Chapter Thirty-One
Delilah
This is where I thrive, in the whiplash silence after they run, I tell myself as I dismantle the two sad-ass hamburgers and Frankenstein them into one monstrous, soggy, fuck-you sandwich.
I flourish in the absolute clusterfuck I created.
Where I crack the moment wide open and wonder why they’re bleeding.
Where I act like loving him hard is the same as loving him right.
I owe Jett right.
I take a bite, jaw grinding wet bread, congealed cheese, and hot shame into a paste of regret.
I stare at the dried ketchup on the wall.
On the bed. On me. The burger’s cold. So are the fries.
And the cheese sticks. And the limp-dicked little hot dog.
Even the goddamn cherry pie looks like it’s contemplating suicide.
This isn’t a one-night-stand meal. This is a last-rites smorgasbord. A grief buffet. A “welcome to the fallout of loving me” Happy Meal.
I rewrote his fucking soul and he tattooed his name across mine and then I panicked like a coward with a match in my teeth.
Maybe I hurt him.
No. Fuck “maybe.” I shattered him. I saw it. Saw his face when the words hit, when I dropped honesty like a bomb and called it love like that made it better.
It was true. And it landed like betrayal anyway.
And still, I’m not walking away.
Not unless he slams the door and changes the locks.
He needs to know I don’t love him second. Or last. Or some watered-down fraction like he’s just a chapter in a bigger story. He’s ink. On every goddamn page. In my margins. In my blood. Under my fucking fingernails.
I tug a pickle off the burger and chew, thoughtful and deranged.
“Okay,” I say to the fries. “Next step?”
Text Benji.
Because Benji’s my ride-or-die cardigan boy. My GPS-enabled prince of patience.
Me: Sweet dreams. Thinking of you. Tracker says you’ve been home all night. I hope you’re feeling well. Do you need soup?
Benji: I’m good. You?
Me: Not good. Jett fucked me and then I told him about you and Rhys and he left. Angry.
Benji: I’m here if you need me.
Me: I do. I have some errands. And journaling.
Benji: What can I do?
Me: Just be there. Even when I’m dialed to chaos. Even when I’m chewing through my own leash. Even when I’m Delilah
Benji: Right here.
I don’t clean the room. I don’t strip the sheets. I don’t even throw away the pie.
This isn’t a motel. This is a crime scene. A shrine to self-sabotage. A goddamn love letter in ketchup and cum.
This is what it looks like when I open up and fuck it all sideways.
Delilah style.
I drive like a woman possessed by spite, sex, and the primal urge to prove to the man I love that I love him exactly the way his chaos-wrapped soul likes it: feral, frantic, and maybe a little concerning.
I skip the balloons, the flowers, the funny monsters holding hearts. We’re not in fuzzy googly-eyed territory anymore. I need a card that says, I’m still walking funny, but that’s not the only ache you left me with.
And boom. There it is.
On the front is a teddy bear with its guts spilling out and one little patch hand-stitched over its sad plush heart.
Perfect. He’s gonna hate it. He’s gonna love it.
I pull my glitter pen from my bra and scribble “We came apart a little, but I still want your stuffing.”
A woman who smells like haunted potpourri glares at me like I just raw-dogged the glitter pen and moaned about it.
I give her a full “mind your own trauma, Agnes” stare, then wink while underlining stuffing twice.
That’s right, lady. I love loud.
Inside I write: “I told you too much, and I told you too late. I fucked up. But I’m still here. If you open the door again, I’ll be on the floor outside it, covered in shame and French fries.
P.S. The pie regrets everything too.
I tuck it into the most emotionally confused gift bag I can find. It’s black velvet with silver stars. Next I head to the toy section. Because this man needs something soft. Something he won’t admit to liking.
Like a sign from the universe I see a tiny chili pepper Squishmallow. Red. Round. Pissed off. Soft in the middle.
Basically Jett, if he were reincarnated as an emotional support vegetable.
He’s danger-flavored affection. He makes my throat close up and my thighs open.
I clutch it to my chest like a sex witch claiming a cursed artifact.
Then I hit the snacks aisle like a bloodhound in heat.
I grab Candy-coated chocolates. No raisins.
I’ve seen him dig around them. Mixed nuts, but only the salty slutty kind.
None of that dentist trail mix with the dried banana shame.
Some spicy jerky. Cherry pie for dramatic symbolism.
Gatorade because we both lost enough fluids to qualify for FEMA aid.
Jett thinks I don’t love him?
I’d embroider it into my organs if I thought he’d check.
Just wait till he opens the bag and sees the chili pepper plushie.
That’s not a gift. That’s a confession with stuffing.
It screams I love you, you rage-fueled trauma cupcake, and I’d let you ruin me again in the name of healing.
On the drive to Jett’s house, which I definitely did not find by stalking property records and performing light, recreational cybercrime, I rehearse what I’ll say if he’s still awake.
“You bit me. Congrats, we’re bonded by blood magic now, I belong to you. That’s why I’m here. Totally not because I committed several federal offenses to find your address.”
But when I pull up, my heart dropkicks itself straight into my uterus.
His bike isn’t there.
No saddlebags. No sexy motorcycle. No way to shove this lovebomb where he’ll find it and pretend I “just happened” to be in the area, no big deal, don’t read into it, also here’s a stuffed pepper that looks like you and snacks coded in emotional damage.
I sit in the car, spiraling at 80mph while parked.
What if this isn’t his house?
What if I misread the number?
What if I’m outside a stranger’s house about to commit felony-level trespassing with a gift bag full of horny apologies?
Someone across the street is watching from behind their curtains like it’s a matinee of Dateline: Unwell and Unsupervised.
Oh my god. They know. They know I’m casing the place.
And if this is Jett’s house, how dare they stare at my man’s windows like that?
Should I wave? Should I go ask them to confirm his address?
Should I throw glitter in their mailbox as a warning?
No. Focus.
If this isn’t his place and the occupant is married and some sad housewife finds this bag, I’ve now delivered emotional warfare in Squishmallow form directly to their doorstep.
They must have done something to deserve the karma.
So be it.
I am the drama.
I grab the bag and strut up to the porch like a woman on a mission from a horny God.
The house is…plain. Suspiciously so.
Nothing screams “rage-goblin gremlin man lives here.”
No dents in the door. No punched porch decor. Not even one single hot-man bootprint.
Still, I try the front doorknob like a totally normal person with no sense of boundaries or fear of breaking and entering laws.
Locked. Rude.
I look over my shoulder.
Nosy neighbor? Gone. Vanished. Probably dialing 911 and describing me as “a pixie-shaped domestic terrorist with sparkly tits.”
So I do what any emotionally compromised, extremely sane girlfriend does when faced with a locked door and no witness: I circle the house like a sexy raccoon looking for access.
Back door? Locked.
Windows? Ohoho… one’s cracked.
Game on.
I set down the bag, hike up my “I’m not breaking in, I’m breaking through” attitude, and drag a patio chair over. It’s metal and squeaky and I’m sure I look like a fucking lawn gnome committing a heist.
God, I really hope this is Jett’s house.
If not, someone is about to have a very confusing morning, a new chili pepper plushie, and several snacks that say “I love you” in bold, unhinged font.
The window creaks open in horror movie invitation style. I wriggle my ass through the frame like a glitter-coated raccoon with a mission, planting one heeled foot inside the house, claiming the land in the name of horny colonialism.
The window dumps me into what I assume is his laundry room. Dark, sterile, and smelling faintly of soap, gasoline, and unresolved issues. Very Jett.
I pause. Heart pounding. Pussy whispering, he’s gonna know.
This is so illegal. And so romantic.
I grab the bag and tiptoe through the house like I belong here, which I absolutely do, emotionally if not legally.
The air is thick with the ghost of testosterone.
The silence buzzes like the universe is watching, holding its breath, letting me be exactly this crazy because it knows he’ll secretly love it.
The kitchen’s first.
Fridge? Milk. Half a protein shake. Six string cheeses. A pack of deli meat he probably chews like jerky. Two beers. One slice of pie in a plastic container that looks exactly like the kind from the gas station.
I coo at it like it’s our child. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I brought backup.”
I slip in the pie from the bag, close the fridge, peek at the magnetless front, and whisper, “You cold, lonely bastard.”
The living room is bare bones. Minimal furniture. A single throw pillow that looks angrily sat on. An ashtray. One cup. A knife that’s definitely been used for something not-food.
It’s not cozy. It’s Jett.
I find his bedroom. I don’t just enter. I descend, like I’m entering a sacred, emotionally repressed shrine. The bed is unmade and smells like sweat, sex, and rage.
I drop the bag on his bed. Tenderly. Respectfully.
Then I pause. Bite my lip. Feel the chaos swelling behind my ribcage like a glitter bomb of terrible ideas.
I want to leave a trace.
No. Not a trace. A claim.
So I strip.
My sundress? Off.
Lacy, pale, delicate like my sanity. I lay it out across the bed, soft and obvious. Like a question. “You already fucked me in this once, what’s round two gonna look like?”
Then I open his dresser and pull out a T-shirt. It’s huge. Soft. Faded black. Smells like him and sin. I put it on. Full girlfriend mode.
I glance around, hungry for more.
His bathroom. I sprint.
There’s cologne on the sink. I spritz it into the air and spin through it like a deranged perfume commercial. I inhale so hard I nearly give myself a huffing problem.
Then I pull my lipstick from my bra. Yes, it lives there, it’s a support pouch for both tits and chaotic decisions.
I draw a heart on his mirror. I kiss it.
Full lips. Perfect print. DNA level confession.
I step back, admire my work, whisper, “this is what love looks like, Jett, you emotionally chaotic sex wolf.” And then I whisper to my own reflection, “You’re so mentally unwell. I’m proud of you.”
On my way out I linger. Touch things. Sit on the couch just to leave a tiny glitter butt print. Check the fridge again and adjust the cherry pie front and center. A threatening promise.
Back at the window, I slip through with the grace of someone who has definitely done this before. I don’t look back.
He’ll find the bag.
The dress.
See the heart.
He’ll feel me in every corner of the house.
I didn’t break in. I broke through.