Chapter Twenty
Delilah
I’m at the store. A responsible adult. A woman with goals. On a mission to melt my therapist into a puddle of ethical failure. I’m here for essentials. Lip gloss. Lube. Lingerie that says “oops, did I drop my trauma right on your face?” And snacks that I can feed him from the couch in his office.
But all I can think about is Jett.
More specifically, Jett’s fingers.
More more specifically, the way he sucked them clean after finger-fucking me on his bike like he wanted to slurp the memory straight from his skin.
And then Chad.
Chad, the limp-dicked fucking oatmeal ghost walked out at the worst possible moment.
Jett was about to ruin me. I felt it. Felt the wild coil of fury inside him unwind into filth. Felt the switch flip behind his eyes like boom, welcome to the dark side, we’re gonna fuck on chrome and leather.
But no.
Chad the walking restraining order had to slither out of the gym, looking smug, like Jett wouldn’t snap him like a breadstick if not for the court system.
I grip the cart. My nails squeak on the handle. “He was gonna use teeth,” I whisper to myself in the breakfast aisle.
A woman with a toddler slowly wheels away.
Fine. Whatever. I’m flexible. I pivot.
First: get everything I need for Rhys. Chocolate, shame, a new glitter pen in case I need to journal about crossing more lines with his tongue.
Then we handle Chad.
I veer into sporting goods, not even sure what I need.
And there it is. An aluminum baseball bat. Neon bubblegum pink. Glinting under the fluorescent lights like the chosen weapon of a cheerleader-turned-slasher villain. I caress the handle. She’s perfect. She feels right.
“Hello, beloved.”
Into the cart she goes.
I roll into cosmetics next, grab two tubes of the ugliest, sluttiest fluorescent lipstick I can find. Not red. Not hot pink. This bitch is orange. Because Chad doesn’t deserve MAC. He deserves dollar store Cheeto stains and fear-sweat.
Then I hit crafts.
Ribbon. Silver glitter. A blank tag shaped like a heart. Precious.
I’m nearly done when divine inspiration strikes. I spin my cart around and make one final stop: bait.
A tub of gummy worms. Sour. Slippery. Unholy little bastards. I get the family size.
Because metaphor matters.
As I’m loading my trunk with romantic arsenals my phone buzzes.
Benji: Thought about you all day. Came home, saw your chaos. Felt loved. Thank you.
I nearly drop the bat. My fingers hover over the screen. My heart is doing gymnastics. My uterus just dropped a little egg and scribbled hope on it in pink gel pen like a dumb bitch.
Did he just thank me for breaking and entering?
See, Hank? Some men appreciate aggressive love languages. Some men get it. Some men are built for the emotional equivalent of being mauled by a raccoon in a negligee.
My heart does this weird thing. Not the usual feral-thump of lust or that cackling shriek I hear when I’m about to commit arson. No. This is soft. Weird. Vulnerable.
Am I being emotionally waterboarded by kindness?
Oh god. Is this… no. No no no. Is this love?
Love love? Like, not court-ordered, not filed-under-evidence, not documented-by-security-camera love?
Is that allowed?
I stand frozen beside my car, swaying like a bitch in a Jane Austen adaptation. The feelings hit like a glitter-covered semi hauling feral swans and scented candles.
I text back before I can think:
Me: I took your shirt. It smells like you.
Send.
Send? What the fuck was that, me?
Who am I? A girlfriend? A real person? We had sex and he didn’t ghost me. I broke in and he felt seen? This is either love or a psychotic break.
Maybe both.
I feel itchy all over. My feelings are moshing in my ribs like feral Girl Scouts hopped up on frosting and lies.
This has all the hallmarks of normal human relationship dynamics, and I’m dangerously underqualified.
I need to talk to Rhys. Immediately. Because if Benji’s being sweet on purpose, and not out of trauma or confusion or low blood sugar, then I am in over my head and possibly about to ruin everything.
Of course Office Bitch won’t give Rhys my message or forward me to his personal line. I ask for his cell. She gives me attitude.
“If it’s an emergency, go to the ER. If not, you have an appointment tomorrow.”
I hang up mid-eyeroll.
Yeah, okay, Susan-with-the-bland-personality. We all know why you’re gatekeeping the good doctor. You want to have Rhys’s ethically-bound babies and name them something like Valor or Aspen. Not happening. Your brows look like they were drawn on by someone actively being tased.
I need an outlet. A healthy one, like knitting. Or crime.
So I drive to Chad’s.
I park a block from his overpriced apartment.
No cameras. No witnesses. Just me, my rage, and a hot pink balaclava I bought on Etsy from someone named “GagMeSoftly.” It’s bedazzled.
There’s a rhinestone heart over one eyebrow.
I pull it on like war paint and step into the night with all the elegance of a raccoon who knows her rights.
The street is quiet. Blessed. I stalk across the pavement like I’m walking a Victoria’s Secret runway made of unresolved trauma and suppressed rage.
Chad’s car squats under a flickering streetlight like a smug little shrine to my cockblocked second orgasm. That unbirthed climax I’ll mourn forever.
I do a quick sweep, then drop my tote bag of bitchcraft and retribution, unzip it like a surgeon prepping for surgery, and draw the pink baseball bat with reverence.
“One side mirror for Jett,” I say, then swing.
Off it goes, clattering to the pavement like a decapitated limb.
The second mirror mocks me. I swing. It stays. I swing again. Nothing.
“Okay,” I huff, adjusting my stance. “That’s fair. I didn’t stretch.”
Plan B. I dent the driver’s side door. Twice. Three times. The last hit is more of a mental-health bonk, but it echoes with the kind of energy that gets restraining orders re-evaluated.
I breathe. Then get to the art.
Out comes the dollar store lipstick, radioactive orange. I strut to the windshield and scrawl across the glass in aggressive cursive:
FIND A NEW GYM.
The dot on the i? A glitter-covered gummy worm pressed dead center like a cursed exclamation mark.
I tie the bat to the windshield wiper using silver ribbon from the craft aisle and hang the tag off it:
This was foreplay.
Try me again and you’ll be fucked.
Then I sign the tag with a kiss. Full gloss. No smudges. Perfect.
But I’m not done.
Because Chad fucked with my Jett moment. Chad interrupted divine biker-fingered justice. So now Chad gets the deluxe package.
I drop the rest of the gummy worms across the hood like some sour candy sacrifice to the gods of petty vengeance. Then I raise my palm and unleash glitter like a fabulous warlock casting a level-10 petty curse.
I glance at his license plate. It’s too smug.
So I draw a penis on it with the lipstick. A tasteful one. Curated. Veiny.
I pause. Crouch. Eye the tailpipe.
“He really did ruin my second round,” I whisper.
I shove three gummy worms up the tailpipe, pat the car goodbye and whisper, “Namaste, fuckstick.”
Then disappear into the night.
Pink balaclava. Glitter on my hands. Justice in my heart.