Chapter 36
TROY
Delilah arrives four minutes late to our next meeting, coffee in hand, face unreadable. Not that I was watching the clock or anything.
We haven’t spoken since our last blow up, a few emails exchanged here and there. I’m not going to chase her, I need her to come to me. To prove that she wants me too.
She slides into the seat across from me without a smile, drops her bag on the floor and pulls out her laptop like we’re here for a board meeting.
“Hey,” I say, casually. “Brought you something.”
I push a container across the table—egg mayo sandwich, cut in triangles like she likes, because I’m a total simp now.
She stares at it. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“Thanks,” she says, robotically.
No joke. No “wow, do you cook for all your project partners?” Nothing.
She opens her laptop.
I sit back in my chair, watching her scroll through our presentation mock-up like we’re strangers.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I click my tongue. Whatever.
We go through the slide deck. Talk about load-bearing estimates, wind flow ratios, impact reduction over time—and through it all, Delilah’s tone is clipped, professional. Distant.
When I make a joke about a structurally unsound love triangle, she doesn’t even crack a smile.
I close my laptop. “Alright. What is going on?”
She doesn’t look up. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Now she looks up.
“Is this about your mom?”
She glares at me which is enough warning to drop it.
“No.”
“Fine, you’ve been off since Thanksgiving. Did something happen there?” I ask. “Because if my mom quizzing you about sustainable insulation techniques traumatized you, I can file a formal complaint.”
That earns me a flicker of amusement. Then it disappears just as fast.
“I’m just busy,” she says.
I nod slowly, like if I do it slow enough, I might start to believe her.
We open up the project files and dig into the next stage of revisions. We’re two weeks from presenting and we still haven’t finalized the energy system schematics.
Delilah adjusts the wind-flow calculations. I map out the solar array integration. We work well together. Always have.
And yet… today, she feels miles away.
“I think we should lose the spiral,” she says, tapping her screen. “It’s adding too much weight to the central platform.”
“But it’s the centerpiece.”
“It doesn’t serve the design. And if it’s going to collapse under a simulated stress load, it’s not worth keeping.”
I watch her face. Focused. Unreadable. She’s not even looking at me—just the numbers.
She’s right, and I know it, but I still want to argue. Just to get a reaction out of her.
“Fine,” I say eventually. “But I want it on record that I mourned the loss of the spiral.”
That gets the barest twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile.
We work in silence after that. Not the good kind, either. The kind that feels like someone’s holding their breath. When we finally close our laptops, the table between us is littered with notes, half-eaten food, and tension.
I lean back in my chair and stretch.
“So, wanna come over tonight? The guys are ordering pizza. We could get a little more work done, or just…” I trail off. “Hang out.”
She’s already shaking her head.
“I can’t. I have stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
She shrugs. “Just stuff.”
“Sounds important.”
“Super important.”
“I really do have to go,” she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“I’ll… look at the solar integration file later,” she says, already halfway to the door.
I stand too. “Cool. I’ll send you some notes.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a tight smile, then disappears down the hallway.
I stay frozen for a few seconds. The air feels colder without her in the room.
She pauses like she’s going to say something. Then nods. “Yeah. Sure.”
Then she turns and walks away.
I watch her go, the sleeves of my hoodie still too long on her arms. She didn’t even mention it. Like wearing it doesn’t mean that she’s mine.
I pack up slowly, replaying the entire hour in my head. Every tight smile. Every missed joke. Every time she flinched away from eye contact.
What the fuck is going on.
Freddie, Ethan, and I are sprawled on the living room floor trying to assemble a coffee table that didn't come with instructions, only vague trauma.
“Why the hell did you buy this off some random guy from Facebook?” I ask, glaring at a bolt that definitely doesn't belong anywhere.
Freddie shrugs. “It was ten bucks.”
“I'd pay twenty to not be doing this,” Ethan mutters, flipping the panel he's been holding upside down for the fourth time. “This thing has more pieces than my last situationship.”
“Speaking of situations,” Freddie says, not even bothering to look up. “Delilah's been… around less lately, huh?”
My head shoots toward him before I can stop it.
“It doesn't matter.”
Freddie blinks. “Okay, didn't expect that reaction.”
Ethan whistles low. “He's deep in it.”
“I'm not—” I start, but Ethan cuts in.
“She's great, man. But don't let yourself get fucked around. Women cannot be trusted. All we can trust is each other. The boys! Am I right?”
Nobody answers.
“She's not fucking me around,” I snap, “She's just… busy.”
They both go silent.
I run a hand through my hair, staring at the half-formed table. “It’s fine. It’s just…I don't know. She's just… quieter. Distant.”
Freddie finally looks at me. “So talk to her.”
“I've tried.”
“For fuck's sake, then try again,” Freddie says, handing me a bolt.
“And if you’re gonna do it, don't be a coward about it, bro,” Ethan adds. If he wasn't still heartbroken I'd hit him, but I know he's hurting inside. Besides, he's right. I do need to try again.
I find her later that night in an architecture study room. It only took me 20 minutes of searching every room in this building to find her. The lights are low, her laptop is glowing and a dozen half-finished sketches spread out around her like petals.
She doesn't look up when I enter but I know she notices I'm there. I pull out the chair across from her and sit down without asking.
She glances at me once. “Hey.”
“You left your charger at the house,” I lie, pulling mine from my bag and sliding it toward her.
She blinks, then plugs it in without a word.
I clear my throat. “You've been working late a lot.”
She nods. “Lot to do.”
I tap my fingers against the desk. “Wanna take a break? Grab a late-night coffee or something?”
“I'm good.”
She doesn't even look up.
And something in me just… cracks.
I lean back. “You always like this after big holidays, or is it just with me? ‘Cause honestly I thought we had a blast. I…I dunno, Greer. I thought we were on the same page.”
She flinches—barely—but it's there.
“I'm just tired,” she says again. That same lie. The one she's been feeding me for a week now.
I nod slowly.
Then, casually, I say, “I've been looking at post-grad stuff. Might travel for a while. South America. Thailand. Some of the sustainability startups over there are doing cool shit.”
Do you want to come with me? I nearly say. Do you have any plans? I want you to come with me. I'll wait for you if you want me to.
She finally looks at me. Her expression unreadable. “That sounds… amazing.”
I watch her face. “Yeah?”
She swallows. “Yeah.”
Then she says, almost too casually, “Not like you'd have trouble finding company anyway.”
The words hang in the air between us. I stare at her, confused.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
She shakes her head, turning back to her laptop. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No, not nothing. What did you mean by that?”
She exhales sharply, frustrated. “It's stupid. I'm being stupid.”
“Try me.”
Her jaw tightens. “It’s…Brianna. She was asking if you were coming to some Alpha party. With a kissy face emoji. And there were other messages too. Flirty ones.”
I look at her blank, still not understanding the issue.
“I get messages all the time, Delilah. I barely even notice them.”
“You reacted to her Instagram story,” she continues, voice clipped. “With a fire emoji.”
I take a breath and look at the ceiling. “I don't even remember doing that. I react to shit on my phone all the time without thinking. It doesn't mean anything.”
“Yeah, well, it meant something to me,” she adds.
“Wait,” I say, sitting forward. “You think... what? That I'm interested in Brianna?”
She finally meets my eyes, defiant but hurt. “I don't know what to think. That's the problem. I can't…I can't be in something where I'm not sure.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You've been avoiding me for a week because Brianna sent me some messages that I barely responded to?”
She crosses her arms. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous. And you did respond. Well, you didn't shut it down. That's one of my friends, Troy, flirting with you!”
“Because it kind of is! I don't even know what messages you're talking about. Like, specifically. I get DMs all the time. I have a lot of people I know. Sometimes I respond, sometimes I don't. It doesn't mean anything.”
“It's not just that,” she argues, but her voice has lost some of its edge. “It's... everything. It's how easy this all seems for you. How many people want your attention. It's...”
“It's what?”
“It's that I can't compete with that,” she admits, the words rushing out like she's been holding them in. “And I hate that I even care. I hate that I'm this person who gets jealous over stupid messages. This isn't me. I don't do this.”
I stare at her. “You're jealous.”
She winces. “Can you not sound so pleased about it?”
“I'm not pleased,” I say, though maybe there's a tiny part of me that is. “I'm just... surprised. I didn't think you cared that much.”
“Well, I do,” she says, voice small. “And it's freaking me out.”
I lean back, processing this. “You know, if it bothers you, I can just block Brianna. I can block anyone. It's not a big deal.”