Page 15 of Delilah Green Doesn't Care

“I’m going to go have sex, just so you know,” Iris said, jutting her thumb toward the entrance of the building where she rented the top-floor apartment with her boyfriend, Grant.

“No one likes a bragger,” Claire said.

Iris laughed, but Claire noticed her eyes tighten, as they always seemed to lately when it came to Grant. He was a chemical engineer in Portland, and they’d been together for two years. More importantly, he was desperate to have kids. He wanted to get married and pop out at least four redheaded amalgams of him and Iris, go on vacations to Disneyland during the summer, and coach Little League.

Iris... did not. She loved her brother’s twins, visited them in San Francisco often. She spoiled them, sent them lavish birthday gifts, and had pictures of them all over her refrigerator. She doted on Ruby and wasAunt Irisin every way. But she didn’t want her own kids. She never had. It was a sore spot with Grant, and Claire worried it was getting sorer.

“Everything okay with you two?” she asked.

Iris waved a hand. “Same argument, different day.”

Claire pulled Iris into her arms and kissed the top of her head. Iris softened, just for a second, then pinched Claire’s butt before pulling away and heading off down the sidewalk.

Claire watched her for a second before she moved on too, passing River Wild Books, her recent favorite reads displayed in the window, along with a rainbow flag she’d set up three Prides ago and had decided to leave up year-round. Paper Wishes came up next, its green-and-white-striped awning fluttering in the damp breeze. Josh’s apartment was one more block down in a recently renovated building, above a new acupuncture studio that just set up shop a couple of months ago, around the time he rolled into town. It probably wouldn’t last. Hardly any business ever did in this little corner of the block, and the townspeople liked to joke that the space was cursed.

Incidentally, Andrew Green’s boutique architecture firm had been the last thriving business to take up that space—Delilah’s father.

Claire shook off yet another Delilah-shaped thought and let herself in the outside entrance, then climbed the stairs. At Josh’s door, she stood there for a few seconds, listening. Music trickled into the hallway, that indie folk rock that Josh loved, and she could hear Ruby laughing.

So, no nine thirty bedtime, then.

Rolling her shoulders back, she lifted her hand and knocked.

And waited.

And then waited some more.

She considered just opening the door and barging in—she grew the kid inside in her own body, after all—but she decided to try one more knock before going all SWAT team.

Finally, the music turned down and the door swung open, revealing the father of her child covered from head to toe in makeup. Hislips were pink, his eyelids a glittery purple slash, and royal blue sparkled on his fingernails.

“Hey,” he said. He was breathing hard and grinning, like he’d just been laughing. “Everything okay?”

She let her eyes flick down to his painted toes. “I should be asking you that question.”

He blinked for a minute, and she saw it bloom into his eyes—that fear that everything wasn’t okay, that he’d done something wrong.

“It’s late” was all she said when he just stood there.

“Oh. Yeah, well”—he jerked his thumb toward his living room, in which Claire could see some sort of blanket fort draped between the couches—“we were having a makeover.”

“I see that.”

“Lost track of time.”

“Mm.”

He tapped a finger on the doorframe, and she lifted a brow at him.

“Oh shit, sorry,” he said, opening the door wider. “Come in, sure.”

“Thanks, I just wanted to say good night.”

“Right,” he said, but his voice was flat.

Inside was all fresh paint and sparse furniture—which Claire was pretty sure Josh rented along with the apartment—but even the simplicity of Josh’s space couldn’t hide the mess. The small kitchen, which opened into the living room, was covered in used pots and pans, red sauce splattered on the counters. Bits of dried pasta clung to a colander, and the oven was still on.

Claire clutched her stomach, wondering if the appliance would’ve continued to churn outgasheat all night long if she hadn’t come by. She took a few steps, checked to make sure nothing was actually cooking—there wasn’t—and pressed the off button with a little more vigor than necessary.