Page 14 of I Do, You Don't
It was supposed to be our trip. Just me and him, my dad. A weekend at the lake, the one we’d planned for months. He promised. He always promised. But this time felt different. He looked at me, eyes soft but intent, and said, “Let’s spend quality time together.”
I was fourteen, still naïve enough to believe maybe this time the promise would mean something. Maybe this time he wouldn’t bail. That maybe he’d show up in a way that proved I mattered.
We got into his old red truck. It was a piece of junk he called “his pride and joy,” and we hit the road. The engine rumbled like it had something to prove, and I sat in the passenger seat clutching the map, pretending I knew where we were going. My dad didn’t need the map. He never did. He carried a kind of confidence, like he could always figure things out, unless it involved me.
Especially if it involved picking me up every other weekend or showing up for soccer games.
An hour into the trip, he pulled off at a gas station after answering a phone call. I didn’t think much of it at first. A few minutes earlier he’d complained about needing a snack, gas, or just a moment to stretch his legs. All of the above, really. But then, with the truck barely in "Park," he opened his door, tossed out a haunting statement, and the heavy thud of his boots followed as he walked away.
"Call your mom to pick you up, yeah?"
That’s what he had said.
I watched through the cracked windshield as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into another car, a blue sedan I didn’t recognize. My heart sank, but I convinced myself he was just grabbing something from the store, maybe someone needed him. Maybe he’d be back in five minutes, and we’d laugh about how I got all worked up over nothing.
But the minutes dragged on. The truck sat there, engine idling like it was waiting for something, anything, to happen. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I didn’t care. I kept my eyes on the sedan. Waiting. But nothing changed.
That’s when the fear set in. That’s when I realized I was alone.
I called him. I tried a dozen times, but every call went straight to voicemail, his voice always the same: “Hey, this is Rich. Leave a message.”
I don’t remember how long I sat there, staring at the gas station sign, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The tears came out of nowhere, spilling fast, and felt like they belonged to someone else. It was the feeling of being left, of realizing maybe I didn’t matter enough to be kept around. That I wasn’t worth the time or the effort.
I felt small. Like nothing.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I called her.
“Delilah,” I said, my voice cracking before I could even form the words. “Delilah, please. I don’t know what to do. He left me. H-he left me.”
I heard the panic in my own voice, the sharp intake of breath that followed my sob. Delilah didn’t say anything at first. She just listened. Then she spoke in that soft, steady voice of hers, the one that always made me feel like I wasn’t so alone in the world.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said. “I’ll get an Uber. Just stay there, okay?”
I wanted to tell her it was fine, that I’d figure it out. But I couldn’t. I was fourteen, and the weight of the world felt far too heavy for me to carry on my own. I hung up before the sobs broke loose, but I could already hear her making arrangements on the other end.
And she kept her word. She came.
She arrived not in a car her parents owned, not with a bag packed with her own things, but with nothing except the few dollars she’d saved from two years of babysitting. She didn’t care about the cost, not when it meant being there for me. Delilah always showed up, even when it meant giving up something important to her. I wasn’t just another friend; I was someone who needed her, and that was enough. She ran to me, out of breath, eyes wide with concern, and without a moment’s hesitation pulled me into her arms, holding me like I was the most important thing in her world.
“You’re not alone,” she whispered, her words muffled against my shoulder. “You’re not alone, Gideon. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
I never asked her to make that sacrifice, to drop everything and come to my rescue. But she did. She always did.
We didn’t say much on the ride home, but I remember looking at her, really seeing her for the first time. She was the one constant in my life, the one person who never let me down, even when my own father had. Delilah had a way of making the world feel less unbearable. She didn’t always say the right things, she didn’t have to. She was simply there.
And from that moment on, I knew she’d be the one to protect me. To keep me from falling apart. To remind me I wasn’t the failure I believed I was. I wasn’t the kid unworthy of anyone’s time. She made me feel like I was worth saving.
So, yeah. I trust her. I always have. If Delilah says the love of my life is cheating, I believe her.
My eyes shift to the venue doors.
Then to the photo in my hand.
Then to Delilah, my best friend, the person who’s never let me down.
My pulsehammers in my ears. The sharp mix of leather and cologne clings to the car, thick, suffocating. Every part of me wants to burst inside, to find Lara, to demand the truth. But I can’t. Uncertainty presses down on me like a weight.
The doors are only feet away. I can almost hear the whispers inside, feel the eyes of friends and family waiting. My heart pounds harder. For the first time, I wonder if everything we’ve built is about to crumble.
