Page 57 of Severed Heart
“So you’ll help me?”
Shivering in the blanket, I withdraw my hand and nod. “I will try, but you must trust me. Can you trust me?”
“I already do,” he whispers.
“Maybe”—I bite the tear that lines my lips—“if I tell you one day why I hate the snow, you will talk to me about who you become when you step into the shadows at night and stare into my window.”
He nods.
“Then I will try.”
Chapter Eighteen
TYLER
SPRING 2005
THE FIRST HINTSof spring perfume the air as I stalk toward Dom’s driveway, cooling down from my latest run. Inhaling deeply, I fill my nose as Delphine spots me walking up the drive.
“Tyler, come!” Approaching, I find her rooting around in the trunk of her open sedan, which is brimming with baskets of flowers and porch plants.
“Look!” Delphine turns back to me, dressed in a thin-strapped dark red sundress. Her long onyx hair styled in her usual braid over one of her shoulders. It’s the sight of her dressed in something other than her robe, along with the genuine smile she flashes toward me, that has me stopping short of reaching her.
It seems the last few months have been a little transformative for us both. After a grueling winter in which we spent a lot of time animatedly playing Battalion on her good days, we’ve managed to find a way to work together around the bad. Sometimes, in amicable, oddly comfortable silence. Each of us sorting through our own individual shit.
Even during the weeks the clouds refused to part, Delphine became more and more participatory—more of a presence in the house rather than hiding in the shadows with her bottle. Only taking long absences after a bad day.
Thinking on it now as I watch her dig through her trunk, I can’t remember the last time any of us have scraped her from any surface of the house or lawn to usher her to bed.
Though forever volatile and no less dependent on vodka than when we started, she seems to be slowly blooming along with the season. The changes in her so far have been subtle but are starting to add up as I study her. Having traded in her dingy robe and winter staple, it’s easy to see she’s added a little healthy weight, which only enhances her curves.
Now, in the bright light of day, under the sun’s rays, she’s fucking flawless. Today, she made a real effort in her appearance, which is impossible to ignore. So much so, I force myself to rip my eyes away from her dark, wine-painted lips.
“Need some help?” I ask, my recovery too slow in execution as a slight tension fills the open air between us, and her eyes drop. It’s then I know I’ve done it again. After months of one-on-one sessions at her kitchen table, it’s clear to me by now that she hates any lingering attention fromanymale eye—especially if it’s appreciative in nature.
The problem is, as of late, I can’t fucking stop taking in her details. Dozens of chewed pen caps during class are a testament to the little things I’ve memorized so far. Her metal gray eyes are the most startling in contrast with her dark lashes and olive skin, which is already starting to tint from exposure to the sun.
“I got all of this on sale,” she pipes before producing a ripe watermelon from the trunk and thrusting it toward me. “Fresh melon! I thought it would be a good treat!”
I can’t help but grin at her ancient verbiage delivery choice or her excitement. Her expression is so fucking endearing as she searches my own for approval.
“Love fresh melon,” I say as she turns back to sort her haul, while I take the few steps toward her that separate us.
“Me too!” she shouts as I hover mere inches behind her, thankful she can’t see my answering grin. There’s an innocence about her that I swear to Christ no one sees. Truth is, no one is looking due to her flip-switch behavior and tantrums.
At this point, I can’t really blame Dom for not looking after years of witnessing and enduring her self-sabotage. If we hadn’t just spent the last seven months in each other’s company, I might have missed it too.
“The plants are beautiful, non?” she asks, gathering another melon in her arms as I quickly divert my attention to it.
“Yeah,” I agree, finding it utterly ironic that ripe fruit and plants bring her so much joy. She’s such tough company to impress otherwise. Following her up the drive to the porch, I muse at her animation as she talks a mile a minute about her short expedition to the farmer’s market.
It’s when we both spot Dom in the kitchen, mug in hand and reading the paper, that I feel the instant shift in the air and Delphine’s brief hesitation—as if we just entered a room withher parentinside.
Her eyes do a quick, indecisive sweep over Dom before she speaks up, mustering some of her enthusiasm.
“Dom,” she calls, presenting the watermelon, “I found this at the farmer’s market. Look!”
Dom doesn’t so much as spare a glance at her prized fruit. “Kudos, Tatie, you foundproduceat themarket. Will you be as excited if you findcarsin aparking lot?”
