Delilah clears her throat.
“Sorry about the date thing,” she says.
I lift a piece of wedding cake into my mouth and try to really, really focus on it though the whiskey and champagne are making it hard.
It tastes like… cake?
“You’re right,” I say, scooping another forkful. “I’m not your date. I’m just some guy who happens to be seated next to you at this wedding.”
“I was so right that you came out here and missed the whole shoe game?” she says. “Not to mention the cake cutting. The server spatula thing was monogrammed. Made the whole ceremony feel super romantic.”
“I needed some air,” I say, and eat another bite.
Delilah takes a step back until she’s against the wall, then sighs, leans back, looks at the ceiling.
“Seth,” she says after a moment. “Would you like to be my date to my little sister’s wedding?”
I eat another forkful and pretend to think.
“When is it?”
She just looks over at me.
“I think I’m busy that day,” I tell her.
“You’re impossible,” she laughs. “Come on, there’ll be good whiskey and you can drink champagne straight from the bottle.”
“Can I drink the whiskey straight from the bottle?”
“What were you, raised by wolves?”
“I’m not the one who brought champagne and no glasses,” I point out.
Delilah steps closer, reaches around me, puts her empty cake plate on the side table. I stack mine on hers as she takes the bottle.
“I only have two hands, and I figured you’d prefer cake to manners,” she says, taking a long drink.
Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the dancing, or the way she’s lit or maybe it’s everything, but there’s something fierce and defiant and beautiful in the way she moves, drinking champagne straight from the bottle.
When she finishes she wipes the corner of her mouth with the pad of one finger, the movement delicate, precise, oddly graceful for the moment.
“Here,” I say, and swipe at my own lower lip. “You’ve got icing.”
She runs a finger along the outer edge, raises her eyebrows at me.
“Almost. Closer to the corner.”
Delilah tries again, misses. I shake my head, and she tries again.
It’s nothing. It’s the barest pink streak of icing, almost unnoticeable, certain to come off of its own accord in the next few minutes. I should just tell her it’s gone and move on, but I don’t.
I reach my hand toward her, stop an inch before her chin.
“Can I?” I ask.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
I flick one finger along the edge of her mouth. She’s soft and warm and I’m teetering on the edge, standing on a cliff, staring down into a pool I promised I wouldn’t dive into.
But I could. I could dive right now, ignore the rocks at the bottom, let the cold water submerge me and knock the air from my lungs just one more time.
Without thinking I stick my finger in my mouth, lick it off. I take the bottle from her hand, drink again.
She’s staring, and her gaze feels like molten steel sliding down my body. Good. Delilah can stare at me all she wants, especially when I’ve had this much whiskey.
“Think you can still dance?” I ask, handing the bottle back.
“I think champagne only ever makes me a better dancer,” she says, drinking.
She turns her head to the side. I watch her from a foot away, unashamedly, unabashedly, too drunk to care if she notices and too cognizant of the past to worry about her reaction.
I’ve spent far too much time with my face between her thighs to care that she knows I think she’s pretty.
Behind the lace over her chest, in her slight cleavage, there’s an odd, hard shadow. She pulls the bottle from her mouth, wipes her lip with one finger.
“You got a new tattoo,” I say, pointing at my own chest.
“Shit,” she says, and looks down, pulling at the lace. “You can see it?”
“Only a little.”
She hands the bottle back, lifts the lace away from her chest, looks into her dress.
“Where?”
“Further down.”
She pokes gently at her chest, like she’s afraid to touch it.
“Further,” I prompt, and she glances up at me.
“Don’t watch,” she says, though she’s half-laughing. “This is unladylike.”
“I’ve never seen that before.”
“C’mon.”
Ever the gentleman, I turn my back, take another drink of champagne.
“What is it?” I ask the flowers on the side table.
There’s a pause.
“Nothing,” she says.
“Something you don’t want polite society to see,” I say. “Just how raunchy is this tattoo, Delilah?”
“It’s a huge, photorealistic dick,” she says, and I turn back before I can stop myself.
Delilah bursts into laughter when she sees my face.
“Veins and ball hairs and everything,” she says, still laughing, poking at her chest through the neck of her shirt. “It’s just, like, the dick-est dick that ever did dick.”
I don’t have a comeback for that, so I just watch her as she smooths the lace back over her chest, looking down.