Someday soon, I’ll tell her everything.
But that day is not today.
Chapter Six
Demi
“Derek’s going to be livid.” Delilah folds her arms tight across her chest, angling her brows at me the second Royal leaves. “And Dad.”
She blows a tense, quick breath past terse lips.
Outside, the rumble of his engine fades into the distance, his roughed-up American muscle car vanishing from the rolling hills of our picturesque community.
I shrug. “I didn’t invite him over. He just showed up.”
“And stayed the night.”
“I didn’t ask him to.” I lean against the marble island, grazing my hand across the cool counter. All these years, he felt like something so intangible. Like a cloud. You know it’s there, you see it so clearly, but there’s nothing to grab onto when you try to touch it. Seeing him in the flesh is surreal. “He knocked on my door last night. I tried to tell him off. And then I threw up on his shoes. I don’t remember much after that, but when I woke up, he was sitting on the living room sofa in Brooks’s pajamas.”
“That shirt.” Delilah points at me. “That’s his shirt from high school. The one you used to wear all the time when he lived with us.”
I splay my fingers across my chest. They may as well be red hands, because I’m caught. No one knew I kept it. And Brooks never questioned me when I said it must’ve been one of Derek’s old shirts that got mixed in with mine somewhere along the line. I’m not a sentimental person, but damn if I didn’t want something I could actually touch once in a while.
“How are you not freaking out right now?” Delilah unzips her parka and hangs it on the back of a bar stool before fixing herself a cup of coffee. She knows where everything is, despite the fact that she’s only been here a handful of times since we moved in last year. Delilah never forgets a thing. “That asshole broke your heart, nearly broke you, and you’re standing here like you just got done meditating with the Dalai Lama.”
My head pounds, each throb an unrestrained suggestion to grab some aspirin. I forage the medicine cabinet before grabbing a bottled water from the fridge.
“I’m not calm,” I say, popping the pills to the back of my tongue. “I just haven’t had time to freak out yet. Only been up a half hour.”
I take a gulp of ice-cold water.
“He was getting ready to tell me what happened when you showed up and interrupted us,” I say.
“Well, shit.” Delilah’s shoulders fold, her eyes apologizing.
“He’ll be back.” I stare out the window, toward the spot where his Challenger was parked last night.
“How do you know?”
I hunch my shoulders. “Just a feeling I have.”
“He said he came to support you. How’d he know about Brooks?”
“Claimed he saw it on the news.”
I neglect to tell her that he’s been parking outside the house for the last several months—maybe longer, if I haven’t been paying much attention. And I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. Flattered? Creeped out? Intrigued? Vindicated? Maybe a sickening combination of all four?
Delilah traces a pale pink fingertip along a marble vein in the counter. “Yeah. People on Facebook are sharing articles left and right. Everyone’s really upset about Brooks. How’re you holding up?”
I hate this question.
I know she’s my sister, but everyone and their dog has asked me this same question over and over since the night of the accident. My principal. My parents, my siblings, my friends, Brooks’s friends, neighbors, the checker at the Quik-E Save.
The Abbotts are well-loved in Rixton Falls, and Brooks didn’t need a traumatic car accident to become the local celebrity he already was. There’s not a resident in a ten-mile radius who hasn’t heard of them. And three-fourths of the city use Brooks’s firm to manage their assets. There’s not a lot of wealth in this city, but most everyone’s set to retire early thanks to Brooks’s fancy footwork.
The correct answer to Delilah’s question escapes me. Probably because I’m not sure what the correct answer would be.
Do I tell the truth? Do I flat out admit that I’m freaking out right now because no one knows we broke up and no one will believe me?
My sister’s gaze softens, and she reaches for my arm, rubbing my shoulder. She takes my hesitance as a sign that I’m not doing well, and maybe she’s right.
“You didn’t have to fly all the way back from Chicago,” I say.
She bats her hand. “Brooks is your fiancé. He’s family. I’m going to be here for you. For him. Whatever you need. I’ve already spoken with my professors, and I’ll be telecommuting the rest of the month. I’ll go back after Thanksgiving. For the next three weeks, I’m all yours. Anything you need.”
I hug my little sister tight. The truth rests on the tip of my tongue.
“Brooks is going to be fine.” She gives me an extra squeeze. “He’s going to recover, and you’re going to marry him and live happily ever after with lots of Abbott babies and the entire world at your fingertips.”
“I don’t want to talk about the future right now.”
“Oh,” she says, though it comes out more like a question. “Okay. Sure. Understand.”
“I’m going to grab a shower.”
“I’ll be here.”