“Tonight, yes.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t thank me. Just goes back to the pancakes like they might have answers.
I make it to the door before I let myself breathe. Before the image of her with her bare knees on motel sheets, mouth slack with need, gasping Jett’s name rises again.
I shove it down. Into the box where I keep every broken rule I’ve never spoken aloud.
I’ll see her Tuesday. Same time. Same chair. Pretending I still know what’s right.
I slide behind the wheel. Who the fuck am I kidding? I’ll see her tomorrow when she shows up to group with Jett and sets the room on fire just by looking at him. Because Trenton’s not built to handle what happens when she pokes Jett. And she will poke him.
I watch him in the big window as he picks at his pancakes.
I could have been Jett. Not just the man who fucked Delilah, though yes, that too. I could have been the man who was all teeth. I was. Until I wasn’t. Until therapy sanded me down and told me to draw instead of bite. Gave me the leash she keeps yanking.
I start the car.
Take another look at Jett.
Lucky bastard.
Brave enough to be himself in a world that punishes men who live by fuck around and find out.
I can’t help but smile.
Because Chad fucked around with both Delilah and Jett and found out.
Chapter Thirty-One
Delilah
This is where I thrive, in the whiplash silence after they run, I tell myself as I dismantle the two sad-ass hamburgers and Frankenstein them into one monstrous, soggy, fuck-you sandwich. I flourish in the absolute clusterfuck I created. Where I crack the moment wide open and wonder why they’re bleeding. Where I act like loving him hard is the same as loving him right.
I owe Jett right.
I take a bite, jaw grinding wet bread, congealed cheese, and hot shame into a paste of regret. I stare at the dried ketchup on the wall. On the bed. On me. The burger’s cold. So are the fries. And the cheese sticks. And the limp-dicked little hot dog. Even the goddamn cherry pie looks like it’s contemplating suicide.
This isn’t a one-night-stand meal. This is a last-rites smorgasbord. A grief buffet. A “welcome to the fallout of loving me” Happy Meal.
I rewrote his fucking soul and he tattooed his name across mine and then I panicked like a coward with a match in my teeth.
Maybe I hurt him.
No. Fuck “maybe.” I shattered him. I saw it. Saw his face when the words hit, when I dropped honesty like a bomb and called it love like that made it better.
It was true. And it landed like betrayal anyway.
And still, I’m not walking away.
Not unless he slams the door and changes the locks.
He needs to know I don’t love him second. Or last. Or some watered-down fraction like he’s just a chapter in a bigger story.He’s ink. On every goddamn page. In my margins. In my blood. Under my fucking fingernails.
I tug a pickle off the burger and chew, thoughtful and deranged.
“Okay,” I say to the fries. “Next step?”
Text Benji.
