Chapter 26
DELILAH
It’s been three weeks since the night Troy fell asleep on my couch with his hand wrapped around my waist and that ridiculous smirk still half-formed on his lips.
Three weeks of not talking about it. Three weeks of pretending that it didn’t mean anything.
Not that I’m pretending it didn’t happen, I’m not delusional. I remember it too well. The way he whispered my name. And the fact that I actually let myself fall asleep in someone’s arms like it was safe.
It’s not like I won’t talk about it, but...I’ve been busy.
And it’s easier to ignore something when your to-do list is longer than your remaining lifespan.
Between project deadlines, architecture critiques, and trying to hold onto my GPA with both hands, I haven’t had time for…
whatever that was. And Troy, thankfully, hasn’t brought it up.
We’ve met up twice a week like clockwork to work on our proposal—he’s focused, charming when he wants to be, and actually annoyingly smart. Which just makes it harder.
Because now I can’t even lie to myself about him being a himbo with a pretty face and no depth. Unfortunately, he’s got depth. And unfortunately, I keep catching myself looking for it.
But I’ve been doing well. No weird lingering glances. No repeat sleepovers. No “accidental” touches while we're brainstorming floorplans and infrastructure models. Just clean, academic, strictly platonic collaboration.
I’m fine.
I close my laptop and check the time on my phone. 12:53. Lunch with the girls.
I haven’t seen them much this semester. Between class schedules and shifts at the bookstore, I’ve managed to dodge most of their invites without actually ghosting anyone. But today I promised. And now, I kind of regret it.
I love Lacey. I do.
But lately, every time I’m around the three of them—Lacey, Chloe, Brianna—I feel like I’ve missed a thousand inside jokes.
It’s like…I was part of a group that left without me.
And I hate how much it bothers me. I don’t know if it’s always been like this or if I’m just noticing it now.
It’s especially after spending time around people like Alex and Tara.
They're just... different. Loud and kinda crazy, sure, but kind. Warm. The way Tara bounces into every room like the sun itself and throws her arms around people like they belong to her. The way Alex always remembers what everyone has to drink on a Friday night. The way they look at each other like they get each other. They don’t do subtle jabs or backwards compliments.
And for the first time in a long time, I’ve started to wonder—
Maybe I don’t have that. Not really. And…maybe I want that.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out, already bracing myself for the too-loud laughter, the half-interested questions, and the feeling I know will creep in halfway through the meal: The feeling that I’m at the wrong table.
The café is too loud. The espresso machine screams like it’s dying.
Someone’s baby is crying in the corner. A group of freshmen are laughing like they just discovered humor for the first time.
And in the middle of it all—my table—Brianna, Chloe, and Lacey are already half a cocktail deep and arguing about whether ski instructors or bartenders make better boyfriends.
“Obviously ski instructors,” Brianna says, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “Athletic, hot, emotionally distant. Perfect.”
Chloe snorts. “You just described Clide.”
“And your point is?”
I slide into the open seat next to Lacey, offering a faint smile as I peel off my scarf. “Hey.”
“Delilah!” Lacey throws an arm around me. “You finally made it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry I’ve been MIA.”
“You’ve been working so much,” Chloe says, absently scrolling her phone. “Like, are you trying to graduate early or something?”
I force a laugh. “Nope. Just trying not to fail.”
Lacey bumps her knee against mine under the table. “You’re so intense lately.”
“It’s architecture,” I say. “Intensity is kind of part of the deal.”
They all nod, but it’s the kind of nod that ends a conversation rather than continuing it. And maybe it’s in my head—but the silence feels more awkward than it should.
It’s not like we’ve had some dramatic falling out. No one’s done anything wrong. But somewhere between second-year house drama and now, it’s like they all took a left turn and forgot to send me the address.
I stir my iced coffee. Watch the swirl of cream bleed into the dark.
“Anyway,” Brianna says, perking up. “You’ll never guess who I saw at Moe’s last night.”
“Who?” Chloe asks, already invested.
“Troy Hawkins and Ethan Caudwell.”
My stomach does a neat little flip. I keep my face neutral.
“Oh my god.” Lacey grins and side eyes me, I glare at her. “I heard Ethan’s single again now.”
“Troy was flirting with a girl at the bar,” Brianna says casually, and I feel that flip morph into something tight and sour. “But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t serious.”
Chloe eyes me, curious. “Wait, are you guys still working on that grant thing?”
“Yeah,” I say, too fast. “For the project.”
Brianna narrows her eyes. “That’s right. You never told us how that’s going. Is he, like… still annoying-hot?”
“He’s fine,” I say. “It’s professional.”
Brianna smirks. “That’s not what I heard.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just rumors. You know. Troy always ends up in someone’s bed eventually. It’s like he can’t help it. Or they can’t.”
I stab a piece of lemon from my water with the straw and don’t respond. I can feel Lacey watching me.
“I mean, if I were working with him,” Brianna continues, “I’d take advantage. Brainstorming sessions and orgasms, back to back.”
“I’m sure he’d love that,” I say dryly.
She shrugs. “Just saying. I wouldn’t waste the opportunity.”
I excuse myself a little early, citing an imaginary bookstore shift. Lacey hugs me tight and tells me to come out with them soon. Chloe barely looks up from her phone. Brianna’s already talking about something else.
I step out into the cold and feel it hit like clarity.
And suddenly, I’m not even mad about the Troy thing. I’m not thinking about his hands or his mouth or the way he looked at me that night on the couch like he could see straight through to my soul.
I’m thinking about them. About how it feels like I’ve been orbiting their little world for years, always just slightly out of sync. Like they got close enough to say we were friends, but never quite enough to know me.
It stings.
Especially now. When I’ve seen what it looks like—real connection. Like what I’ve seen flicker between Troy and his friends, that warmth, that belonging.
I walk faster, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
I’m fine.
I’ve always been fine on my own.
And yet, there’s a small, stubborn part of me that whispers.
Maybe you want more now, maybe I could have more.