She clears her throat.
It’s the first time in years anyone in my family has said something nice about Delilah. I stare at Charlie for a moment, lost for words.
“Anyway, don’t tell her I told you that because it’s not the most flattering story,” Charlie finishes.
“Also, she once left Seth at a motel and he had to walk eight miles to get back to civilization,” Caleb says, as if this is fun, new information.
“I didn’t have to walk eight miles,” I say, crossing my arms like it’ll help keep my temper in. “I could’ve called any of you assholes —"
“A year before that after he saw her, he didn’t answer his phone for a week and when Daniel finally went to his house, he was applying for jobs on Alaskan fishing boats,” Caleb goes on, still talking to Charlie.
“You’d be awful at that,” Eli points out.
“Before that, when he came back from his fuck weekend he chopped so much firewood at mom’s house that there’s still some left after four years,” Caleb says.
“I didn’t realize you two had been seeing each other,” Charlie says, very politely.
I give Caleb a good, hard glare that doesn’t cow him in the least.
“It’s complicated,” I admit, arms still crossed.
“That’s a way of putting it,” says Daniel.
“Seth just has a really delicious soul,” Caleb says, and that’s it.
I swear my vision crackles, and before it’s fully out of his mouth I’ve turned toward him, unfurled my arms, taken a step so we’re face-to-face.
“You’re fucking your twenty-two-year-old-student,” I say, managing to keep my voice low. “She got you fired.”
Caleb doesn’t move, but I can feel his whole body tense.
“I got myself fired,” he says, voice matching my own. “And now my girlfriend is in the living room, playing with my niece and nephew. Where’s Delilah?”
“At least I don’t have to grade her papers.”
A muscle tics in his jaw.
“I’d rather grade papers than get fucked and discar—"
“STOP IT!” hisses Charlie.
I turn, and she’s standing two feet away, hands in fists at her sides. We both take a step back.
“Caleb, don’t be a dick,” Daniel says, calmly.
Caleb looks away, shoves a hand through his hair, the universal Loveless gesture of psychological distress.
“Sorry,” he says, shooting me a glare.
He’s not. I know he’s not, but I’m glad he’s being nice enough to pretend.
“Thanks,” I say, then lean against the counter. “Sorry.”
“Seth, you okay?” Daniel asks. “You seem rough.”
“Fine,” I say.
It’s not true and everyone in this room knows it’s not true because I showed up hungover with a giant basket of scones. Ever since I finally learned to bake a few years ago, it’s been my go-to when I feel shitty about something.
Had to fire someone at the brewery for stealing beer? Bake some cookies.
Younger brother threw away his whole entire life for his student? Brownies can help.
Spent a day and a night with Delilah, only to leave before sunrise because without saying goodbye? It’s scone time, baby.
Life is uncertain. Uneasy. Unpredictable.
A cake, however, is very straightforward.
I don’t even like desserts that much — I give most of it away — but baking always makes me feel better. There are explicit instructions. Expectations are clear. If I fuck up a recipe the first time, it’s easy to pinpoint where I went wrong and get it right on the second try.
And at the end I’ve got a tangible, delicious foodstuff.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, though my audience looks unconvinced. “It’s what I do, right? One night, no strings, no big deal. Move on. I’m good at that.”
I lean back against the sink and try for a charming smile, though the hangover gets in the way of that.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Charlie finally says, though she clearly doesn’t believe it. “Eli. Is there pie? We should put dessert out so we can get the kids home.”
“Yes ma’am,” Eli answers.Chapter Twenty-SixDelilahI glance up at the clock on the wall behind the counter. It’s 4:07 on a cold, shitty afternoon, and that means my four o’clock appointment is officially officially late, and I’m allowed to be a little annoyed.
Generally, I give people a five-minute grace period before I get annoyed with them for being late. Clocks are different, parking can be tricky, red lights exist, and God knows I’m not always precisely on time.
Ten minutes is pushing it. Sure, sometimes disaster strikes, but ninety-nine percent of the time people who are ten minutes late just need to get their shit together.
After fifteen I consider someone a no-show and move on with my life and appointment book.
Deep down, I’m hoping this coverup consultation is a no-show. It’s been five days since Ava’s wedding and I still don’t feel up to my friendly-yet-bubbly-yet-professional persona. I mostly feel like sulkily making Sailor Jerry style knife-through-a-heart tattoos and telling nineteen-year-olds that the picture of an eagle ripping away their skin to reveal the American flag underneath is dumb, unoriginal, and won’t look good in five years if the sun damage they’ve already got is any indication.