat with matching pink trim. Wide-brimmed. Dramatic. Just this side of villainous.
Together, they say, “I am here for reconnaissance, romance, and revenge. But I will do it in shade and style.”
Does it cross from therapy into stalking if I wear a disguise?
No. It’s homework.
Court-appointed at that.
And I will look fucking phenomenal.
I check out with four journals, two pens, a three-ring binder, and a total pink plastic meltdown. Total? $38.76 and whatever’s left of my dignity.
Receipt in the bag? Of course. I’m keeping it. It’s Exhibit A in my trial of personal reinvention. And maybe the first artifact in my healing scrapbook/sexual awakening diary.
I leave the store armed with journals, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a legally dubious amount of motivation to move on from Hank.
The sun glints off my floppy hat, possibly blinding a pilot mid-descent. I radiate glamour and probable air traffic violations.
But I’m prepared for field research.
Jett, my chaotic little rage blossom, had a logo on his shirt during group. Red lettering. Angry font. I memorized it, obviously.
Google Maps is a girl’s best friend.
So now I’m standing in front of IronBlood Athletics, which sounds like either a gym, a protein powder, or a Scandinavian death metal band. Apparently, it’s the first one.
My sunglasses reflect the sterile gleam of floor-to-ceiling windows, but I press a palm to the glass and squint inside anyway like a Dickensian orphan eyeing roast goose and emotional closure.
There’s no sign of Jett. But I do see weights. So many weights.
So much testosterone.
So few shirts.
I push the door open and step inside. The air smells like eucalyptus and ego.
A man behind the counter looks up. Flirty Gym Guy. Tan. White teeth. Muscles like he curls his own emotions.
He smiles, catching the scent of commission in my delicately layered floral desperation. “Hey there. First time?”
I smile back. “Hi. Do I need a membership to walk on your little treadmills?”
He narrows his eyes, the customer service version of “what the fuck?”. “Uh, our cardio equipment is available with any basic plan. Did you want a tour?”
“I’m more of a self-directed learner.” I lean on the counter and tilt my sunglasses down just enough to look predatory. “Do you work out here? Or just... supervise the weak?”
He laughs, blushing a little. “I do both.”
Poor sweet meat puppet. I’m not here for you.
I scan the floor like a sniffer dog for chaos. No Jett. Just men grunting under weights, trying to evacuate demons from their lungs.
“Do you offer… personal training?” I ask, absently. My gaze skims over benches, mirrors, beefcake. Nothing.
Flirty Gym Guy lights up. “Absolutely. We’ve got great packages. I handle some sessions personally. Strength training, boxing, posture correction, glute activation. Whatever your goals are.”
My goal is your coworker’s soul. But sure, glutes sound nice.
And then I see Jett. The Viscount of V-Cuts.
Far corner of the gym. Backward cap, tank top, fingerless gloves.
He’s spotting some girl in lavender shorts. His hands hover around her waist, seconds from either praise or violence.
She giggles.
I try to remember the group therapy tips about managing triggers. Because did she just giggle at Jett?
My Jett?
Tip One: Do not commit a felony in a gym.
Tip Two: No feral lunges. Even if it’s leg day.
“…And that also includes access to nutrition planning, and wellness check-ins if you… Hello?” Flirty Gym Guy says.
“Yes,” I say. “Sign me up.”
He grins. “Great. For which package?”
“The one with the most personal training,” I say, eyes still locked on Jett.
Jett catches me staring. Smirks. Doesn’t wave.
I press my pink pen to the intake form like it’s a blood pact.
This isn’t crossing boundaries.
It’s called investing in my health.
And if health just so happens to look like Jett Ryker bench-pressing judgment and rolling his jaw like he’s about to bite God? Or my ass.
That’s between me, my glutes, and my higher self.
Jett saw me.
Knows I saw him.
And if he doesn’t know I just signed up for three months of cardio lies to be near him, he will soon.
Surprise, bestie. I’m your new gym crush.
Your move, Ryker.