Chapter Twelve
Delilah
I don’t know how I’m still in this chair and not in his lap, or under the table, or doing something deeply unholy with the little cup of nacho cheese.
Benji is amazing. Stupid-level amazing. I want to lick him. I want to rub my cheek against his chest and purr like I’ve emotionally imprinted on him like a baby duck in crisis.
Which. I might be.
This was supposed to be lunch. A casual little “haha let’s eat something solid after swimming so I don’t pass out in the parking lot.” But it’s been six hours and we’re on our second round of drinks and a full-ass pizza has shown up like a blessing from the carby gods.
My half is chaos in topping form: sausage, pineapple, hot peppers, and a sprinkle of regret. His is equally psychotic: banana peppers, sundried tomatoes, and pepperoni. He ordered it with the calm confidence of a man who knows how to commit to a choice.
I respect that.
But then he does something I’ve never seen done before.
He picks up a slice. Cuts off a neat, pointy triangle, not the crust, and dips the cheesy end directly into the nacho cheese.
I gawk at him. “You just…” I say slowly, in awe, “double cheesed your cheese.”
He looks up, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Try it?”
Try it? Was there any doubt I would?
I lean in. “Fuck yeah. I’m a mermaid now. We need the extra dairy.”
He nods, calm as sin. Because of course I’m a cheese-dependent mermaid. He’s already rewritten his worldview to accommodate that truth.
He holds the slice like it’s a holy offering, and I take the bite straight from his fork. It’s salty and gooey and unhinged and a little too hot, and I moan.
In the middle of a family-friendly sports bar, sounding like I just came in my pants over liquid cheese.
He goes pink. Just a little. But he doesn’t look away.
Just watches me chew like he’s studying a miracle.
I swallow, eyes wide. “Will you marry me?” I ask, dead serious.
He chuckles, soft and deep, and I feel it rumble in my spine. “We should at least get dessert first,” he says.
Coward.
But also? Valid.
We split a cookie skillet the size of a manhole cover, and by the time I’m borderline pornographing my spoon and he’s doing slow-mo spoon seduction like it’s foreplay, I’ve named our children and picked sweater colors.
When he offers to walk me to my car, I don’t say no.
The sun’s low, sky all pinky gold and soft edges, and I’m full of carbs and giddiness and completely deranged hope.
He walks close enough to brush my arm now and then. Big hands swinging loose.
We reach my car, and I turn to say goodbye, but the words get stuck somewhere behind my tongue and my stupid, betraying heart.
He looks down at me like I’m delicate. Like he’s afraid of pushing too fast or too far. Like he wants me, but only if I want him too.
And I do.
I nod before he even moves.
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft at first. Sweet. Careful. He’s either tasting me before he decides if I’m real or memorizing the curve of my mouth for later.
I make a tiny, needy little whimper and everything shifts.
His hand comes up to cradle my jaw.
And suddenly I’m not on the sidewalk.
I’m floating.
Drowning.
Melting.
Whatever the metaphor is for holy shit this man just kissed the stupid out of me.
He pulls back slowly, lips brushing mine like he’s not ready to stop.
Neither am I.
“I’ll text you?” he says, voice low, eyes soft.
I nod again, dizzy. “Please do. Or I’ll be forced to be more aggressive with my affection.” That was a little too honest.
He laughs. Kisses my forehead this time.
Then walks away like he didn’t just set me on fire and soften me all at once.
I sit in my car, hands on the wheel, heart a disaster, and whisper to no one, “I think I’m in trouble.”
I should not be allowed to drive right now. I am drunk on kindness. Buzzed on post-kiss dopamine and nacho cheese residue. This is worse than tequila. So much worse than tequila.
I’m gripping the steering wheel, blasting an old Mariah Carey song that I would absolutely never admit I know every single word to. My brain’s on a loop:
He kissed me.
He kissed me like he meant it.
He kissed me like I wasn’t a warning label in a sundress.
I hit a red light and slap both hands over my face and scream like I’m being exorcised. Just a raw primal scream into the void.
Benji is dangerously nice. I’m talking, pull-over-to-help-a-turtle-cross-the-road nice.
Pick-up-heavy-things-without-being-asked nice.
The kind of nice that makes me want to wrap myself around him like a scarf and never let go.
And that’s not safe. Because the nicer they are, the harder they crush your ribcage when they inevitably decide they don’t want your unhinged ass.
I park in front of my building and just sit there. Staring into the void. Mariah is still whisper-singing about butterflies and I’m having an identity crisis in the glow of my dashboard.
Eventually, I shuffle into my apartment like a freshly laid ghost. Still warm with after-kiss brain chemicals. I peel off my dress and stomp toward the bathroom.
I stand under the hot water and let it scald me into the present moment. I even try doing that grounding technique my old therapist taught me. Five things I can see. Four I can touch. Three I can taste. Two I can overanalyze. One I can spiral about for six hours and still not resolve.
Benji’s hands. That’s what’s burned into my skin. Not the chlorine. Not the sun. His giant, gentle hands holding me like I wasn’t something wild. Sharp around the edges. Or just too much.
And he let me order pineapple and hot pepper pizza without flinching. That’s love. That’s marriage material.
I rinse shampoo out of my hair and immediately go to Amazon with still-pruny fingers.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve ordered him a custom banana-shaped pool float with his name embroidered on the stem. I’ve also ordered two keychains, his and hers. They say: “If lost, return to Delilah.”
I’m not okay.
I should not be allowed to feel this soft about a man with biceps the size of my entire thigh. I should not want to print our names on matching water bottles and start calling it “our spot” when we go back to that sports bar.
And yet. It’s ours now.
I try to distract myself by folding laundry but wind up daydreaming about Benji’s hands. His shoulders. His mouth. The sound of his voice when he said “you deserve nice things, Delilah.” And the way he looked at me like I was the nice thing.
Next thing I know, I’m on my bed, wet in a whole different way, biting my knuckle and moaning his name into my pillow.
It’s not even a filthy fantasy this time. Not really. It’s soft. Sweet. Him kneeling behind me in the water, lifting my hair off my neck, kissing me slow like it’s sacred. Him murmuring, “I’ve got you,” like a promise.
I come harder than I meant to. Too much feeling. Too much trust. I start laughing. Then crying. Then laughing again. It’s honestly disturbing.
10:48PM: Benji Texts
Benji: Just wanted to say goodnight. Today was really special. You’re really special. Sleep sweet, okay?
I drop my phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling.
Sleep sweet. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
He sends me a golden heart emoji and I’m ovulating straight through my birth control. I can feel my uterus trying to build him a crib out of devotion and Target coupons.
I’m going to have to fake my own death and marry him under a new identity.
Probably tomorrow.