AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I happen to be in witness protection.
Delilah leans on the counter, angled away from me. From this vantage point, I can’t tell if her lips still have that bee-stung look or if her blue eyes still undo me with one glance.
Another breath-stealing flash hits: Delilah and me, sixteen and inseparable, lying side by side in her barn, hay sneaking into uncomfortable places, her family’s Arabians snorting and nickering while we take turns flipping comic book pages, her eyes so blue they’re the color of summer freedom and Sonic the Hedgehog, the parts of my body touching hers on fire with a heady mix of love and lust.
The burning behind my eyes worsens.
“Why is your face red?” Lennon’s holding a plastic bag with whatever he bought, his back to Delilah, clueless to the source of my overheating body.
“I’m not red,” I force out, but my rushing blood isn’t corroborating my lie. I lean to the side, desperate for another glimpse of Delilah.
She rotates, digs into her purse, searching for something.
I pull back and hide behind Lennon.
He tilts his head and rubs his beard, the cuffed sleeve of his plaid button-down slipping to his elbow. “There’s a definite red tinge.” He smiles at our elderly neighbors. “Doesn’t he look flushed?”
The couple scrutinizes me. “I think it’s the name,” the ladyunhelpfully blurts. “The flight attendant said—”
“Nothing.” I pop up, grab my satchel, and forcibly lead Lennon away from that couple and Delilah.
“Are we on a reality show?” Lennon says, getting up in my space. He’s not as tall as me, but he’s fit from his mountain biking and rock climbing. He’d tackle me if he knew Delilah was nearby. “Is this the part where we’re given clues, and I have to figure out why you’re being rude to senior citizens? What’s up with you?”
“I mean, wecouldbe on a reality show. Our asshole father did launder money for a drug cartel. Netflix would cream themselves to tell our story.” Five boys forced into witness protection, ripped suddenly from their lives like pages from a censored book.
That shit would kill it in ratings.
Lennon smirks. “Michael Fassbender would play me. He’s not as hot, but he can pull off the beard and reddish-brown hair.”
“You’re delusional,” I say, ducking as Delilah leaves the departure counter. “He’s not hipster enough.”
Lennon scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you: wearing plaid doesn’t make me a hipster. And you’re acting weird. What was the lady saying about a name?”
“Nothing.” I peek at Delilah again. She takes a seat beside some dude wearing orange jeans, thankfully facing away from us.
Even if she saw me, the odds of her recognizing me are slim. I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen. My Justin Bieber haircut is thank-fuck gone, replaced with shorter strands I struggle to tame, but at least I don’t look like someone dropped a limp mop on my head. I’m taller and fuller, not muscled up like our three oldest brothers, but I run like my life depends on it, which it kind of does. The six-pack I didn’t have when Delilah first took off my shirt has emerged. I’m now Brian Baker, not Edgar Bower—E to my friends back then—but I still have a telltale scar through my upper lip. She might notice that defining feature or see our treasure trove of memories swimming through my eyes.
Orange Jeans Guy smiles at her. She smiles back.
I clench my jaw, mentally talking myself down from doing something stupid like telling Orange Jeans Guy to take a hike.
Delilah Moon isn’t mine. She hasn’t been mine for ten long years, and if she knew I was within fifty feet of her, she’d probably use my face for target practice. (Delilah won Windfall’s skeet shooting contest at age fifteen.) Leaving her without a word was bad enough. Ghosting her after we made love for our first and only time?
Forget skeet shooting. She’d probably launch a grenade at my crotch.
“Actually,” I tell Lennon, struggling to inflate my lungs, “I am feeling off.”
An ache has settled in my chest, my dormant love for her scrabbling to the surface. If I tell Lennon I’m stealing glimpses of Delilah’s slightly sloped nose, wishing I could brush my nose against hers as our lips slowly meet, he’ll forcibly drag me away from here. I’m not ready to lose sight of her again. Not yet.
“I’m having a Delilah Day,” I tell him. A partial lie.
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” His sympathetic tone doesn’t ease my churning panic. “It’s been a while since you’ve had one of those.”
Delilah Days were my most morose days during our early years in WITSEC, a.k.a. witness protection and my messed-up life. I’d sit on social media obsessively, too nauseous to eat, my skin that translucent bluish color of an underground dweller who never saw daylight, reading Delilah’s old posts over and over—worried messages that grew increasingly desperate.
If anyone knows where the Bowers are, please contact me.
E, if you see this, call me. I’m freaking out.
