Page 22 of Her Father's Best Friend
I pause at the top of the steps, one hand on the railing. "That's not your decision to make anymore, Bill. It's hers. And she's chosen me."
He doesn't respond, doesn't turn around, his shoulders rigid with anger. I descend the steps, each one feeling heavier than the last, the weight of fifteen years of friendship pressing down on me.
In the driveway, I pause to look back at the house where I've spent countless evenings, where I've celebrated holidays and birthdays, where I first laid eyes on Delilah in her cut-off shorts and knew I was in trouble. Bill is still on the deck, a solitary figure silhouetted against the evening sky, unmoving.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Delilah.
How's it going?
I start to type, then stop. This isn't something to explain over text. I need to see her face, hold her, reassure her that despite everything, we're going to be okay.
On my way home. We'll talk when I get there.
As I drive away from Bill's house, a curious lightness spreads through my chest despite the pain of the confrontation. The truth is out. The worst has happened. Now we can move forward without the weight of secrecy, without the constant fear of discovery.
Bill's anger was everything I expected and feared. The loss of his friendship is a wound that will take time to heal—if it ever does. But as I turn onto the road that leads to my house, to Delilah, I feel no regret. Only a deep certainty that I've done the right thing, finally.
She'll be waiting for me, probably pacing the living room, her bottom lip caught between her teeth the way it is when she's anxious. She'll ask me how it went, and I'll tell her the truth—that it was ugly, that her father is furious, that this won't be resolved quickly or easily.
But I'll also tell her that I meant every word I said to Bill. That I love her without reservation. That I'll stand by her through whatever comes next, whatever price we have to pay for choosing each other.
Because some choices define you. And I've made mine.
nine
Delilah
Three weekssince Dad erupted like Vesuvius. Three weeks of silence from the man who used to call me just to tell me about a funny commercial he saw. I miss him with an ache that sits beneath my ribs, constant and dull. But when Mitch slides his arm around my waist as I stand at the kitchen window, when he presses his lips to my temple and murmurs "Morning, beautiful" against my skin, I know I've made the right choice. Some prices are worth paying, and the warmth that fills me when he looks at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted is worth any cost.
"Coffee?" Mitch asks, his voice still rough with sleep. His hair sticks up on one side, and he hasn't trimmed his beard in a few days, making him look slightly wild and entirely delicious.
"Please." I lean into his solid warmth, savoring the way his large hand splays across my stomach, possessive and protective at once.
He moves away to pour us each a mug, and I watch him—the easy confidence in his movements, the flex of muscle beneath his t-shirt, the way he automatically prepares mine exactly how I like it. These small details, these everyday intimacies, are what fill the spaces between the passion. They're what make this feel real, permanent.
The day after Mitch told Dad about us, I moved the last of my things from my childhood home. Dad wasn't there—a small mercy, avoiding that particular confrontation—but his absence felt like a statement nonetheless. I cried in the car on the way to Mitch's house, tears streaming silently down my face as I watched the familiar streets of my hometown blur past the window.
Mitch had taken one look at my red-rimmed eyes when I arrived and wordlessly pulled me into his arms, letting me sob against his chest until I had no tears left. Then he'd carried my bags inside and said, "Welcome home, Delilah," with such certainty that I believed him.
Now, three weeks later, his house—our house—feels more like home than anywhere I've ever lived. My books stand alongside his on the shelves. My favorite mug (the one with the chip in the handle that Dad always threatened to throw away) has its place in the cabinet. My clothes hang next to his in the closet, colorful dresses and tops breaking up the sea of flannel and denim.
But it's the things Mitch has done to make space for me that touch me most deeply. Like the vanity he built in the bathroom, complete with a lighted mirror for my makeup. Or the hooks he installed by the door specifically for my collection of light scarves. Or the extra-deep shelves he added to the linen closet because I "have too many damn towels, Delilah, who needs this many towels?"
"What are you thinking about?" Mitch asks, handing me my coffee—cream, no sugar, in my chipped mug.
"You," I answer honestly, taking a sip. "All the ways you've made room for me here."
He shrugs, like it's nothing, like he hasn't spent every free moment of the past three weeks turning his bachelor pad into our sanctuary. "Just want you to feel at home."
I set my mug down and step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong beneath my ear. "I do," I tell him. "More than I ever have anywhere else."
His arms come around me, holding me against him with that perfect pressure—not too tight, not too loose. Just right. Like everything with Mitch. "Good," he says simply.
We stand like that for a long minute, just breathing together in our kitchen, morning sunlight painting golden rectangles on the floor around us. It's these moments I never anticipated when I plotted to seduce him—the quiet, ordinary miracles of waking up together, of finding the rhythm of shared space, of learning that passion is only one layer of what we can give each other.
"My dad called yesterday," Mitch says, his voice vibrating through his chest against my cheek. "Asked if I'd take on that deck project for the Nelsons."
I pull back to look at his face. "The one Dad was supposed to do?"
