Delilah's Tears

Chapter Thirteen

"Morning, D-doll."

She smiles and shuffles to the coffee pot. "Morning."

I watch every movement she makes, committing it to memory and wondering how I'll break the news. And, thinking about how much I'll miss seeing her every day. Yeah, this sucks, but it's necessary. Delilah takes a seat next to me, sipping carefully.

"What's on tap today, big guy?"

"I thought we'd hit the gym if you want to. The bag down there misses you tickling it." She grins and punches me in the arm. "Then, I want to show you my new apartment."

Pin drop. She freezes mid-sip, blinks, then takes the sip.

"Wow. It's not a surprise, JD, but now that it's real..."

My hand lands on the one she's resting on the table. "Yeah. Me too. It's close by, though. On Grover Street." That earns me a small smile and a nod.

"All right."

After the gym and showers we walk to the new place, making small talk along the way. I figured walking would make it seem closer. We climb the outside stairs to the second floor, and I fit the key into the lock, swinging the door open. Brilliant daylight floods the room as we step inside the empty apartment.

"Nice. I like it. It suits you." Delilah roams around opening cabinets and closets, inspecting the kitchen and bathroom. At the bedroom door she stops, peers in, but doesn't cross the threshold. There's no bed in there, no furniture at all yet. I get it, though. It's too personal. Too meaningful.

And, in that moment, it hits me. Delilah's feelings for me may not be completely sisterly, whether she is aware if it or not.

That revelation—which both makes my dick jump to life in anticipation of the action it's been jonesin' for, while my conscience and moral compass dare me to cross the line—is justification for my decision to move out. This is worse than me being a nasty horn dog. Way worse.

Jesus, John. What the hell do I do with this, man? Help me out here.

While all this tumbles around in my head, I offer a bland response. "Yeah. It's all right. Once I get some furniture in here, it'll be great. Wanna grab some lunch?" We have to get out of here. Delilah nods and heads for the door. I check out her ass. In those jeans, nothing short of spectacular.

Again, John. Don't let me off my leash. Nothing good will come of it.

Exhaling, I lock the door. Without thinking I grab Delilah's hand and thread my fingers through hers as we walk down the stairs. It feels fucking right, dammit. I hold her hand all the way to the deli.

As we munch on our sandwiches, we talk about what kind of furniture I'll buy and make a list of household goods I'll need. Outfitting an apartment is a lot more work than it seems. I have nothing. No dishes, no towels, no kitchen staples, no sheets for the bed I'll be sleeping in alone.

We agree to hit Target after lunch so I can stock up on a few things. Oddly, our awkwardness dims and we fall back into the friendly rhythm we once had. Delilah is great at picking out stuff. Since when are three different kinds of spatulas and a paper towel holder necessities?

When it comes time to take everything to the apartment, Delilah asks me to drop her at home. Her excuse is starting dinner. More likely, she can't bring herself to go there twice in one day.

To soften the blow, I stop at the wine shop to pick up D-doll's favorite chardonnay. As I'm perusing the shelf, a familiar voice says hi.

"Jana? Hey, what a surprise." I have to admit she looks great in a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt.