Delilah Green Doesn’t Care
: Chapter 27

TWO DAYS LATER, Claire still felt like she was drifting through a dream. It wasn’t always a pleasant dream. Sometimes, it felt more akin to a nightmare, laced with panic and heavy breathing as she wondered how the hell she was going to get through this—whatever she and Delilah were doing—without a broken heart.

But there were decidedly dreamy moments too, remembering how Delilah had kissed her, touched her, how she’d held her hand while they flew over the glossy wood of the skating rink, laughing and eyes sparkling under the disco ball. Never in a million years would Claire think she’d go roller skating with Delilah Green, share a huge slice of greasy pizza and a Coke slushy, then make love in Claire’s bed like the world was ending.

Because that’s what it had felt like.

Making love.

Not sex and definitely not fucking.

Since Monday night, Delilah and Claire had spent every possible moment together. Delilah had left the next morning before Ruby came home, but then she came by the bookstore after lunch, armed with a camera roll of photos for her and Ruby to sift through and edit together, the two of them sitting on the beanbag chairs in the kids’ section while Claire worked. Then Claire made beef stroganoff and the three of them ate dinner together at Claire’s kitchen table, and it all felt so normal and right, Claire had to excuse herself to go the bathroom in the middle of the meal, splashing water on her face and forcing a sudden surge of tears back into her eyes.

Now it was Wednesday afternoon, and Claire hadn’t seen Delilah since the night before. They’d watched a movie with Ruby after dinner, kissed a little after Ruby went to sleep, but that was it. Claire wasn’t super comfortable with deliberate sleepovers with Ruby in the house, so Delilah had gone back to the inn, and Claire went to bed alone and she hated it. She proceeded to spend a restless night, her brain working through a million different ways to tell Delilah that she wanted her.

She never came up with anything very good.

“Ruby, we need to go!” Claire called down the hall. She was dropping her daughter at Tess’s house for the night so she and Iris could take Astrid out in Portland for a small, staid bachelorette party. Delilah was coming too—at least Claire hoped she was—and Iris and Claire had already decided to talk to Astrid about Spencer tonight.

Which was a whole other set of problems.

“Mom, I can’t get in touch with Dad,” Ruby said as she came down the hall with her bag, her brand-new phone in her hand. Claire had finally caved about Ruby having a phone, and Josh had taken her out yesterday morning and gotten one set up for her. Claire had to admit that knowing she could contact Ruby any time she needed to, particularly when her daughter was out with Josh, decreased her stress level a little. All the parental controls smartphones came with these days decreased it a lot.

“What do you mean?” Claire asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“I texted him like four times today, and he hasn’t answered.”

“Hmm.” Claire took out her own phone and waved it in the air. “Send me a text and make sure it’s going through.”

Ruby tapped at her screen. A second later, Claire’s phone pinged with the message.

“See?” Ruby said.

“Okay, well,” Claire said, “I’m sure he’s fine. Or his phone’s dead. He’s not the best at keeping it charged.”

Ruby nodded, but her brow puckered with worry. Claire felt a pinch of panic. This was exactly how Josh skipped town the last time, two years ago. One day he was here, and the next he was gone. A few days after his disappearing act, he texted Claire his standard apology—I’m sorry, I need some time, tell Ruby I love her, I’ll be back, blah blah blah.

Now, looking at Ruby, Claire knew her daughter was roaming through the same memories.

“It’ll be fine,” Claire said, swiping her thumb over Ruby’s cheek. “I’m sure he’s just busy. He has work, you know.” The lie felt wrong on her tongue, but what could she say? She couldn’t stand to crush her daughter’s hopes just yet. She knew Josh would want the benefit of the doubt, knew he’d been trying, and honestly, he’d been doing pretty amazing this last week. If he really had disappeared again, Claire wasn’t ready to face what that meant for their daughter either.

“OH SHIT,” IRIS said as she pulled into the driveway of Astrid’s small but immaculate Craftsman. Claire sat in the passenger seat and pressed her face against the window. They were supposed to pick up Astrid and then swing by the inn to get Delilah before heading down to Portland, but a bachelorette party seemed like the furthest thing from Astrid’s mind right now.

She was standing on her front porch, Spencer next to her with his hands on his hips, and she was screaming.

And throwing clothes onto the lawn.

Men’s clothes.

And several pairs of fancy Italian leather shoes.

“What is going on?” Claire asked.

“It doesn’t look good, whatever it is,” Iris said.

Claire gripped her friend’s hand across the center console, her heart squeezing. She wanted to fling the door open and run to Astrid, help her somehow, but this seemed like a pretty personal moment between her and Spencer, and Claire wasn’t sure what to do.

Iris pressed a button, and the driver’s window rolled down about four inches. Astrid’s voice filtered into the car.

“. . . can’t believe you thought that was okay. It’s not. It never will be.” Another shoe shot onto the lawn.

“Will you calm the fuck down?” Spencer said. “You’re hysterical.”

Astrid’s expression went nuclear. “Hysterical? This”—she waved her hand around her face—“is a perfectly reasonable and logical reaction to what you did.”

Claire sucked in a breath. “What did he do?”

“Who the hell knows with him?” Iris said.

“Should we leave?” Claire asked. “This feels intrusive. Like we’re spying on her.”

Iris shook her head and opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Spencer yelled again, all the while collecting his clothes.

“I did that for you. For us. You need to get out of this town and everyone in it.”

“That’s not—”

“Your mother? Total nightmare. You’re like a rag doll around her. And your friends are fucking miscreants.”

Iris’s posture snapped straight. “Damn right we are, you shit sock.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my friends,” Astrid said.

“I did you a favor, buying that house in Seattle,” Spencer went on. “You’re content to be nothing in Bright Falls, Astrid. I’m just trying to get you to see that.”

“Holy shit,” Iris said.

“He . . . bought a house in Seattle?” Claire asked. Her stomach splashed to her feet, Spencer’s proclamations rolling through her like a bulldozer. “I thought they weren’t leaving for another year.”

“By the looks of it, I think Astrid thought the same thing,” Iris said.

Astrid didn’t say anything. She just picked up a pin-striped suit jacket and launched it onto the grass.

“That’s Armani!” Spencer shrieked, jogging down the steps and collecting the garment.

“That doesn’t belong in my house anymore,” Astrid said, pointing at him. “And neither do you. Enjoy your new house in Seattle.”

“What are you going to do, cancel our whole wedding? Our whole life?” Spencer said, spreading his arms. “We’re getting married in three days. You wouldn’t dare.”

Astrid’s face sobered, and her chin started to wobble. Claire opened the car door, ready to intervene, but Astrid didn’t give her a chance. She simply turned on her heel and went inside, slamming her front door behind her.

Spencer stared after her for a second, then snatched up the last of his clothes and thundered toward his shiny Mercedes, which was parked on the curb. He glanced at Claire and Iris in the car, flicked them off over a pile of dress shirts like the classy guy he was, then got in his sedan and drove away.

The two women sat in silence for a second before Iris finally spoke.

“I think . . . I think they just broke up?” she said.

Claire blew out a breath. “I think they did.”

“That’s what we wanted.”

Claire nodded, but she felt terrible. Not guilty—Spencer dug his own grave, no doubt about it—but it was hard seeing a friend hurting. Plus . . .

“Isabel’s going to kill her,” she said.

“Yeah,” Iris said with a sigh. “I think she just might.”

“No reason for her to die alone, then,” Claire said.

Iris squeezed her hand and smiled at her. “One for all, bitches.”

They got out of the car and started up the sidewalk, Claire’s heart pounding the entire time. Iris rang the bell but then pushed the front door open and stepped inside. Astrid’s house, as always, was a vision of modern design and style. Cool gray walls, ecru sofas filled with throw pillows in various shades of blue, distressed wooden console tables, white quartz countertops, and stainless steel appliances. The living area, kitchen, and dining room were one huge space, and windows lined the entire back wall, revealing a small patio and a view of the river in the distance.

“Astrid?” Claire called. “Honey?”

No answer. She glanced at Iris before they both headed for the hall that led to the bedrooms.

Inside her room, Astrid sat on her queen-size bed facing the window, her back to the door. Evening light streamed in through the glass, turning all the grays in the room to lavender.

“Sweetie?” Iris said, walking inside slowly. “We’re here.”

Astrid didn’t move. Her shoulders were rounded, her posture very un-Astrid-like.

“Honey?” Claire said. She moved around Iris so she could sit next to Astrid. The bed dipped, and her friend’s shoulder pressed into hers. She moved her arm and wrapped it around Astrid, holding her tight. Iris settled on her other side.

Astrid wasn’t crying, but her eyes looked a little red rimmed as she stared vacantly out the window. Claire caught Iris’s gaze over Astrid’s blond head, a what do we do? look passing between them. They didn’t know. Finally, Iris’s arm came around Astrid’s shoulder as well, so that the three of them were locked together, just like they’d always been.

Astrid took a deep breath. She opened her mouth a few times, but it took several tries before she actually spoke.

“I don’t love him.”

Iris and Claire widened their eyes at each other.

“And I should love the person I’m going to marry,” Astrid went on without looking at either one of them. “Shouldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Claire said softly. Iris smoothed a hand down Astrid’s hair.

“I should trust him, be excited about marrying him.”

“Also yes,” Iris said.

“And I don’t. I’m not.”

Claire leaned her head against Astrid’s.

“He bought a house,” Astrid said. “An entire house without telling me. Asking me. He just . . . did it, like I didn’t even exist.”

“Well, that’s a shitty thing to do,” Iris said.

“Do you . . . do you remember when my mother signed me up for tennis when I was thirteen?”

Claire caught Iris’s eye again, both their mouths pressed flat. Of course they remembered. Astrid hated tennis. She always had, ever since her gym teacher had done a unit on it in fourth grade and a ball hit her square in the nose. But Isabel didn’t think track—which had been Astrid’s preferred sport since middle school—was a very ladylike activity. It wasn’t . . . posh enough. So she’d signed her up for tennis at the Bright River Club, private lessons, crisp white pleated skirts, the whole nine yards.

And Astrid did it for a year before it was clear she was terrible. Only then, when Isabel’s reputation for having a clumsy-on-the-court daughter was on the line, did she relent and let Astrid return to track and cross country.

“Yeah,” Claire said. “We remember.”

Astrid sighed. “She never asked me if I wanted to play. Never even thought about asking me, if I had to guess.”

Claire rubbed circles on her back.

“She never asked me about French lessons or what color dress I wanted to wear to all of her events. Never asked me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday. She just always bought angel food.”

“God, I always hated your birthday cakes,” Iris said.

“Iris,” Claire hissed, but Astrid just laughed.

“No, she’s right,” Astrid said. “Angel food cake is the worst. But it was what my mother wanted, just like everything else, like taking over Lindy Westbrook’s business, like—”

“Whoa, wait, what?” Iris asked. “I thought taking over for Lindy was what you wanted?”

Astrid sighed, waving a hand. “My point is, she doesn’t ask. No one ever fucking asks, and Spencer never asked me either.”

Claire’s heart ached for her friend. She tucked a piece of blond hair behind Astrid’s ear. “About the house?”

Astrid shrugged. “About the house. About moving to Seattle at all. He just assumed I’d say yes, because I always say yes. Don’t I?”

They sat silently for a bit, Claire totally unsure how to answer that. Because Astrid wasn’t wrong.

“I don’t want to go to Seattle,” Astrid finally said.

“Then don’t,” Iris said. “You don’t have to.”

“I . . . I don’t know how . . .” Tears finally welled in Astrid’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks so quickly, it was as though they’d been waiting for years to be set loose. “I don’t know how to say no. I don’t know how to do it.”

“We’ll help you,” Claire said. “We’ll do whatever you need us to do.”

“I’m awesome at saying no,” Iris said.

Astrid cracked a smile, but it faded quickly, and she wiped her eyes. “God, my mother. She—”

“Will get over it,” Iris said. “This is your life, not hers.”

“Jesus, what a mess,” Astrid said, then her posture went ramrod straight. “There’s so much to do. I need to call the caterers. And the florist. God, Delilah. I need to—”

“Stop,” Claire said, pulling her friend closer. Her heart flipped at Delilah’s name, but she ignored it. “We’ve got time. Right now, just . . . just sit here with us, okay?”

“Or,” Iris said, “if you wanted to get some practice in saying no, you can tell us to go fuck ourselves right now and we’ll get going on these phone calls stat.”

Astrid laughed, then shook her head. “No. No, taking a minute is good, I think.”

“See?” Iris said. “You just said no to me telling you that you could say no. An expert already.”

Astrid laughed again, then flopped back onto the bed, her arms splayed above her head. A very un-Astrid-like motion, and it made Claire smile. She lay back too, followed by Iris, and the three friends hooked their arms together, relieved tears running down all of their cheeks and splashing into the thousand–thread count duvet.