Benji’s looks like a unicorn threw up on it. The whole thing hums with neon happiness and codependent vibes.
Rhys’s is sleek. Professional. Except for the big red lipstick print across the front pocket like she made out with it. I bet she picked a shade called something deranged like Hostile Witness or Cunnilingus in Court.
Benji unzips his first, already grinning. “God, I love her.”
Inside is a crime-scene red towel. Peach rings. A protein bar. Heart-shaped sunglasses.
He holds them up like they’re holy.
Rhys and I both look at him. He looks at the glasses. Then he puts them on.
“I’m gonna throw up,” I say.
“You know you want them,” Benji says, very seriously, with glitter on his cheek.
Rhys is already rummaging through his like he’s doing a forensic analysis. Pulls out the red towel. Lifts a single pink diamond stud between his fingers. “She gave me this,” he says. He sounds weird. Like the earring’s a relic.
“I’m scared to open mine now,” I admit, peeling the zipper back.
Inside there’s a towel. Snacks. And fuck. A new scrunchie.
Black and pink. Satin. Fucking dignified. Like a Victorian mourning ribbon went punk.
I finger the old one around my wrist. It’s fraying. Half unraveled. This one is too clean, too new, but I still lift it, hold it against my mouth for a second like a freak before I slip it on with the other that I’m not taking off.
“Glitter bomb,” Rhys warns, holding up a detonated packet. His hands sparkle like he fingered a craft whore.
Mine goes off in my face. “Mother fuck!”
Benji cackles. “Joy landmine,” he says.
Glitter clings to the sweat on my chest, the towel, my scruff. Rhys is trying to brush his off with clinical efficiency and only making it worse. Benji just accepts it, lets it settle on his shoulders like some goddamn holy ash.
We sit there for a second.
Just sit.
Red towels, sugar dust, sparkle. And her.
None of us says it out loud. But she saw us. Really saw us. And she still left gifts like we’re something worth worshipping.
Benji breaks the silence. “We should do something for her.”
“We should brace for her,” I say.
Rhys tucks the earring into his palm. “We should tell her she doesn’t have to earn us like this.”
“She’ll just do it anyway,” Benji says. “It’s who she is. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
We all nod.
Because yeah. That’s our girl. And he’s fucking right. “I wouldn’t either. You better not try to with all your fancy therapy shit,” I say to Rhys.
“Nope,” he says. “She’s Delilah P. Darling. The p stands for perfect the way she is.”
“I’m gonna vomit,” I say.
Chapter Fifty-One
