Page 76 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

Beau just sends:Are you okay?

That’s the only text I respond to.Yes I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.

“You good?” Reggie asks, concern written all over his face.

“I’m good.” I nod a couple times, as if I can convince myself. “It’s just that—”

Am I doing this because it’s the right thing for me? Or is it because I want to stick it to Charlie, hit him where it hurts. I can’t deny that I feel some sort of satisfaction that he’ll really have to reckon with the fact that they need me. That I’m not just an eye-catching bow on the top of their already assembled gift, pretty but not necessary. No, I’m something essential, vital. But does it make me a bad person that I want to send that message? Am I being selfish?

I don’t even say any of this out loud to Reggie, but it’s like he can read my mind.

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Delilah,” he says, a gentle smile on his lips. “There’s no shame in putting yourself first. Even if other people are, like, inconvenienced or uncomfortable... that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

His words feel like medicine spreading through my body. They give me permission to feel okay, to relax. And I know I need to work on giving myself that permission, too, without any outside forces. But still, it feels good to have someone else there, sturdy and sure, helping me along.

Reggie

Okay, so that’s handled. And Delilah 100 percent did the right thing, no gray area there. If those dicks aren’t going to appreciate all that she is, then fuck them and their stupid-named band. They don’t deserve her. And I’m not trying to pull an I-told-you-so here, but Iknewthat stubbly bro was bad news from the moment he popped up and kissed her cheek on New Year’s Eve, like he was laying down some type of claim.

But the thing is, if we’re skipping her show and Bessie isn’t going to be ready until tomorrow, then... what are we doing tonight?

This question has been whispering in my head ever since Karl first gave us the prognosis, but at that moment, the worry was only for myself. Now the question is being screamed into a bullhorn, because it’s not just me, it’s Delilah too. Where are we going to sleep?Howare we going to sleep? It’s just the two of us, over a hundred miles away from home... what does this mean??

I can’t, like, actuallysayany of this out loud, though, withoutcoming off as a total creeper. So I put it out of my mind when we explore the different shops, flipping through children’s books inside of a converted windmill and taking selfies in Santa hats in one of many Christmas-themed stores. I keep quiet when we split a big platter of schnitzel in another windmill for dinner. But then it starts to get dark, and when we check on Karl one more time, he very grumpily declares, “Tomorrow morning. If you don’t bug me again.” And it can’t be put off any longer.

“So...” I start.

“So...” she repeats.

“For tonight...”

“I guess we need somewhere to stay?”

“Yeah, it looks like we do.”

“So, we, uh...”

“Should we get, like... a hotel?”

Delilah

I’ve known the night was going to end like this ever since I decided not to go to the show. It’s the only thing we can do if we’re not going to call our parents and fess up to our mess. And that isn’t an option. I already got permission from Mom to sleep over at Ryan’s after the show, because I knew she would be bothered if she knew how late we would actually be driving back, andthatwas a stretch. I would be grounded forever if she knew where I was right now.

Still, when Reggie actually speaks those words aloud, and turns the thing we’re both thinking into an actual plan, my heart starts beating double time. And I’m suddenly hyperaware of my breath, the position of my body, as if there’s a spotlight shining and putting all of me on display.

“Yeah... yeah, I guess we should.”

I keep stealing looks at him as we walk down the street in silence, trying to interpret his every move. Like, is he wringing his hands together like that because he’s nervous, or because he’s tryingto come up with a delicate way to let me down? And I couldn’t even blame him after what happened in June and how unclear I’ve been this summer as I tried to figure myself out. It’s possible he doesn’t feel the same way about me now, that he doesn’t still want to kiss me.

But I think he does. Want to kiss me.

I want to kiss him, too.

Staying in a hotel together, in this town that looks like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie, seems like an obvious push from the universe, from our holiday fairy godmothers, to finally take the step toward something more. But it’s also a lot of pressure.

“Does this look okay?” he asks, nodding toward a white building decorated with royal-blue beams. There’s a red, lit-up sign that reads “Vacancy” hanging in the window.

“Yeah. Let’s check it out.”

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