Page 101 of Deliah

“No, seriously. Tell him to fuck off.”

Her whole vibe changed in seconds, laughter gone, warmth gone. It was like a switch had been flipped. She was in fight mode now, eyes narrowed, body stiff. Rage was her armour.

“I can’t really tell him what to do, babe,” I said gently.

“Yeah, you can,” she bit back. “It’s your house. Damion, go tell him to get fucked. I don’t wanna talk to him.”

Damion stood up slowly, calm as ever. “I’ll speak to him, Cherry. But it might be worth you just… having a quick chat.”

“Oh, of course.” She scoffed. “You would say that. He’s your mate.”

“He’s not just my mate,” Damion said, meeting her eyes. “He’s a prick sometimes. But maybe hearing you out will be the wake-up call he needs.”

Cherry turned to me, defensive. “And what, you agree with him now?”

I sighed. “I’m not taking sides, Cherry. I just… think you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest. Even if you scream at him. At least then you’ve said your piece.”

“Oh, great,” she muttered. “Two against fucking one. What is this—some kind of intervention?”

There was another knock. Louder this time. Almost desperate. Damion turned and headed downstairs.

Cherry looked at me, her expression wild with hurt and fury. “I swear to God, if he says one thing to make me cry, I’m launching that fucking coffee at his head.”

“Noted,” I replied, squeezing her hand. “But maybe don’t waste the caffeine. You’ll need it.”

She let out a small, reluctant laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Downstairs, we could hear low voices, Damion talking to Tommy, calm and steady. I strained to listen but couldn’t make anything out. Cherry stood up and paced, chewing at her thumbnail.

“I don’t want to see him,” she muttered. “I’ll slap him. I will.”

“I know.”

“I hate him.”

“I know.”

But the part we both didn’t say out loud, the part that hung heavy in the air, was that she didn’t. Not really. Because if she did, this wouldn’t hurt so much. And that was the worst kind of pain. Not the heartbreak. The not-hating. The still loving someone who didn’t treat you right. She crossed her arms and stared at the floor, bracing herself for whatever came next.

Next thing we knew, Tommy walked into the bedroom. He stood there awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets like a naughty schoolboy. Cherry didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at him. Arms folded across her chest, jaw clenched. She stood like a statue sculpted out of fury and eyeliner. The silence was so thick it made my skin itch. I stayed in bed, silently begging the duvet to swallow me whole.

“I’ll give you guys a minute,” I said gently, shifting to get up.

“No, Del,” Cherry snapped without moving. “I don’t need a minute. I’ve got nothing to say to him.”

Tommy sighed. “Cherry, come on. Stop being dramatic. Just come home and we can talk.”

She let out a sharp laugh, like a bark. “Oh, brilliant. Right on cue with the word dramatic. Love that. You know what else is dramatic? Me feeling like shit in your kitchen while you shrugged and said, ‘I don’t really do labels.’”

“Cherry,” he muttered, glancing at me, embarrassed.

“No, no.” She held up a hand, finally looking at him. “Let’s put on a show, shall we? You can be the emotionally stunted lead, and I’ll be the clingy lunatic who wanted—God forbid—a proper relationship.”

He frowned, stepping into the room. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“Well,” she said brightly, eyes wide, “you did! So either you’re clueless, or you just really enjoy treating me like I’m a reusable shopping bag. Convenient, but nothing special.”

“Come on,” he said, voice softening. “That’s not fair.”

I shifted in the bed again, hoping to escape before it escalated further.