One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

Her eyes are bright again, her jaw clenching as she stares straight ahead into the dim room. I turn so I’m facing her, one leg folded under me, the other foot flat on the floor, knee in the air. I doubt I’m supposed to sit like this in a suit, but James Bond sprints in tuxedos all the time and he looks fine.

“You’re not,” I tell her.

“And, of all people, she had to tell you that I’m lonely and desperate for a date,” she says. “And you had to agree to this shit show for some godforsaken reason.”

I pull the blue handkerchief from the pocket of my suit jacket and hold it out.

“Here,” I say.

Delilah takes it, holds it for a minute like it’s a rare bird, then tries to hand it back.

“This is silk,” she says.

“Okay,” I tell her, not taking it back.

“I can’t actually use it, I’ll fuck it up. I’ve got about fifteen layers of makeup on.”

I just shrug.

“It matches your tie and everything.”

“Just use the damn thing,” I say, leaning my head back against the wood paneling of the nook.

Delilah laughs, and it’s welcome but unsteady, as if she’s walking along a balance beam and could fall off to either side.

“Thanks,” she says, then takes a deep breath and dabs very, very carefully underneath her eyes. “I still cry when I’m angry. As you can tell.”

For a long moment, I just watch her in the low light. Delilah drinks the water, takes several deep breaths and tilts her face toward the ceiling with her eyes closed, neck long, chest rising and falling.

“I didn’t agree to be your date because I think you’re pathetic,” I finally tell her.

“Not my date,” she says without moving.

“I agreed to co-attend this event with you because it sounded nice.”

Now she looks at me, her face less red, her lips less puffy.

“Nice?” she says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“What if we were friends?” I ask. “It’s been a long time. We haven’t even done what we normally do.”

Delilah pushes herself so she’s facing me, one leg hanging off the edge of the nook, the other tucked underneath her, pink dress pooled around her.

“You mean fuck and then fight,” she says, looking at me, absent-mindedly wrapping the silk handkerchief around one finger then another.

It’s not for lack of wanting. Even right now, as I tell her it’s been a long time, even as I imply that I’m finally over her, I’m not. I want to lean across this windowsill and kiss her swollen lips, slide my hand under her skirt, undo all those buttons I fastened before.

But I also know that some old hurts fester instead of heal, and giving into temptation with her is like tearing off a bandage and rubbing salt into a wound.

“Exactly.”

“We did fight,” she points out, sounding dubious.

“That’s only half the equation.”

“Can I be honest?”

“Don’t tell me you’re just starting now.”

Delilah rolls her eyes, half-smiles.

“I’ve got no idea how to be friends with you,” she says, her free leg swinging. “We’ve never been friends, Seth.”

“It’s all right so far,” I point out.

“Yes, a fantastic five minutes,” she deadpans.

“It could have gone differently.”

She just looks at me, her eyes drifting over my face like she needs to memorize me for a quiz later.

“True,” she finally says, then sweeps her leg off the nook and lands on her feet, shakes out her skirt, stands tall, breathes deep.

“We should get back before someone comes looking for us,” she says, and then she holds out one hand. “C’mon.”

I don’t need her hand to help me down, but I take it anyway, hold it for an extra moment once I’m on my feet.

“Wait,” she says, before we walk out. “Be honest, do I look like Courtney Love on a bad day right now? Is my eyeliner everywhere?”

I turn to her. Step closer. She tilts her head up slightly, watching me, and despite myself, despite every single thing I just said to her, I put my hand under her chin.

Delilah’s eyes flutter closed, her impossible lashes brushing her cheeks.

I hold my breath. I’m afraid of this moment, of what she does to me, but mostly I’m afraid of myself. I don’t like the Seth who’s been angry and hurt for eight years. I don’t like the Seth who’s still heartbroken over something she did when she was twenty-two.

I don’t like him, but I know he’s there, just waiting to surface the moment I slip up.

“I think you’re fine,” I say, still taking in the feel of her skin under my fingertips, the wash of freckles all over her, darker where the sun hits and paler in her shadows.

“My eyelashes aren’t falling off?”

I pause, confused. After a moment her eyes slide open.

“They’re fake,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, and take my hand off her chin.

Delilah laughs.

“My real eyelashes aren’t practically an inch long,” she says, and slides her hand around my elbow.