Page 92 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“It was all coincidences, Reggie,” I say, taking my hand back. “And then we did it on purpose. Maybe to give this more meaning than it actually had.”

I stand up and take that first painful step away from him.

Reggie

She’s done. I can see it in her face, instantly, almost like a switch was flipped.

So because nothing I say is going to make a difference, I might as well take the biggest risk and say the biggest thing.

“I love you.”

“Don’t say that.” She starts shaking her head super fast, as if she’s trying to shake the words out of her memory before I’m even done saying them.

I stand up and reach out toward her. “I do. I love you. And I—I wanted to be enough for you. That’s why I made this—this huge mess.”

“Reggie, you were enough for me.”

“Was I? Because now that you’re finding out who I really am—insecure and scared and, and nothing special—you’re running for the door. You won’t even acknowledge what I just said to you.”

“You know that’s not fair.” There’s no fight or feeling in hervoice like before. She’s already disengaging, and it’s like I’m trying to grab ahold of something that might already be long gone. “It’s that you weren’t honest with me. It’s that so much of us is built on... something that wasn’t genuine.”

I know it’s true, but I can’t let it be true. I can’t let this be the end.

“Well, I’m being honest now. I will never lie to you again, Delilah.”

“Now...” she starts, her eyes bright with tears she’s holding in. She lets out a long sigh and then nods, like she’s giving herself permission.

“Now it’s too late. I can’t do this anymore, Reggie.”

Who Cares?

Delilah

“Are you gonna tell me what happened, or are you gonna just keep lying there cosplaying Taylor in the ‘Teardrops on My Guitar’ music video?”

Georgia’s voice cuts through the silence of our dark room on Saturday afternoon. And I guess I am lying here with Mabel on my bed, so the comparison isn’t totally off-base. But still. I’ve been crying off and on for hours, so my eyes are puffy and my pillow is damp and salty-smelling, and I don’t actually know if I made the right decision or blew up something that could have been easily mended. But I do know that I currently feel like shit, and I can’t foresee a future where I don’t feel like shit, and I’m heartbroken and blindsided and confused. Long story short, I’m not in the mood.

“I mean, if you’re gonna do this,” she continues, oblivious or diabolical (either way, it’s incredibly annoying), “you might as well go for it. Get you a gown, some eye gems. I can hook you up.”

I let out a long, weary sigh, hoping that she’ll get the message.But of course she doesn’t.

“Dreeeeeew loooooks... aaaaaaat meeeee. I fake a smile so he won’t seeeeeeeeee!”

I press a pillow over my face to block out her singing, but that seems to make her just warble out the lyrics even louder.

“Georgia,” I groan. “I just... can’t. Not right now.”

Her Taylor Swift impression, thankfully, stops, and it’s quiet again. So I can track each footstep as she walks over to my bed. She reaches out and pats my leg, and I feel my body relax with her touch.

“Do you have a migraine? I’m sorry.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well... I’m here when you wanna talk, sissy. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And if you want me to sic the Von Trapp children on him, just let me know. They’re still taking their roles from last season really seriously, even though we’ve moved on toMatilda,and will basically do anything I say.”

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