Chapter 29
TROY
“Dude, have you spoken to Ethan lately?” Freddie asks me mid-set.
“Kinda,” I grunt, pushing through the burning in my chest. Damn, has my chest got weak or something? I swear this shit feels tougher than last week.
Freddie nods, racking his weights. “Yeah, neither have I. I think he's still broken up about Paige. He's pretending he's okay, but I don't think he is.”
“You think we should do something?” I ask, wiping my brow with a sweat towel. It's a nice perk of Freddie being manager at the gym—free towels to borrow every time.
He shrugs, eyeing me as I add another plate to the bar. “Yeah, but I dunno what. I've never seen him like this. All mopey and shit. It's disturbing. He's usually the one cracking jokes and getting us out of our heads.”
I nod, positioning myself under the bar again. “I know. It's fucked up. Even though we seemed to get him out of his shell a couple times, he's definitely not 'bounced' back to his normal, crazy self.”
“You tried talking to him?” Freddie asks, spotting me.
I push out three more reps before answering. “Yeah. He just deflects. Cracks a joke. Changes the subject. Master of avoiding anything real.”
“Sound like anyone we know?” Freddie says pointedly.
I ignore the comment, focusing on my form. “It's hard to help someone who won't admit they need it.”
“Yeah, saying you're fine all the time and holding shit in doesn't really work,” I add, moving aside so Freddie can do his set. “Not a great long-term strategy.”
He pauses and eyes me, one eyebrow raised.
“Coming from you?”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Freddie laughs, and I genuinely don't get the joke.
“Well, you're sort of the king of pretending everything's okay. I don't think you've come to me with a problem the entire time I've known you.”
I scrunch my face up. “Start your set, man.”
He shakes his head but takes position under the bar. I spot him carefully, watching his form. After he's finished his set, he sits up, breathing hard.
“You did it again just then,” he says between breaths. “You're always pretending you're good.”
“Because I am good.” I grin, offering him the towel.
“Sure,” he says, wiping his face. “And that's why you've been staring at your phone all week, smiling every time Delilah texts you back, and moping around when she doesn’t.”
My smile falters for a split second before I catch myself. “Don't know what you're talking about, man.”
Delilah and I are taking things slow. We’ve not really spoken about feelings or anything official since the night of truth or dare but I have a good feeling about this.
Freddie gives me a look that says he's not buying it. “Whatever you say, bro. Just remember—if you expect Ethan to open up, maybe you should try it sometime.”
I force another grin. “I'm an open book.”
“Whatever you say,” he mutters, moving to the next station.
I follow him, the weight on the bar suddenly feeling like nothing compared to the pressure in my chest that I refuse to acknowledge. Because that's what I do—I carry everyone else's problems so they don't have to. I make sure Ethan's okay, that Tara's happy, that Mom doesn't worry.
I don't have time to not be fine. And admitting Delilah's getting to me? That would mean admitting I might be in trouble here.
That for once, I don't have all the answers.
So instead, I add another plate to the next machine and push until my muscles scream louder than my thoughts.
A couple days later, Delilah's sitting cross-legged on the floor of our living room, laptop balanced on her thighs, eyebrows scrunched in that way she does when she's concentrating so hard she forgets the world exists.
It's unfair, really. The way she looks so serious and hot all at once.
She's surrounded by about fourteen pages of printed research on native wildflowers, two highlighters, a coffee that's now cold, and the hoodie I gave her three hours ago that she's still wearing like it's hers.
It might be hers now. I don't know. I don't care. Except that's bullshit because seeing her in my clothes is doing weird things to my brain. Like, caveman-level weird. Mine. Which is not a thought I should be having about my project partner.
She chews on the inside of her cheek, types something, huffs, mutters, “No, that's too much irrigation for these species,” then deletes the whole thing.
I smile. She's so fucking intense about everything—even flowers.
“Want me to take a look?” I offer, trying to sound casual.
“No,” she says without looking up. “You'll say it's perfect and then distract me with your biceps or some shit.”
I laugh, ridiculously pleased she's noticed my gym time is paying off. “I mean... you could say please.”
That earns me a glare over the top of her laptop. “Please stop talking.”
I hold up my hands. “Got it. Silent support. My specialty.”
Freddie walks in, grabs a water from the fridge, and glances at Delilah. Then at me. Then back at Delilah wearing my hoodie. His face does this annoying thing where he's clearly thinking something he's not saying.
He raises an eyebrow. “Still working?”
Delilah nods, barely acknowledging his existence.
I shrug. “She wanted to get it done early. I'm not gonna argue with that.”
Freddie grins, that shit-eating grin he gets when he thinks he knows something. “You're so whipped.”
I flip him off. He doesn't even flinch, just smirks harder.
Delilah's oblivious to all of this. When Freddie heads back upstairs, I shift so I'm sitting beside her. She doesn't say anything, just leans into me slightly—like it's muscle memory.
Like we do this all the time. Like she's not usually ready to bite my head off if I breathe too close to her.
And it hits me right there, in the quiet of our living room with her typing away about goddamn pollinator species: I'm completely, irreversibly fucked.
I stare at her profile for maybe too long.
Because yeah, she's hot. Obviously. But it's so much more than that now. I like this woman. Like, genuinely enjoy being around her. Even when she's being a pain in my ass—which is like 85% of the time.
The way she laughs, though. Fuck. When I actually get her to laugh—that real laugh, not the sarcastic one—it feels like scoring the winning touchdown. Like I've won something nobody else gets to have.
“I'm in trouble,” I mutter, not meaning to say it out loud.
“What?” She glances up, that focused-Delilah haze clearing from her eyes.
“Nothing.” I recover quickly, but my chest feels tight.
She looks at me suspiciously, but I just grin and nudge her shoulder with mine.
“Hey,” I say, a little softer. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
Her fingers still on the keyboard. “Working. Probably at the bookshop. CC's has me on standby if someone calls in.”
“That's depressing.” The thought of her stuck serving coffee while the rest of us are stuffing our faces makes me irrationally angry.
She shrugs. “It's fine. I don't really...do holidays.”
“You're coming home with us.” The words come out before I can overthink them.
Delilah cocks her head to the side. “What?”
And there it is—that look. Like she can't believe someone would actually want her around. Like she's waiting for the catch. It makes me want to find everyone who's ever let her down and explain to them exactly how badly they fucked up.
Instead, I just hold her gaze, letting her see I'm serious.
“Me and Tara. You’re coming with us for Thanksgiving,” I say. Yeah, this is a great idea. “If it’s not too much. If you want to. Of course, it’s up to you,” I add.
She’s quiet, like, really quiet.
I don’t push. Not yet.
Delilah stares at the screen like the Google Doc’s going to give her an out.
I begin wondering if I’ve messed everything up this year.
I asked my dad not to come. Texted him when I was angry after seeing photo of him pop up on Facebook, something like “I think it’s better if it’s just the three of us this year.
” Fully braced for guilt-tripping, a dramatic speech, or at least some passive-aggressive emoji.
Instead, I got. “Okay. Got it. Have a good one.”
And... yeah. That sucked more than if he’d argued. At least if he’d fought me on it, it would’ve meant something. Instead, he just... backed off. Like he was waiting for an excuse to.
And look, I know it was the right call. Every time we do the family thing, we end up in some weird standoff, either silently judging each other from opposite ends of the table or passive-aggressively debating politics like it’s foreplay for disappointment.
So yeah, it’s probably better this way. Less awkward. Less pretending.
Still kind of makes me feel like a jerk, though.
But then I look at Delilah, still frozen, still staring at the screen and I think, Maybe this year doesn’t have to suck.
And just as I’m wondering if I’ve scared her off for good she sits back on her heels and exhales, hard. That kind of exhale you only let out when you’ve been holding your breath for years.
“I mean it, I don’t really do Thanksgiving, or any other holidays,” she says eventually.
I glance at her. “Because of work?”
She shakes her head. “Not exactly.”
There’s a pause.
She keeps her eyes on the floor when she speaks again. “Some years, when I was a kid, my mom would go all out. We’d have decorations, music, five different types of stuffing. She’d cry during the Macy’s parade and make me wear one of those dumb paper pilgrim hats. It was… actually kind of magical.”
I don’t move. I barely breathe, Delilah hardly ever talks about her family life, or growing up, or anything personal. I’m afraid if I spook her she’ll close up again.
“And then the next year,” she continues, voice going thinner, “I’d be heating up leftover Chinese alone at 7 PM. No note, no call. Nothing.”
I swallow.
“It was the whiplash, I think,” she says, almost like she’s talking to herself now. “Never knowing what version of the day I’d get. What version of her. So I just stopped planning anything. No expectations. That way, I don’t get disappointed.”
My chest aches. I hate how familiar it sounds—the not knowing, the holding everything together, the being a kid and a parent all at once.
“Delilah—” I start, but she cuts in.
“I’m not saying this to get pity,” she says quickly. “I’m fine. I just… it’s easier, you know? Not setting myself up for some big Hallmark thing that doesn’t happen.”
I nod, slow. “Yeah. I get that.”
She glances at me, surprised.
I let the silence sit for a second. Then I say, “My dad used to miss Thanksgiving every year when I was a kid. Said he had research trips or faculty dinners, but it was always just… him choosing to be somewhere else. I’d make boxed mac and cheese and Tara would draw hand turkeys.”
Delilah smiles faintly. “Tara would.”
“She drew one of me once. Called it a ‘Troy-turkey.’ Said I was the best big brother and deserved my own species. She even drew out what the fossil of it would look like.”
She lets out a soft laugh, and damn, that sound does something to me.
“Mom was usually busy with research when we were growing up too, so it would be me and Tar. Then when he magically rejoined our lives, it was like we were all supposed to act like he never left. Like we were this happy, shiny family. I usually play along for Mom and Tara. I try. But this year…”
I pause.
“I asked him not to come.”
Delilah looks at me, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“He said okay,” I continue. “Didn’t argue. I told him I needed space, and he gave it. It’s still awkward as hell with my parents, like they’re cosplaying a functioning couple, but at least, this year, there won’t be any pretending over turkey.”
Her eyes are softer now.
“I make an effort for them. I do. But I could use a little backup,” I say, bumping her knee gently with mine. “So yeah, I get the whole not-wanting-to-make-it-a-thing thing.”
She nods again, but her eyes are shinier now.
I take a breath.
“But I still think you deserve a good one. Like, really good. With bad wine and too many mashed potatoes and my mom asking you a million questions because she’s obsessed with people who are smarter than her.”
Delilah lets out a breathy little laugh before she goes still again.
“You’re really dangerous when you’re like this, you know that?” she says quietly.
“Like what?”
“Sweet.”
I lean in, voice low. “Only for you, Greer.”
She looks at me like she’s searching for the catch. Like part of her wants to believe it, and the other part is waiting to be proven right.
But she doesn’t run.
She just says, “I’ll think about it.” and I know that’s her version of yes.