“I do, but I wanted to make sure you were good. As good as you can be, I mean.” She stops in front of me, dropping her hand on my arm.
“I’m so much better than I would have been if you hadn’t shown up. Thank you for being here when I needed you, and for staying.”
“Why didn’t you call last night?” I lean against the counter and search her eyes, making sure she’s really okay.
“You had a game. I didn’t want to distract you.” She shrugs like she’s not more important than the game.
I couldn’t have skipped the game, but I would have figured something out. “The thought of you here alone last night crying . . . it guts me.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you last night. When you got here. I could see that you were . . . upset.” She bites on her plump lip, leaving two perfect little dents in it as she looks up at me through her lashes. Her voice is gentle, as if she doesn’t want to say what she’s really thinking.
I can imagine how I looked when she opened the door. She knows me well enough by now to guess that I went down a dark path. Delilah had a front row seat to my grief. We met right after my brother passed and my team in St. Louis traded me. She’s been my saving grace as I figure out how to get through each day without him.
I push my hands through my hair. “I was fucking terrified when you didn’t show up to the game and I couldn’t get ahold of you. But none of this is your fault—not what he did, and not my reaction.”
“I know, but I should’ve let you know I wouldn’t be there. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t give it another thought. You’ll come to the game tonight though, right? I don’t want you sitting here alone.”
“I’ll be there. I won’t pretend I’m not hurt and angry, and there will be moments where I just can’t deal because I’m fucking gutted. But I refuse to sit around and cry over either of them. They’ve taken enough from me already.”
“There she is. That’s my strong girl.” I pull her into a hug before we drink our coffee, sitting side by side and come up with a plan for what’s next. She’s got a long to-do list because of Brad’s callus actions and if I know him, he’s not going to lift a finger to help.
She talks and I make a list of the things that are urgent. Every once in a while she pops a caramel in her mouth, making a tiny mountain of wrappers next to her on the table. I make a mental note to restock her stash. The list grows as we work with things like: nixing the dress shopping this weekend, letting her extended family know the engagement is off, canceling wedding contracts, and talking to her landlord to make sure she can stay in her apartment.
She clutches my hand like it’s her lifeline when she calls her dads to tell them the wedding is off. The tears streaming down her face as she reopened all the fresh wounds made me want to hunt Brad down and break every bone in his body.
No surprise, but her dads were both just concerned about how she was doing after finding Brad with Bridget, and the toll it would take on her to cancel all the wedding plans on her own. Her Pops sniffled along with her. While Dad was fuming just like me, threatening to tear Brad limb from limb for hurting his little girl.
They graciously offered, or rather demanded, to fly out and take care of her, but Delilah refused to let them do that. They eventually let it rest after the promise of daily Facetimes and reassurance that she wasn’t alone.
“Thank you for your help with that. I would have broken down trying to get through that on my own.” She nods to the piece of paper which is now stuck to her fridge. Making a plan seems to have helped her deal with a little of the pain she was feeling. Like breaking it down into tasks made it more manageable.
CHAPTER 1
The Bridget Bomb
Present
“Attendance is mandatory, and management is asking that everyone brings a plus one. It doesn’t have to be a date. Bring your mom for all I care,” Coach bellows at us as we all hurry towards the door. “Don’t forget the dress code is black tie. Now, get out of here and go enjoy the rest of your day.”
I cringe when I see the time on my watch—I’m supposed to meet Delilah for lunch. It’s something we started doing weekly after her breakup with Brad. We’ve kept it up for the last two years. I needed to know she was okay, and it was a way to get her out of her apartment orBuns & Roses,so she couldn’t hide herself away or bury herself in work while she worked through her pain.
Stepping into the crisp, fall air my feet carry me to my truck at a rapid pace. The old truck shutters when I slam the door shut. I turn over the engine, bringing it rumbling to life. While I let it warm up my fingers move across the screen, typing out a short message letting her know I’m running behind.
My head goes back to the night we met, when Brad was almost an hour late for their date. I don’t ever want to be the guy that makes her question whether she’s worth showing up for her. Turning left into the parking lot I find the first open spot, leap from the truck and hustle into the restaurant to find her already waiting for me at a table by the window of the Vietnamese bakery.
Delilah stands when I approach the table, and I don’t think twice about pulling her into me. My chin rests on the top of her head, keeping her there a beat longer than necessary. As expected, the scent of brown sugar and coffee consumes me. It’s so fucking intoxicating. Nothing smells more like home to me than she does. “Sorry I’m late. Coach was on a rant after practice. Have you ordered yet?”
“No, I haven’t. You were two minutes late. It’s hardly a big deal.” She glances down at her watch, which is stacked with the bracelet I got for her birthday the first year we met. The watch is a recent addition. It’s gold, like the bracelet, and inscribed with the letters BFF. It’s cheesy as hell which makes it even better.
I gave it to her the morning of her birthday, at the park where we sometimes volunteer to walk rescue dogs. Afterwards she scolded me for spending so much on a watch only to have something so ridiculous etched into it. But I would have spent a hundred times more to hear a genuine laugh after all the shit she’s been through.
My fingers skate across the delicate chain on her wrist. “Maybe not to you, but I hate the thought of you waiting on me.”
Her brows furrow, eyes following the movement as my finger toys with her bracelet. She places her hand on top of mine. “Aside from my dads you’re the most steadfast presence in my life. You wouldn’t be late without reason. I’m the luckiest girl alive to have a friend like you in my life.”
Friend. Right. Why does that sting a little more every time I hear her describe me that way? Maybe because my feelings for her have grown far beyond the boundaries of friendship. Lately, it’s hard to push that aside and act like I don’t need more. Every cell in my body is begging me to indulge in the feelings I’ve developed for Delilah.
