Page 121 of Delilah Green Doesn't Care

Later that day, when she’d returned alone to her fifth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn, the space a mess of clothes and food wrappers, half-drunk glasses of wine abandoned on side tables for more nourishing gulps of water, she’d grabbed her phone and opened up to her texts with Claire.

A thread that had been silent for a week.

Her thumbs hovered, desperate to reach out, but unsure what to say. What was there to say? The bet with Astrid, of course, was stupid. It was mean and selfish. Even though Astrid hadn’t taken it, and as soon Delilah and Claire started up their affair, Delilah rarely thought of those spiteful words she’d spoken to Astrid in her Kaleidoscope Inn room again.

Still.

It looked bad, she knew. When she thought about the trip, played every moment out like a movie, studying herself like an aspiring actress studied Hepburn, she saw it.

Her constant snarky comments.

Her meanness.

Her lack of care.

The way she lashed out at Astrid any moment she could, and for what? For revenge? For fun? It was no wonder Claire had let her leave, let her walk right out of Wisteria House and Bright Falls without a single question. Delilah didn’t blame her, she supposed. She’d made every effort to ensure everyone in Bright Falls knew she didn’t give two shits about them.

And she didn’t.

But now, as she looked up at the Whitney, her chest felt strangely hollow. There was excitement there, of course. Professional excitement. Artistic excitement. This-could-change-everythingexcitement, which was no small thing. But she couldn’t stop or ignore this tugging around her heart. The wish for something more. Someone, perhaps.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, and imagined what it would be like.

Life with someone’s fingers entwined with hers for nights like this.

Life with her person.

But as Delilah imagined someone walking beside her in this huge moment, that someone took on a face, a familiar feel, soft skin and brown eyes shining behind her glasses.

Claire hadn’t been like Jax.

She hadn’t been like anyone in Delilah’s life.

She’d been... She was...

Delilah shook her head, rolled her shoulders back. She had a job to do tonight, and she couldn’t afford distraction.

She couldn’t afford whatever Claire Sutherland was.

THE SHOW BEGANat eight o’clock. By nine, Delilah had already spoken to four agents who had handed her their card and told her to email them her portfolio, connected with two other artists whose work had similar themes about some collaborative projects, and sold three pieces for more money than she could currently comprehend.

She’d also come dangerously close to breaking down into tears five different times.

There was no reason for the crying.

The night was perfect, the show a success. The exhibition room was brightly lit and soft all at once, artists and patrons sipping champagne and spilling out on the museum’s veranda, which overlooked the city. There were incredible queer photographs hanging inthe space, images that showcased resilience, pain, sex, determination, hope, despair, celebration, and love. It was the pinnacle of not only Delilah’s professional life so far, but her queer life as well. Here, in this room, was everything she’d ever wanted or run from or feared.

So why this constant welling sensation, like something inside her was about to overflow? She couldn’t tell if she was overwhelmed or happy or scared or sad. She’d finally gotten a moment to breathe and grabbed a glass of bubbly alcohol, which she very much hoped would chill her the fuck out, when she heard her name.

She turned toward the sound to see a woman with a blond pixie cut in a fabulous white bandage dress sashaying toward her.

“Lorelei,” Delilah said when the woman got closer.

“You remembered,” Lorelei said, clinking her glass against Delilah’s, a knowing smile on her lips.

Delilah winced. “I’m sorry I never texted.”

Lorelei waved a hand. “Oh please. I know how to have a casual hookup.”