Chapter 35
DELILAH
My phone lights up with Mom just as I’m leaving my last class.
For once, I don’t hesitate, I feel like I need her right now. Like, I need my mom.
I answer before it hits the second ring, voice light, hopeful. “Hey, stranger.”
“Oh, hey baby,” she says. “How’s my girl?”
It’s been a while since she’s sounded like this, warm, chatty, like she’s here.
She’s trying. And before I can stop myself, my heart does a dumb, traitorous thing where it believes.
I figure it can’t help to ask her some relationship advice, she’s never been good at keeping anybody close by, but I am so hesitant to go fully in with Troy I feel like I need some guidance. I need her to tell me it’s ok.
“I’m okay,” I say, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. “Actually… I’ve been seeing someone. Kind of.”
There’s a pause.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. His name’s Troy. We’ve been working on this project together and… I don’t know. He’s—” I trail off, feeling weirdly shy. “He’s kind. Funny. And he—he makes me feel good. I even went to Thanksgiving with him and met his family.”
I brace for teasing, or a squeal, or one of her old over-the-top pep talks about how I “deserve fireworks, baby!”
Instead, there’s another pause. Longer this time.
“That’s great, sweetie. Hey, listen… are you in a place where you can send me a little something?”
I stop walking.
A familiar hollow feeling drops into my chest.
“I wouldn’t ask,” she says quickly. “It’s just rent this month came out early and John’s been a total prick about the schedule again and—”
I close my eyes. The weight hits instantly. Like a wet coat dropped over my shoulders.
“Mom, I already sent you five hundred three weeks ago.”
“I know,” she says. “And I’m so grateful, really. It just—everything got a little off-track. Just a hundred, maybe? I’ll pay you back on Friday.”
She won’t. She never does.
And the worst part? I’m not even mad. I’m disappointed.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. My voice is soft. Careful.
“Delilah—”
“Talk later.”
I hang up before I change my mind. Before I ask how she’s doing. Before I offer anything else. Because it’s not just the money. It’s what she didn’t say. She didn’t ask about me or about Troy.
Not about school.
Not about anything.
I walk the rest of the way to the library in a fog, throat tight, jaw locked. The hope I had—that dangerous little flicker—gone. I don’t know why I expected her to be any different than I expected. It’s my fault really, I shouldn’t expect people to change.
And now those messages from Brianna seem to take on new significance.
Maybe I was being naive. Maybe Troy is exactly what I initially thought—a guy who's used to girls falling for him, who keeps his options open because why wouldn't he?
Why commit to one person when you can have attention from many?
Thinking about you...
I check the time.
Shit.
Troy and I are supposed to meet at the engineering building in fifteen minutes. By the time I show up, I'm twenty-five minutes late and wind-blown. I haven't eaten, and I'm pretty sure my hoodie smells bad. Troy's already there when I arrive.
His laptop's open, fingers flying over the keyboard, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. The sight of him—so focused, so steady—should calm me. Instead, it tightens the knot in my chest.
He looks up as I slump into the seat across from him. His eyes take me in—windblown hair, puffy jacket, the general aura of someone held together by three threads and a hoodie string.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet. “You okay?”
“I'm fine,” I reply, too quickly. His eyes linger.
“You sure?” I don't look at him.
“I said I'm fine.”
A beat of silence.
Then he nods once and turns back to his screen.
We work like that for a few minutes. Or, I pretend to work.
I stare at the same paragraph of our proposal, rereading it so many times the words lose all meaning.
Troy types something, then stops. Reaches into his bag.
Slides a granola bar across the table toward me. “You should eat,” he says. I ignore it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. Third time in twenty minutes. I know who it is without looking, and something in my chest caves like wet cardboard.
“Your phone's blowing up,” Troy says, his voice neutral. Not prying, just observing.
“It's nothing.” I force my attention back to the screen. “Let's just focus on the model projections we were working on yesterday.”
Troy watches me, not touching his keyboard—which is annoying because I can feel his eyes on me, patient and knowing.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure shit out. I'm not a project.”
My phone buzzes again. A text this time. I pull it out just enough to see the screen.
Mom:
Baby please, I'm really in a bind here. Just call me back.
I flip my phone face-down so hard it makes a cracking sound against the table. Troy's brows lift slightly, but he doesn't comment.
“The community workshop costs, when we have local preschools visit,” I say stiffly, pointing at my screen. “I think we underestimated the materials budget by about—”
“Delilah.” His voice is soft but firm. “What's going on?”
“Nothing's going on. I'm trying to work.” My voice has an edge I can't quite soften. “Which is what we're supposed to be doing right now.”
“You've been looking at the same paragraph for ten minutes,” he says. “And you look like you haven't slept in days.”
My throat tightens. “I'm fine.”
“You're not.”
“What the hell would you know about it?” The words slice out before I can stop them.
Troy leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know your mom has been texting all afternoon and for some reason, you flinch every time. I know that you’re hungry and haven’t slept.”
I stare at him, heat rising to my cheeks. He's been watching me that closely?
“That's—I don't need you keeping tabs on me, Hawkins.”
“I'm not keeping tabs. I'm paying attention.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration finally breaking through his calm facade. “There's a difference.”
My phone lights up again. This time it's actually ringing. I glance down reflexively.
Mom's smiling photo fills the screen, the one where she looks happy and put-together, the one I took three Christmases ago during the twelve-hour window when everything seemed normal.
Troy sees it too. He glances at the phone, then back at me.
“You gonna get that?” he asks.
“No.”
The vibration stops. Then immediately starts again.
“Seems important,” he says evenly.
Something inside me snaps. “She just wants money, okay? She always wants money. Or attention. Or to be saved from whatever mess she's in this week.” My voice breaks. “She doesn't care about me or school or—anything. She didn't even ask.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to claw them back in. I never talk about my mom. Not to anyone. It's like I've handed Troy a loaded gun and shown him exactly where to aim.
His expression shifts, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Delilah—”
“Don't,” I cut him off. “Just... don't.”
He watches me for a second longer. His voice drops lower. “Did something happen?”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
His gaze sharpens. “Delilah—”
“I don't need you, Troy.”
It erupts out of me—sharp, defensive, desperate. Like if I don't say it fast, it'll strangle me on the way out.
Troy stills and watches me and then, gently, he says, “Yeah. You do. And I need you too.”
The words hit me like a punch to the ribs.
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. “You don't know anything about what I need.”
“I know enough,” he says simply. “Delilah, you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”
I look away. My hands are shaking.
“I know,” he adds, more quietly, “that you act like letting anyone close is some kind of failure. Like if someone sees you struggling, they'll leave. Or worse, stay and use it against you.”
My throat burns. “Stop.”
But he doesn't. “I know something happened before you walked in here. I can see it all over you. And I'm not trying to pry, Greer. I'm trying to be here. If you'd let me.”
The silence that falls is deafening. I can't meet his eyes. I can't speak.
So I do what I always do. I stand up.
Troy doesn't try to stop me. He just leans back in his chair, sighs, and lets me go.
And I hate that. I hate that he gives me the space I demand instead of chasing me. I hate that he's right. That he saw through me. That even now, when all I want is to retreat, I want him to follow.
I make it two steps before his voice reaches me again.
“I meant it,” he says. “I need you. Not just for this project. Not because you're brilliant, or sharp, or infuriating in the best way. But because I see you. And I like what I see.”
I stop. I don't turn around.
I can't.
But I don't walk away either.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone said they needed me. Not for what I could give them. Not for money, or solutions, or survival. Just… me.
And it terrifies me.
But the moment of weakness passes quickly. I've heard pretty words before. I've seen what happens when you believe them.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket, an intrusion that breaks the spell. I pull it out, glancing at the notification—another text from my mother. Another demand. Another reminder of what happens when you let someone become necessary.
And just like that, the walls I've spent years fortifying slide right back into place.
What am I doing? Troy Hawkins doesn't need me. Troy Hawkins has options—like Brianna. Guys like him always do. They cast wide nets and see what they catch.
Meanwhile, I'm standing here like an idiot, actually considering the possibility that this could be something real. That I could be something more than a challenge, a conquest, a temporary diversion until something better comes along.
People don't stay. That's the one consistent truth I've learned. They promise, they swear, they look at you like you're everything and then they leave. Or worse, they stay physically but disappear emotionally, becoming ghosts in your life that you still somehow have to care for.
I'm better off alone. I always have been. At least alone, I know exactly what to expect. At least alone, I control the damage.
“I have to go,” I finally say, the words tight and clipped. I still don't turn around. “I can't do this right now.”
I hear him shift in his chair. “Delilah—”
“Just... don't.” I swallow hard. “I'll send you the budget updates later.”
And then I'm walking away, fast and determined, not stopping even when I hear him call my name once more. Not looking back, not slowing down until I'm well out of the building, into the cold autumn air that stings my eyes—or maybe it’s something else making them burn.