Track 7 Delilah
Delilah
They’re almost at the campground when Delilah realizes that they have a problem.
When she planned the trip, she’d obviously had Sam in mind. Specifically, she planned it knowing that it would be their honeymoon—and that it would be just the two of them, tucked into the bed in their little camper, close and intimate and in a world all their own.
She hadn’t, in other words, planned to be traveling with a total stranger.
She likes Emmett, and she’s decently sure by this point that they’re a pretty trustworthy person, but she’s not so devoid of any self-preservation instincts that she’s willing to invite them to sleep in the van’s single bed with her.
Their campsite is close enough to their nearest neighbors that it wouldn’t be a no one can hear you scream kind of situation, but she’s also seen too many horror movies to think that would make a difference.
“So, this is awkward,” she says, because well, fuck it has kind of been the theme of the day and it’s served her well enough so far, “but I don’t think I’m totally comfortable with the idea of us sleeping together.”
Emmett, who’s just lifted their water bottle for a drink in the passenger seat, chokes.
“Literal sleeping!” Delilah yelps, over the sound of Emmett sputtering as they attempt to cough water out of their lungs. “Like, literal—it’s a small van! And there’s only one bed, and I was supposed to be in here with my new wife, and—”
“I got it,” Emmett wheezes. They clear their throat, then try again. “I completely agree.”
“I think they have, like, regular cabins, in addition to the camper and RV sites,” she offers. “If they have openings, I can totally cover one for you. Or we could find a motel or something and I could pick you up in the morning?”
“I don’t mind just camping out.”
Delilah takes her eyes off the road long enough to scrunch her nose at them. “Really? It’s October.”
Emmett shrugs. “Early October. And I don’t get cold easily.”
“Thanks, climate change,” Delilah drawls.
Emmett snorts. “I mean, okay, if you’re seriously sure,” she says.
“If you change your mind halfway through the night, just wake me up and we can figure something else out. And you have to at least let me buy you a sleeping bag or something. You can’t just rawdog the great outdoors, I don’t care how nice the weather is. ”
“I…don’t know what that means.”
“Probably a good thing,” Delilah says. “God. My therapist is going to have such a field day with this.”
They pull into the campground entrance about half an hour before sunset, and Delilah parks outside the little office to check in.
There’s a gift shop next door with guidebooks, snacks, souvenirs, and basic camping supplies.
Delilah picks out the warmest-looking sleeping bag she can find from the minimal selection and carries it up to the counter, along with supplies to make s’mores.
Emmett joins her with a prepackaged bundle of firewood under one arm, and Delilah gives them a sheepish grin.
“Forgot about that.”
Emmett nods to the marshmallows. “Kind of a critical element, isn’t it?”
“I would have figured it out eventually!”
They get back into the van a few minutes later, purchases made and having pointedly ignored the sales attendant’s curious look at the single sleeping bag, since the reservation Delilah still has in her hand definitely has honeymoon included in the booking line.
Following the printed map she got at check-in, Delilah drives around the pond and toward the rear of the grounds.
They find their campsite, tucked at the end of a row, and she pulls in beside the little patio and firepit that will be theirs for the night.
“Okay,” she announces, turning off the transmission. Roscoe goes quiet, and she gives the dashboard an approving pat, the way she imagines a seasoned traveler might pat a horse who’s just carried them all day. “So.”
“So,” Emmett agrees.
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a long moment, until Delilah says, probably too loudly, “S’mores?”
It turns out that Emmett knows how to build a campfire, which is fortunate, since Delilah doesn’t.
She scoots one of the camp chairs closer to watch them work, trying to focus on the confident movements of their hands as they gently feed bits of kindling to the growing flames rather than the bare skin of their forearms, revealed after they took off their jacket and rolled their sleeves up to their elbows.
“You’re good at this,” she comments.
“Fortunately for you, apparently,” Emmett says, glancing up to give her a wry look, though the softness in their eyes takes any sting out of the remark. “What was your plan before?”
“Looking up a how-to video on my phone, probably,” Delilah admits.
“Or asking one of the burly dudes over there to help.” She nods her head toward the group of middle-aged men in puffy jackets and bucket hats loudly exchanging anecdotes from various Grateful Dead concerts over their burgers and beers at the campsite next to theirs. “Do you do a lot of camping?”
“No, but I have a good memory.” Emmett sits back on their heels, watching the flames carefully before giving a little nod of satisfaction and picking up one of the larger pieces of wood from the bundle and placing it on the growing fire.
“I took Ruth a few times, when she needed to get out of Crown Heights.”
“Ruth?” It’s the first time they’ve mentioned anyone other than Jacob or Jacob’s dead son, and Delilah latches on to the new name.
“Jacob’s daughter,” Emmett says. They pause, clearly sensing her attention even as they keep their gaze on the fire, then add, “Younger daughter, from his second wife. They have a son, too—Noah. He’s a year older than Ruth.
And then Jacob had an older daughter, from his first marriage, but they… they fell out a long time ago.”
“So your…half-sister?” Delilah cocks her head. “Or your not-half-sister? Since Jacob was your not-dad? Or—the guy who raised you, I guess? The one who died?”
Emmett does look up at her at that, almost sharply, but then they let out a soft laugh. “Something like that.”
“Sorry. I’m not trying to be an asshole,” Delilah says. “It just kind of slips out.”
They shake their head, clear amusement on their features now, and add another log to the fire before climbing to their feet and settling down in the camp chair opposite Delilah’s. “ ‘Half-sister’ is close enough,” they say after a moment. “It’s…”
“Complicated?” Delilah guesses.
“Yes.”
The sun is well on its way down now, the horizon painted in golds and pinks and oranges. Delilah pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders, then gets to her feet. “I’m going to grab a blanket and some wine,” she says. “Need anything from inside?”
Emmett motions to their battered backpack and brand-new sleeping bag and shakes their head. “I’m okay.”
She finds the bed linens neatly folded into a compartment under the table, which Roscoe’s manual informs her converts into a full-sized bed.
Delilah tucks a cozy-looking comforter under her arm and grabs a bottle of wine from the minifridge, along with two wineglasses from the little cabinet beside the counter.
“We should tell ghost stories or something,” she announces as she steps back outside, sets down the wine and glasses so she can wrap the blanket around her shoulders, and plops back into her chair.
“Ghost stories?” Emmett looks less than impressed at the idea, and Delilah laughs.
“Not your thing?” Emmett shakes their head. “Okay, okay. We’ve got to do some kind of stories, though, it’s like a campfire rule.”
“All right,” they say. “You start.”
Delilah twists the cap off the wine, pours two glasses, and passes one to Emmett. She starts to lift hers, then pauses. “Do you need to bless this?”
“No,” Emmett says, sounding like they can’t quite decide if they’re amused or not. “But thank you for asking.”
“Cheers, then. To…” She thinks about it. “Adventures that our parental figures wouldn’t approve of.”
Emmett laughs, leaning over to gently tap their glass against hers.
Delilah takes a long sip, closing her eyes and letting herself feel the heat of the fire and the chill of the evening air and the tingling on her lips and tongue.
Then she refills her glass and sits back.
“Okay. What kind of story do you want to hear?”
She ends up telling fairy tales, building off originals and adding queer twists wherever she can find them.
The little mermaid, no longer so concerned about giving up her voice when she realizes the prince’s Deaf chambermaid has fallen in love with her without it.
Rapunzel chopping off her own hair and scaling down her tower, only to run into the lady knight who came to rescue her and sweeping her off her feet instead.
Cinder-not-Cinderella, binding his chest and stealing his dead father’s old clothes, no fairy godmother in sight, to make his own way to the ball to ask Prince Charming for a dance.
The evening darkens around them as Delilah speaks, but the fire gives off more than enough light for her to see the absolutely enraptured look on Emmett’s face as they listen, leaning forward in their seat, half-empty wineglass dangling from their fingers.
Delilah is a performer by profession and by practice; she’s far from a stranger to an audience.
Still, she’s not used to this kind of rapt, focused attention.
In the earliest days of their relationship, Sam would watch her play through their latest songs with something like wonder shining in her eyes, but this is different.
The look on Emmett’s face is more like captivated longing, like a thirsty traveler coming across an oasis in the middle of a vast desert.
A place of nourishing safety where there had only been dust and loneliness before.