Chapter Sixty
Delilah
A Few Weeks Later
It’s weird not journaling anymore.
Not in the obsessive, stalker scrapbook, googly-eyes-and-daggers way. Not even in the court-mandated reflect on your actions before someone else does it for you way. Just… not at all. My hands miss it. My brain itches. I talk too much now to fill the gap, and all three of them let me.
I gave them their journals. The real ones. The ones with glittery ink and chaotic stickers and loose candy wrappers folded inside like bookmarks. Secrets and confessions and paint smudges from all the nights I bled out on the page about them.
Benji read his with me. He cried. He thanked me, like I’d gifted him a sweater instead of every feral, filthy, starry-eyed thought I’ve ever had about him. He keeps it in his nightstand.
He wrote me back. Whole damn journal full of his big, soft, syrupy heart. I had to read it in the bathtub so no one would see me sob and accuse me of having human emotions.
I found Jett’s in his t-shirt drawer while I was hunting the next shirt to steal.
(I’m up to five now. He’s stopped pretending to care.) The cover’s worn down already.
He’s definitely read it. Possibly more than once.
It smells like me. I think he holds it. I think if I asked him, he’d deny it.
If I asked him nicely, he’d fold like wet cardboard and ask for more.
Rhys’s lives in his home office. I bet he annotates it.
I bet he color codes. I bet he reads it before group therapy sessions just to remember exactly how deep in the trenches he’s fallen.
He hasn’t said a word about it, but he’s quieter when I bring up my past now. Gentle. Less clinical. More mine.
They’re still learning to share.
Not just me, though, yes, I am the main dish they all want to hoard and hand-feed and rail senseless, but each other too.
Rhys and Jett text now. About sports. Benji and Jett spot each other at the gym.
Rhys and Benji meet up for wine nights and “quiet conversation,” which I’m 95% sure is code for “sobbing into each other’s arms about how emotionally unwell they are. ”
It’s… beautiful.
When I’m not sandwiched between them like some kind of slutty neapolitan ice cream bar, they’re like best friends. It kills me. It heals me. I’m annoying about it.
They have their rhythm now. The gym. The sports bar. Nude drawing class, which I still pose for, obviously, because my tits are masterpieces and my thighs deserve applause.
And when I’m not the model? Benji is. Which, excuse me, was my idea and remains the best decision I’ve ever made.
He’s a class favorite. He blushes the whole time but holds still and does those little flexes on accident that make people gasp.
I watch in the corner like a proud and slightly horny stage mom.
Jett drew a stick figure of him. With a massive cock.
Rhys gave it an A- for “commitment to scale.”
But today isn’t drawing. Or therapy. Or fucking in weird configurations. Or arguing over whose turn it is to pick the movie while I sit in Benji’s lap and sneak bites of Rhys’s snacks.
Today is swim lessons.
My last swim lesson.
And I still haven’t swam without a kickboard or Benji’s hands on me. Or both. Usually both. Sometimes his hands drift. Sometimes I let them.
Sometimes Jett’s on the pool deck growling about how much attention I’m giving to “that fuckin’ floatie with muscles.”
Sometimes Rhys is on a lounge chair, pretending he’s not watching my ass.
But today if I can do it, really do it, kickboard-free, fully submerged, actually swim, then I think maybe I’ll let myself believe this is real. That the old version of me with all the sharp edges and desperate claws has finally stopped trying to pull me under.
That I get to swim forward, straight into the deep end, and trust that love, fucked up, tangled, chaotic, earned love, is what’s waiting for me on the other side.
Benji’s in the water when I get there, finishing up with some tiny old woman in a rainbow swim cap who’s calling him darling and sugarbean while gripping his bicep like she owns a timeshare in it. Fair.
He’s smiling. The kind of smile that lights up all the echoing tile and turns the pool into his kingdom. I almost trip watching it. He glows here. He always does. Water dripping down his chest, curls a little damp, his big hands soft and open and waiting for me like they always are.
On the deck, Rhys is in his usual chair, legs crossed, looking all professional even though there’s nothing clinical happening today. No journals. No therapy. No mandatory swimming milestones. Just me. My fear. My pride. My boys.
And god, I love his legs. He’s in slacks today, deep navy, perfectly pressed, sitting just right above those leather shoes like he didn’t mean to be the hottest man alive at the community center pool, but he is.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His tie is loose. His expression is warm, but still sharp enough to slice through my resolve.
I want him to scold me. I want him to praise me. I want him to see me do this.
“Hey, trouble.” Jett strolls up from behind, all swagger and scowl, dripping menace and horniness like usual. He’s got a small plastic bag in one hand and the desperate urge to touch vibrating off him.
He palms my hip. Nuzzles into my hair. Growls a little when someone else at the pool glances our way.
“I got you something,” he says, like he’s presenting me with a live grenade.
I raise an eyebrow. “If it’s a pink butt plug, I swear to god.”
He opens the bag and pulls out floaties. Little puffy inflatable ones. Fucking pink. Covered in glittery hearts and tiny cartoon mermaids.
“You didn’t,” I breathe, torn between laughter and melting into a puddle.
“Princess shit,” he confirms. “Like you like.”
He slides one on my arm with this intense concentration, then blows it up with three sharp puffs.
My arm bounces. I wheeze.
“Jett,” I whisper. “You realize I can’t go underwater with this, right?”
“Oh. Shit.” He yanks it off immediately, deflating it in a panic. “Fuck, I guess I fucked that up.”
“No,” I say, grinning so wide it hurts. “You did not fuck it up. I love them. And you.”
He goes so still. Like I stunned him mid-bite.
Then he kisses me. Hard and fast, a thank you and a panic attack rolled into one. “Okay, well, go let Benji do the magic lifeguard shit now. I’ll be over here. Watching.”
I laugh and start to step away when Rhys appears, silk and precision and heat at my side.
“You’ve got this, pet,” he says, voice low and rich and warm as summer honey. He smooths a hand over my spine and leans in to kiss my cheek, soft.
My knees wobble. My whole brain resets.
He sees me. Really sees me. My fear, my nerves, the way my hands are shaking even though I’m pretending they’re not. I want to crawl into his lap and beg him to lecture me. I want to earn his approval like a star pupil on the edge of an A+ and a spanking.
“Sure,” I say, voice cracking a little. “Thanks.”
Benji’s already at the edge of the pool with his arms open. His smile is tender and patient and filled with so much knowing. He doesn’t push. Never has.
“You don’t have to today,” he calls. “Just ‘cause lessons are over doesn’t mean we can’t keep coming. There’s no rush. You can always wait. I’ll always be here.”
Fuck.
“I’m ready,” I say.
It might be a lie. It might be the truth. It might be the wild chaos of all three of them watching me and wanting me and believing in me so hard I can’t bear to disappoint them.
But my legs move. My feet touch the water. My chest rises and falls. And Benji is still there. Like always.
The water touches my toes and my heart tries to claw its way up my throat.
It’s warm. Familiar. Benji-heated. Benji-loved. There’s no chlorine sting, no kids screaming, no slippery bottom. It’s the same pool I’ve been coming to for weeks. I know the feel of Benji’s hands around my waist, his voice coaxing me, his touch safe and wide and steady.
But my lungs don’t give a shit about facts.
My ribs cinch tight. My body stutters.
I’m suddenly a child again, legs slick with pool water and panic, screaming. I remember the burn. The choke. The way the water became a mouth and tried to eat me whole. I remember flailing for air and getting laughter instead.
Benji’s voice cuts through the spiraling. “Hey.” He’s still waist-deep, arms open, expression calm. “You’re alright. You’re here. I’ve got you.”
My foot slips. Just a little. Enough to remind me this isn’t solid ground.
I let out a choking little noise and step back. My hands shake. My whole body feels wired wrong.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
Benji doesn’t move. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t crowd me. “You’re doing great,” he says gently. “You can stop here if you want. We can just sit. You’re already in. That’s a win.”
No.
That word flares in me like fire. No, I don’t want to stop. No, I’m not done being brave. No, I didn’t drag myself through hell just to lose to a fucking pool.
I take another step.
Then another.
Benji steps back with me, slow and careful, giving me the space to follow or not.
My breath is shivery and I hate how shaky my legs feel. I hate that I’m crying. I hate that even after everything I’ve survived, this still gets me.
“I’m right here,” he promises.
I reach out instinctively, grabbing onto his shoulders.
They’re warm. Strong. Steady.
I cling. I press my face into his neck and let the ugly little sobs break free. Just a few. Just enough. Just long enough to remember I’m safe.
“I’m so fucking scared,” I whisper.
He wraps me up in his arms, lifting me slightly so my feet can kick out, just like always. “I know, baby. You’re allowed to be.”
“I can’t do it.”
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
I almost let him carry me the rest of the way. I almost fold into his softness and let that be enough. But something inside me, something wild and angry and mine, says no.
“No,” I say out loud this time.