Chapter 32
DELILAH
I'm standing in front of Troy's childhood home, clutching a bouquet of dusty pink roses in one hand and the box of pretentiously expensive tea in the other.
The house is nothing like I expected—a cozy two-story with weathered blue trim and a porch swing that looks like it's held years of laughter and arguments and late-night confessions.
“You're overthinking again,” Troy says beside me, his breath visible in the crisp mountain air. “I can literally hear the gears turning.”
“I'm not,” I lie.
He raises an eyebrow. “Your forehead gets this little crease when you're stressing. Right there.” He gently touches the spot between my brows. “Dead giveaway, Greer.”
I swat his hand away, but the tension breaks a little. “I just want to make a good impression.”
“They're going to love you,” he says, voice so certain it makes my chest ache. “Mom's been asking about you for days. And you already know Tara and Alfie. They drove up a couple hours earlier than us so will be here already.”
“Yeah, that doesn't help the pressure.”
He laughs, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my temple, then takes my hand. “Come on. Before the food gets cold and Tara eats all the rolls.”
The front door swings open before we reach it, and there's Tara—bundled in a fluffy sweater, cheeks pink from the warmth inside, bouncing on her toes like an excited puppy.
“Finally!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around me like we're old friends. “I thought Troy was keeping you all to himself.”
I freeze for a split second before awkwardly patting her back with the hand still clutching the tea box. I’m still not used to he exorbitant displays of affection.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “The drive took longer than—”
“Don't apologize,” she cuts in, pulling back to grab my wrist. “Just come in. Mom's been driving us crazy trying to make everything perfect.”
She practically drags me into a foyer that smells like cinnamon and roasted garlic.
Family photos line the walls—mostly of Tara and Troy, from toddler years to recent graduation photos.
I spot a gap on the wall where a frame appears to have been removed, but before I can wonder about it, Troy's mother appears from around the corner.
“You must be Delilah,” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel before extending one toward me. “I'm Claire. We're so glad you could join us.”
I expect a handshake, but instead, she pulls me into a gentle hug. It's brief, respectful of boundaries, but warm enough that I feel something in my chest loosen slightly. Troy's family apparently doesn't believe in personal space.
“These are for you,” I say when she steps back, thrusting the flowers and tea forward like I'm completing a transaction. “Thank you for having me.”
She accepts them with a genuine smile. “How thoughtful! Troy mentioned you're a tea drinker. I've been wanting to try something new.”
Troy steps in from behind me, a large tupperware container in his hands. “And as promised, Mom,” he says, presenting it with a flourish, “two dozen of your favorite chocolate chip cookies.”
Claire's face lights up in a way that transforms her entirely. “You remembered!”
“Of course, I remembered,” Troy says, setting the cookies on the hallway table and wrapping his mom in a one-armed hug. “Made them last night so they’re fresh.”
I catch Alfie's look from where he's leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. The drive up had been filled with Troy's running commentary about his mother's sweet tooth and how he needed to make sure these were perfect.
“He was up until 1 AM baking those last night,” Alfie says quietly to me. “Wouldn't let anyone help.”
I nod, watching as Troy fusses over his mom, making sure she sits to try one immediately.
“Come on,” Claire continues, ushering us further into the house, the cookie half-eaten in her hand. “Dinner's almost ready. I hope you're hungry.”
The living room opens into a dining area where a table has been set with actual cloth napkins and what I suspect might be real silver. Not fancy in a showy way, but in the way things are when they've been passed down and cared for.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, suddenly desperate for something to do with my hands.
“Absolutely not,” Claire says firmly. “You're our guest.”
“She won't even let me help,” Troy stage-whispers. “And I'm family.”
“That's because you nearly burned down the kitchen last Christmas,” Tara chimes in from where she's arranging flowers in a vase—my flowers, I realize with a small jolt of pleasure.
“That was a simple mistake,” Troy protests. “And it was the oven's fault.”
“The oven didn't put aluminum foil in the microwave,” Tara counters.
Alfie chuckles and I can't help but laugh at the outraged expression on Troy's face. “The king of fajitas can't operate a microwave?”
“Betrayed by my own girlfriend,” he mutters, but he's smiling.
The word catches me off guard. Girlfriend. We haven't exactly defined what this is between us, but hearing him say it so casually makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
Before I can overthink it, the oven timer beeps and Claire hustles to check on it. Troy takes the moment to lean in, his voice low.
“Mom's arthritis has been worse lately,” he says, eyes tracking his mother's movements. “She won't admit it, but I can tell by how she holds her wrists.”
The quiet concern in his voice, the way his eyes follow her—it's nothing like the Troy most people see. This isn't the campus charmer or the party king. This is just a son who worries about his mom.
I've barely processed this when Troy nudges me toward the couch where a football game is playing quietly on the TV.
“Sit. Relax. Want something to drink? Mom made her famous cranberry punch, but I can vouch that it's basically jet fuel.”
“I'll try it,” I say, earning an approving nod from Tara, who's settled on the loveseat with Alfie.
“Brave,” she says. “Last year it made my roommate confess her undying love for her chemistry TA.”
“It's not that strong,” Troy argues, heading toward what I assume is the kitchen.
Alfie's eyes crinkle with amusement. “I heard that you tried to serenade the neighbor's cat after three glasses.”
“Tara! Must you tell Alfie all my embarrassing stories?” Troy groans as he pauses at the door.
She snickers and blows him a kiss.
I laugh again, easier this time, and realize I'm actually enjoying myself.
The house feels lived-in, comfortable in a way my childhood homes never were.
And Troy's family is warm, teasing, connected.
It's like watching a foreign film without subtitles—recognizable as family, but in a language I don't quite speak.
Troy returns with two glasses of deep red liquid, while Alfie has already started helping Claire bring out the appetizers.
“Don't listen to them. It's delicious,” Troy says, handing me a glass.
I take a sip and immediately cough. “Holy—that's strong.”
“Told you,” Tara says smugly.
Troy sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. “You'll get used to it.”
Over the next hour, the house fills with wonderful smells and easy conversation. Troy's hand occasionally finds mine, casual, reassuring. I learn that Tara is studying environmental science, that Claire teaches high school English, and that Troy's dad isn't mentioned at all.
When we finally sit down to dinner, I'm stunned by the spread—turkey, stuffing, three different vegetable sides, homemade cranberry sauce, and rolls that Troy immediately reaches for, earning a light slap on the hand from his mother.
“Grace first,” she says.
I tense slightly, unsure what to do. Religion wasn't part of my upbringing beyond my mother's occasional “thank God” when something went right, which wasn't often.
But instead of bowed heads and formal prayer, Claire simply raises her glass.
“I'm thankful for having both my children home,” she says, looking first at Tara, then Troy. “And for new friends at our table.” She smiles at me and Alfie. “May we always have more than enough to share.”
“Hear, hear,” Troy says, clinking his glass against mine.
Alfie raises his glass in silent agreement, his other hand naturally finding Tara's on the table.
I'm not used to this—the rituals, the togetherness, the easy affection. In my house, holidays were binary: either my mom went all out with decorations and too much food and crying during holiday movies, or I was alone with leftover takeout and whatever was on TV.
There was no in-between, no consistency. Nothing to count on.
But here... here, there are traditions. Expectations met. Promises kept.
“Delilah, Troy tells me you're quite the architect,” Claire says as she passes the mashed potatoes. “That project you guys are working on sounds great.”
I nearly drop my fork. “He told you about that?”
“Of course,” she says, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
“He was going on about how innovative your approach was. Something about giving people skills they can leave with? I like it. Oh! And he mentioned you fixed the AC system at camp.” She chuckles.
“I can only imagine what all the men thought of that.”
I look at Troy, who's suddenly very interested in buttering his roll.
“It wasn't that complicated,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “Just a workaround when it failed.”
“Don't be modest,” Troy says, finally looking up. “You saved the entire camp from evacuation during that heat wave. It was brilliant.”
“I heard about that,” Alfie adds, his quiet voice carrying surprising weight. “Nice job, Delilah.”
The sincerity in their voices catches me off guard. Troy's been saying things like this lately—giving credit, acknowledging my work. Each time feels like a small gift I don't know how to accept.
“Well,” Claire says warmly, “we're glad you're putting those skills to good use with this competition. It's great to be the brains of the operation.”