One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

“Yes,” Seth says, and takes another sip of his whiskey. It’s getting pretty low.

“You can’t answer an either-or question with —”

“If you,” he says, pointing at me, “Were my date, would it upset you if I danced with you?”

“You can say it as loudly and slowly as you want, it still doesn’t make sense,” I tell him. “Am I me as in me, or have I transmogrified into your date and am, from afar, judging whether or not you —" I point at him somewhat obnoxiously, like he did to me — “should be dancing with me, Delilah.”

I point at myself from overhead, pointer finger waving a big circle in the air. Seth takes another sip from his drink, and he’s obviously trying not to laugh.

“Let’s say transmogrified,” he says. “If you were some other girl —”

“Excuse me, do you mind if we —"

“Sorry,” I say, and move away from the table as a middle-aged woman starts looking for her table card. The song is still playing, couples still swaying on the dance floor, and I glance over at Seth and start strolling toward the bar.

“If I were some other girl I’d probably light you on fire if I saw you look at someone else,” I tell him. “But then again, if I were your date to a wedding, I’d probably be the kind of girl who’s chill enough that nothing bothers her. Or maybe I’d just be dumb, I don’t know.”

Seth gives a low whistle at this revelation, and I’ve barely stopped talking before I regret that whole light you on fire thing I just said.

“And what if you were you and you were my date?” he asks, right as we step into the short line at the bar.

“Then we’re in a parallel universe where something’s already gone horribly wrong,” I deadpan.

“Ouch,” he says, into his whiskey.

Oops.

“You know what I mean.”

“That bad, huh?”

The line moves forward, and I give Seth a look because I have no desire to bring up yesterday’s dumb fight, but also, how is not remembering that slightly more than twenty-four hours ago, we got into it over sand?

I will always have hurt him, and he will always have hurt me, and it sure feels like those wounds are a chasm that we can’t bridge.

“Really?” I finally ask, and I think he gets the message because he glances away.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he says, and I sigh.

“Are you going to let this go?”

“Probably not.”

“Any chance your date is going to come whisk you away and rescue me?”

“It’s not looking good for that either. Come on, Delilah. If you were my date, would you be mad if I danced with you?”

“Well —"

“But a different you. Not you you.”

“My evil twin?”

“Sure.”

I tilt the empty champagne glass into my mouth and get the last remaining drops out, just to give myself that much more fortitude and buy that much more time.

“You sure are dead set on this answer.”

“I sure am.”

I watch the guy behind the bar shake something in a silver cocktail shaker, take the top off, pour through a strainer and into a glass.

I don’t know why Seth is being like this, all of a sudden, two years after he claimed he never wanted to see me again. I don’t know why he’s picking fights and then apologizing for them, showing up at my sister’s wedding, haranguing me with dumb questions.

But I know I don’t hate it. I know that there’s a mean, ugly part of me gloating over the fact that he’s got a date somewhere, but he’s here, asking me to dance. I don’t like that I feel that way, but I do.

“I’d hate it,” I finally say, still watching the bartender. “If you were here with me and dancing with another me? I’d hate it.”

There’s a long, long pause. The line moves forward again, we’re almost next, and I have no idea why I didn’t just lie.

It would be fine. Why the hell didn’t I just say that?

“Would you light me on fire for it, or…”

“You’ll never find out, will you?” I tease, even though the champagne glass has gone slippery in my hand and my heart is beating too loudly. “I’m not your date, and I don’t have an evil twin. I think.”

“It might explain a lot if you did,” Seth muses, and the couple in front of us takes a beer and a glass of champagne and finally, finally, we’re at the front. Seth gets more whiskey. I get more champagne. The married-people dance finally ends, the strains of music fading gently away to a smattering of applause, probably because Ava and Thad are doing something cute and romantic.

My stomach squirms for reasons that have nothing to do with them.

“Which table are you at?” I ask Seth. We’re strolling slowly, aimlessly, and I’m not even sure that we’re walking together but it also feels like I should say something.