Page 16 of Deliah
“Shut up, you fucking love me.”
He smiled, kissed me, and started tearing my clothes off. We didn’t even make it to the bed this time. Just dropped right there on the couch. Clothes off. Legs apart. Fingers digging in. A last desperate fuck like we were trying to brand the memory into each other’s skin. It was rushed. Rough. Intense. No sweet goodbyes. Just filth. He came with a grunt, fingers tangled in my hair. I came moments after, clawing at his shoulders and biting his neck like I could leave something behind to remind him I’d been there. When we finally slowed down, collapsed and sweaty, he reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear.
“You gonna text me when you land?”
I snorted. “We’ll see.”
He walked me to the door. Didn’t kiss me again. Didn’t beg me to stay. Didn’t promise anything. But as I turned the corner, I heard him shout, “You’ll miss me first, babe!”
I turned around and blew him a kiss, grinning like I hadn’t already been missing him for weeks. And that was that. I packed my bags and got on a flight home.
Home was… weirdly comforting. Mum had gone into full cosy mode the second I stepped through the door. New bedding, fairy lights everywhere, those stupid cinnamon candles she stockpiles like she’s expecting a Yankee Candle apocalypse. She’d even stocked the cupboard with my favourite snacks like I was fifteen again. And I let her.
I curled up in my childhood bed, in my old oversized hoodie, watching reality TV and pretending I didn’t have a single brain cell left. After the storm of the island, it felt kind of nice. Soft. Safe. Still. But after a couple of weeks of lounging in joggers and reuniting with every mate who hadn’t left this town in ten years… the itch crept back in. That ugh feeling. That “why is everyone still doing the same shit?” vibe. Like the world had frozen while I’d been out living. No one had stories like mine. No one had scars or euros or glitter in their bedsheets. I was different now. And it made me restless. What didn’t help? I was refusing to text Jay. Because when he shouted, “You’ll miss mefirst, babe!” as I left, something inside me clicked. A challenge. Like I’d been handed a dare. And there was no fucking way I was letting him be right. So I didn’t text. Didn’t check in. Didn’t even like his Insta story, no matter how hot he looked pulling pints in that backwards cap and smug grin. But God, I wanted to.
Every night, I’d scroll back through our old messages, re-read the filth, the banter, the madness that had set my blood on fire. I didn’t want to be his winter shag. His off-season comfort blanket. I wanted to be the one who stuck. So I waited. Waited for the text. And when it came? Buzzing wasn’t even the word.
Jay: Deliah, what you saying?
I bit my lip. Victory. Sweet, sexy victory. I took a second. Not too long—I didn’t want to look desperate—but just long enough to let him feel it. Then came the follow-up.
Jay:You fancy coming to spend the winter with me? You can stay in my apartment. I miss you.
Oh? Do you now?I stared at the screen, heart thudding, but fingers steady.
Me:What, so I can be your winter fuck toy?
The typing dots popped up instantly.
Jay:Don’t be ridiculous, babe. I like you.
Ugh. What the fuck did that mean? Like me how? Like me enough to fuck me? Like me enough to show me off? Like me enough to keep me, not toss me out with the spring flyers? I didn’t know what I wanted from him. But I replied anyway.
Me:I’m spending Christmas with my family.
A pause. Then—
Jay:Okay. Well… if you get bored, text me, gorgeous.
I put my phone down like it was radioactive and stared at the ceiling, grinning like a smug little demon. I won. He missed me first. I was not like the others. And now he knew it.
The next couple of months passed in a slow blur of reunions and rest. I caught up with everyone—mates, family, exes I no longer fancied but let buy me drinks anyway. I laughed, I smiled, I pretended. But inside, I wasn’t satisfied; I was bored. The wholesome phase wore off by Christmas. I’d done the quality time, and I’d played the good daughter. I’d eaten the stuffing and faked the gratitude. I was over it. By New Year’s Eve, I’d hit my limit. Everyone was broke. Hungover. Partied out. No one wanted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday on January 3rd. And I wasn’t about to let it go unmarked. So, three drinks in and feeling bold, I sent the text.
Me:What you doing?
I waited two minutes.
Jay:Thinking about fucking you.
Cheeky. Cocky. Perfect.
Me:I’m coming over for my birthday. Still want me to stay?
Three dots. One second. Two.
Jay:Yeah, babe. I’ve not stopped thinking about you.
And that was it. No games. No back and forth. I booked my flight the next day. Three days later, I landed. Birthdaygirl. Airport outfit on. No makeup—just mascara, lip balm, and perfume behind my ears. Hair in a lazy bun. I didn’t dress up. I didn’t need to. I was enough already. The taxi dropped me straight at the bar. One of the only ones still open during off-season—serving pints to sunburnt pensioners and expats who never got the memo to leave. But Jay? Jay was there. Behind the bar. Leaner. Stronger. Tan sank deeper into his skin. That same stupid backwards cap. That same dangerous grin. He looked up—and froze. Then his whole face lit up.
