Chapter Forty-Seven
Delilah
Everything smells like Benji. Sex and soap and sunshine and sin. My whole body remembers him, aching in that delicious way, as I stretch into his pillow like the world’s horniest cat. I burrow in. Smother myself.
There’s a fucking dandelion on the nightstand. Not the yellow flower kind, the full puffball make a wish, bitch kind. The kind you blow and lie to the universe with. In a goddamn vase. There’s a second stem beside it, plucked bare, and a note folded neat.
Make a wish. They work. As soon as I blew on mine, you smiled and sighed into my pillow. That’s all I ever wish for. You, smiling at the thought of me. See you at the pool.
Benji.
Benji, Benji, Benji.
How is he real? How does a man get to be this obscenely good? Like, full spectrum. Gold-star lover and Disney-prince feelings factory.
He did that. He wrote that. While his cum was still drying on my thigh. Who is this man and what spell did I accidentally cast to summon him?
How can anyone be that sincerely sweet and still fuck like Benji fucks?
He fucks like a lumberjack with a minor in tantric cuddling and a PhD in aftercare.
It’s not fair. That shit should come with a warning label and a support group.
It’s criminal. I’d testify against him and then blow him in the courthouse hallway.
I pluck the dandelion out of its vase and close my eyes. My heart is doing dangerous, fluttery things.
“I wish…”
What the fuck do I wish?
“I wish…”
Goddamn it, Benji. You’re giving me real fucking feelings.
“I wish I don’t screw this up. I wish Benji knows how much I love him. And I wish that doesn’t scare him off.”
And maybe. No. No maybe. I blow.
Because if I get that, that’s enough.
The seeds scatter like magic static in the air and one of them lands on my nipple. Which I take as a sign that the wish is granted.
That’s me now. The girlfriend making heartfelt magical wishes.
But next it’s to the pool. Because I’m still doing this whole growth and healing therapy thing. Gross. And also because being wet, mostly naked, and wrapped around Benji is the kind of Saturday that makes life worth all the dumb hard parts.
There’s a continental breakfast waiting for me in the kitchen like I’m in some softcore porno hosted by the Food Network. I stand there naked, eating it straight off the counter.
“Do you think any of this is real?” I ask Mr. Wriggles, who is perched nobly on the windowsill getting his daily dose of vitamin D. I’m a responsible worm mother.
He doesn’t answer. He never does. But he wiggles slightly to the left, which I’ve decided means yes or possibly you’re spiraling again, babe. Same difference.
“Benji told me Jett and Rhys are coming to the pool later. Just to hang. Bro out. Splash around. Compare abs. Whatever.” I chew as I talk, because worms don’t give a shit about manners and also I’m eating a very flaky pastry and it deserves to be multitasked.
“They’re all going to the gym tomorrow too,” I continue, as I brush the croissant crumbs from my cleavage. “Together. Like some kinda muscle-bound husbands’ club.”
I pour orange juice into a glass, because drinking from the carton is vile. No matter how sex-dumb I get over Benji, I still have standards.
“What if they become, like… besties?” I whisper at Mr. Wriggles.
“Like… jerk-each-other-off-after-leg-day close. And then they realize they don’t need me at all.
Just a trio of terrifyingly hot, emotionally complex men who see each other and go full bro-harem without me.
I’ll be the weird little slutty gremlin who introduced them.
Like some depraved fairy god-whore who wanders off into the woods after the dick princes find true friendship. ”
Mr. Wriggles flops slightly.
“And I mean, Jett and Benji fuck like orgasms are on BOGO. And if Rhys fucks like he kisses, methodical and respectful but also like he’s two seconds from snapping and breaking the headboard with your pelvis, then we’re gonna have a serious problem on Tuesday because I have to walk out of that office, not be carried out on a stretcher. ”
Mr. Wriggles burrows. I choose to interpret this as modest embarrassment. Or silent agreement.
“Anyway,” I say, downing the OJ, “I’m fine. I’m normal. Definitely not having a full-bodied panic orgasm while eating breakfast naked in my maybe-boyfriend’s kitchen while talking to a worm.”
Mr. Wriggles doesn’t respond. Because he knows. He always knows.
After a fast clean up I make my way to the pool.
It’s only been a week since Benji first slipped his giant arms around me in that chlorine-scented fuck palace he calls a pool, and somehow my entire life has melted and reformed around it like a cheap Barbie in a microwave.
I park in the same spot. Because I’m nostalgic. Or obsessive. Same thing. My fingers twitch toward the glove box where the binoculars live. Then pause.
I don’t need them anymore.
Which is, what? Progress?
I can just walk in now. Strut through those gates like I belong here.
And I’m not a raccoon in a sunhat who used to hide in the bushes sniffing his wet footprints.
I’m Benji’s actual maybe-sort-of girlfriend and not just some deranged, sex-drunk therapy goblin who’s been haunting his pool like a siren with abandonment issues.
Can I still text Rhys questions now that he and Benji are hanging out? Does bro code apply? Do I need to find a new therapist? Especially since Rhys kisses like a priest who stopped believing in God and started believing in me.
I’m spiraling. That’s fine. I like it down here.
No sign of Rhys or Jett yet, so I swing my legs out of the car and pull on my pink sunhat and heart-shaped glasses. My pinup cover-up swishes behind me. Today I own this pool.
I walk in and immediately trip over my own fucking pride.
Because Benji, my Benji, my sweet dandelion-hung pool daddy, is currently in the water, lacing fingers with Susan.
Fucking Susan.
Of course Susan’s ass is doing hateful things to physics while she giggles and floats like a smug little donut. Her hair’s slicked back like she’s starring in a very budget Baywatch reboot and she’s got her fingers curled around his like she bought them on Etsy.
And I hate to say it, but her ass does look good.
Her eyebrows are still tragedy in two arches. Sharpie vibes.
I freeze mid-strut, stunned into silence, betrayal, and a deep, clawing wave of what the actual fuck. I drop into the nearest lounge chair.
That’s when I see Kira. Goose lady. She’s poolside, legs crossed like a threat.
Looking like a sexy heron ready to steal my man and my self-worth.
Elegant. Slim. Legs for days. The kind of woman who eats fruit from porcelain dishes and never once thinks about licking Nutella off someone’s abs in a Target parking lot.
What the fuck is happening? Why are the women who thirst after Rhys suddenly migrating to Benji’s pool?
My fists curl. My brain tries to say be cool but my body is already planning a water-based felony. My rage is goose-shaped and wears expensive sunscreen.
“Good job, lover,” Kira calls out in her goose voice.
Time. Stops.
Lover?
Lover??
LOVER?
Benji smiles. Like he didn’t just get caught in a sexy cult with bitches who moisturize.
And then Kira stands. Does that floaty walk, hips all sway and no shame, and glides over to Susan.
I’m holding my breath like I’m in a hostage negotiation.
She wraps her arms around Susan’s waist. Possessively. And they kiss.
They kiss.
They fucking kiss.
Okay. Okay. Okay. That’s fine. That’s great. That’s actually hot as fuck. That’s not Benji’s girlfriend. That’s Benji’s friend’s girlfriend. Or girlfriend’s girlfriend. Or maybe they’re all just bi and hydrated and I’m having a bisexual panic in a cherry print bikini.
They’re still kissing.
I am an insecure disaster with a front-row seat to gay mermaid porn. And I can’t even be mad, because it’s so fucking beautiful. I am a voyeur with abandonment issues. Staring like it’s my job. I don’t know if I’m turned on or just grateful they’re not competing for Benji’s dick.
Christ, the way they’re kissing. It’s like watching two sea nymphs make out before sacrificing a man to Poseidon. I’m torn between asking to join or calling Animal Control because I’m not equipped for this level of aquatic chaos.
I fold deeper into the lounge chair, clutching the armrests.
Okay. Okay. Everything’s fine.
Susan’s not a threat. Kira’s not a threat.
Unless they’re both threats. Together. In a power-couple, gay sea-witch kind of way.
And Benji… sweet Benji… is just smiling at them.
He glances over and spots me.
And just like that, his smile goes from polite lifeguard to there she is, and I forget how breathing works. It’s that real smile. The one that makes me want to take his last name, embroider it on my underwear, and not even hyphenate. Full surrender. Take me, Coach Dandelion. I’ll wear the merch.
Susan and Kira are still kissing like they’re auditioning for a synchronized porn team, and if you can hold a kiss that long without dying, you don’t need swim lessons. You need a medal and maybe a defibrillator.
I feel lighter.
Maybe that dandelion on his nightstand knew something I didn’t. The universe looked down at me trying not to unravel and went: okay, babe, here’s a bonus level. We’re tying off your weird Rhys triangle. You earned it.
Sticker heart. Two tasks complete.
Because now Kira can come model for Rhys again. Susan can keep her shitty desk job. And that’s fine. That’s totally fine.
I’m not threatened.
I’m enlightened.