Chapter Twenty
Delilah
I’m at the store. A responsible adult. A woman with goals. On a mission to melt my therapist into a puddle of ethical failure. I’m here for essentials. Lip gloss. Lube. Lingerie that says “oops, did I drop my trauma right on your face?” And snacks that I can feed him from the couch in his office.
But all I can think about is Jett.
More specifically, Jett’s fingers.
More more specifically, the way he sucked them clean after finger-fucking me on his bike like he wanted to slurp the memory straight from his skin.
And then Chad.
Chad, the limp-dicked fucking oatmeal ghost walked out at the worst possible moment.
Jett was about to ruin me. I felt it. Felt the wild coil of fury inside him unwind into filth. Felt the switch flip behind his eyes like boom, welcome to the dark side, we’re gonna fuck on chrome and leather.
But no.
Chad the walking restraining order had to slither out of the gym, looking smug, like Jett wouldn’t snap him like a breadstick if not for the court system.
I grip the cart. My nails squeak on the handle. “He was gonna use teeth,” I whisper to myself in the breakfast aisle.
A woman with a toddler slowly wheels away.
Fine. Whatever. I’m flexible. I pivot.
First: get everything I need for Rhys. Chocolate, shame, a new glitter pen in case I need to journal about crossing more lines with his tongue.
Then we handle Chad.
I veer into sporting goods, not even sure what I need.
And there it is. An aluminum baseball bat. Neon bubblegum pink. Glinting under the fluorescent lights like the chosen weapon of a cheerleader-turned-slasher villain. I caress the handle. She’s perfect. She feels right.
“Hello, beloved.”
Into the cart she goes.
I roll into cosmetics next, grab two tubes of the ugliest, sluttiest fluorescent lipstick I can find. Not red. Not hot pink. This bitch is orange. Because Chad doesn’t deserve MAC. He deserves dollar store Cheeto stains and fear-sweat.
Then I hit crafts.
Ribbon. Silver glitter. A blank tag shaped like a heart. Precious.
I’m nearly done when divine inspiration strikes. I spin my cart around and make one final stop: bait.
A tub of gummy worms. Sour. Slippery. Unholy little bastards. I get the family size.
Because metaphor matters.
As I’m loading my trunk with romantic arsenals my phone buzzes.
Benji: Thought about you all day. Came home, saw your chaos. Felt loved. Thank you.
I nearly drop the bat. My fingers hover over the screen. My heart is doing gymnastics. My uterus just dropped a little egg and scribbled hope on it in pink gel pen like a dumb bitch.
Did he just thank me for breaking and entering?
