Page 49 of Unconditionally Yours
Still think you should’ve texted.
Even just “don’t touch my bike, lunatic.”
Anything would’ve been nice.
Chapter Fifteen
Delilah
I’m on the phone with Rhys’s office by 9. Toaster pastries hot and coffee lukewarm.
“I don’t see why I can’t get in today,” I say in that sugary voice I save for customer service and cult leaders. “If you could just patch me through to Rhys.”
“I’ve explained, Miss Darling,” says Satan’s receptionist, dragging out a sigh. The kind that implies I’m being difficult when I’m just trying to self-advocate in this cold, cruel world of gatekeeping secretaries and emotionally unavailable therapists. “He is fully booked. There was a cancellation tomorrow. Would you like that appointment?”
Would I like to spiral for another twenty-four hours? Would I like to freeball my mental illness while Benji’s ghost-hands grope my coping mechanisms?
“No, I’d like you to let him decide if he wants to speak to me. You know. Like a therapist who cares whether or not his patient is experiencing an erotic psychospiritual emergency?”
“I’ve explained, Miss Darling,” she says, like I’m a toddler who’s asked where bees come from four times.
“Are you deliberately preventing me from speaking to him?”
“Would you like tomorrow at three,” she repeats, with the brittle edge of someone who absolutely wants me to say no and hang up forever.
I pause. Glare at nothing. Maybe growl. “Fine. Pencil me in. But I’d really appreciate it if you told him I called. Maybe a telemed. Or a… mental health mercy dash. Whatever you people do.”
“Come fifteen minutes early and bring your current…”
“Thank you!” I chirp, hanging up mid-sentence because we’re done here, eyebrow whore. Pretty sure that was the same taupe-bloused succubitch from the front desk who eye-fucked Rhys like she wanted to tongue-paint his esophagus.
Whatever. She’s officially on The List. Right under the barista who spelled my name Delilard.
Next call. The community art center. Because if I can’t be emotionally validated by Rhys, I will become his art. Nothing says stable healing arc like offering your nude body to strangers in a fluorescent-lit classroom.
The man who picks up sounds like he moonlights as a forest cryptid who critiques porn for brushstroke accuracy. Pleasant voice. Terrifying vibes. Possibly a lizard in a human costume.
“Ma’am, there’s no qualifications,” he says warmly answering my question. “All forms are art.”
That’s something men say when they’re hoping to get a blowjob under a painting of a pear.
“Sign me up for Friday,” I say.
“We do already have a model for the next two months,” he chuckles. “But they flake constantly. I can put you down as backup. How much notice would you need, Miss…?”
“Zero notice. It’s Miss Darling. Delilah P. Darling. P as in punctual or poses pretty. Just call me when Kira cancels.”
“Umm…” I hear him writing. “Your contact information. Did Kira refer you?”
“Excuse me? No. I referred myself. I’m an independent woman with great tits and zero shame,” I say and then rattle off my number. “I just assumed you needed variety. Not another twiggy waif with clavicles you could play xylophone on. Y’know, curves? Hips? Renaissance fairy energy? I bring body and presence. Like if a Botticelli angel had depression and a grudge. Not everyone wants stick-bug energy.”
“Got it,” he says. Then pauses. “Didn’t you register to attend as a student?” Another pause. “Yes. You’re on the list to draw.”
“Oh. Right.”
There’s a moment of silence that feels like a static-charged elevator ride.
“If Kira cancels, I’ll pose instead,” I declare. “I’m very flexible. And not just in the ‘I can hook my legs over someone’s shoulders and still make eye contact’ way. Not that you asked. But I feel like you’re picturing it now. So. Enjoy that.”
