And if I’m not… if I’m just fumbling my way toward her with open arms and a bleeding heart, I hope that’s still enough.
A message arrives just as I’m about to tuck my phone away.
Jett: She’s with me. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna fuck it up.
Every muscle in me twitches. I stare at the words.
Not gonna fuck it up.
That’s not some casual reassurance. It’s a promise.
I see all the angles. He’s not trying to steal her from me. Maybe he wants to protect her too. This isn’t about possession, it’s about care in the messy middle.
Wasn’t expecting to feel this. Relief?.?.?. and something weird like gratitude. Because admitting that I’m not her only anchor now, that she can be tethered to more than one man, and still not drift away is terrifying. And it’s also… hope.
I just need to keep showing up. Email her funny things. Drop off coffee. Wait when she disappears and breathe when she comes back.
Chapter Forty-Two
Delilah
Jett’s leaned against my car like he owns it, owns me, this is normal, and I didn’t drop the ugly, feral truth in his lap like a cat leaving a rat-gutted gift on the rug.
“I’m gonna take care of you now,” he says. “You wanna follow me to my place or we going to yours?”
I don’t know how to compute this version of him. “Well, no one’s ever, I mean, my place isn’t really fuckable-romantic, unless you’re into thrift store trauma and suspicious candles.”
This isn’t how it works. I’m supposed to lure him to a $59 motel, fuck like the world’s ending, then sob into a vending machine burrito while he ghosts me into oblivion.
“Do you have a client?” I ask, desperate to drag us back to the script I understand, one where he stays pissed and I stay punished.
“My place, Delilah.” He gives me a look that says enough bullshit. “You know the way.”
I do. I nod, because fuck yes, and slide into my car before he remembers he’s furious again. Before this all dissolves into another orgasm with bruises and then silence.
I barely hit the first stop sign before my phone starts vibrating. Missed messages. Plural.
Benji. Sweet, beautiful Benji. Sunshine and soft touches and fucking hope. I answer him first.
Me: Missing you too.
Because I do. And because I want to be a good girl. And because I really, really fucking am not.
Next is the art center and fuck yes Kira cancelled. Wise goose.
Me: Confirming I will be there.
With bells on… or off.
I beat Jett to his house and pull into his driveway. Across the street, the same curtain twitches. Nosy-ass suburban surveillance squad, back at it.
I smile and wave. The eyes behind the curtain blink and don’t move.
Jett pulls up behind me, smirking, and flips them the bird. “Don’t mind that old bitch,” he says. “She’s made my comings and goings her personal Netflix.”
“Should we fuck on the bike?” I ask sweetly. “Give her something to blow out her pacemaker a little.”
“Yeah, not today.” He grabs my hand like it’s casual. Like we do this.
