Page 65 of Midnight Between Us
Until reality lands hard, Delilah shouldn’t be here.
Her hair’s pulled up in a quick twist, loose strands curled around her neck.She’s wearing that navy blue cardigan she wears around when someone is blasting the air-conditioning.
“Oh, great timing.I can prepare us some tea.”
“You’re making tea?”she repeats, brushing past me into the house.“You fake your death, disappear from Arizona to visit your grandparents, and your peace offering is tea?”
I close the door behind her.“It’s a really good blend.There’s this place in Washington State called Luna Harbor.I need to take you there.You’ll love it.”
That earns me a look—the same one her mom used to give me back when I made questionable choices in eyeliner and life.The look that says,I love you, but I will absolutely ground you until the end of time if you keep being this stupid.
I probably should’ve listened back then.Hindsight, meet regret.
But this isn’t about her mom or my tragic history of making decisions that age like milk.
And it’s definitely not about choices.
I didn’t choose to be in this fucking mess, did I?
Delilah shrugs off her cardigan and lets it slide onto the bench by the window without missing a beat.Her eyes move across the room like she’s scanning for signs of life—half-folded blanket on the couch, two tea mugs drying like awkward proof that I’m not alone.
I turn toward the stove, needing something to do—something that isn’t staring back at the friend I’ve hurt.My hands move on autopilot.Kettle filled.Burner on.The familiar click and hiss grounding me in the kind of way breathing can’t.
I reach for the tea tins.Skip the bold blends and opt for the one we always reserved for bad days: chamomile with a hint of vanilla.Comfort without questions.I spoon the leaves into the infuser, trying to ignore the way her presence is pressing in on every inch of the kitchen.
“What I can’t understand is ...”she starts, her voice threading through the tension like she’s trying not to break it.“We’re friends, Sim.”
I keep my back to her, eyes on the kettle even though it hasn’t started to steam.
“Why not tell us you’d be here?At home.We were worried.The town might buy the grandparent excuse, but come on—we know.Weknow.”
Of course, they do.Gale, Del, Nysa, Blythe—my best friends—they know I don’t speak to my grandparents.That I haven’t in years.But I still help pay their bills, because they kept a roof over my head.Not love.Not safety.But shelter, and that counts for something, doesn’t it?
Although we don’t speak, they’re always the best alibi.Even here, when everyone knows me it works.If someone from town called to check on me, my grandparents would lie with the smoothness of people who’ve had decades of practice.They’d spin a heartwarming tale of weekly phone calls and holiday dinners.All to protect their image, because that’s all they’ve ever cared about.
I reach for two mugs.The nice ones.Delilah-deserves-better-than-paper-cups mugs.
“I’m sorry, I?—”
“You hid from us,” she interrupts, voice tight now.“Your friends.”
“I wasn’t hiding from you,” I say quickly, pouring the hot water over the tea.My fingers tremble slightly, so I grip the handles tighter.“I couldn’t tell you.Not because I didn’t want to—but because I wasn’t allowed to.”
She stays quiet for a beat too long, and when I finally look up, she’s watching me like she’s trying to translate a language she used to know.
“You’re going to have to do better than ‘I couldn’t,’ Sim.”She glares at me.“You’re a fucking doctor.”
“It’s not just classified,” I say as I slide her mug toward her.“It’s complicated.”
Her shoulders shift.“And you didn’t think I could handle complicated?”she asks, and her voice is so soft I almost miss the sting beneath it.“Friends don’t keep secrets.”
She looks past me.
Her gaze lands on the tray—the one I haven’t touched.Eggs, fruit bowl and bacon arranged like someone gave a damn.The note beside the plate.A note I’d rather not show her because it’d raise questions.Too many questions.
Delilah moves before I can stop her.
She steps around the island, picks up the note like she already knows what it is, like she has the right to know what it says.Her fingers unfold the paper slowly, and carefully, like peeling back gauze from a wound you suspect is worse than you’re ready to see.
