Page 49 of The Last Call Home
And then there was Rachel.
And then nothing.
The moment he left, the moment he chose the job, the mission, whatever excuse he fed himself—I crumbled.Rachel and I were history.I didn’t even know how we started, much less how to keep us going without him.
Now, here he is.Still talking.
Still fucking with my head and maybe my heart.
“And I want to stop pretending I didn’t walk into that coffee shop and fall for you the second you told me to pay for my own fucking coffee.”
My head jerks back like I’ve been slapped.
He fell for her?
That fast?
I mean, sure.It’s Delilah fucking Mora.People either flee from her orbit or fall hopelessly into it.There’s no middle ground.She walks like she owns her space and talks like she dares you to match her stride.She could cut you with a glance and heal you with a smile—and the worst part?She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
“I want both of you,” he adds.“Not because I’m selfish.Not because I need a fix.But because I think ...I think we could be something real, if we weren’t too scared to try.”
I turn away.Because if I keep looking at him, I’ll start remembering things I’ve spent years trying to forget.
Like how it felt waking up tangled in his limbs, the soft drag of his mouth on my neck while Rachel laughed in the kitchen.
Like the nights I stayed up watching them sleep, wondering what the fuck we were doing, pretending it didn’t matter.
My eyes land on the stove.
The burner’s still on.
Of course it is.
I move quickly, too grateful for the distraction, and turn the knob until the flame disappears.The pot hisses as it settles.It’s mundane and stupid and exactly what I need—something to do.
But when I turn back around, she’s watching me.
Delilah.
Elbows on her knees, spine tight.Like she hasn’t decided whether to run or stand her ground.
And then her eyes meet mine.
Fuck.
It’s not pity.
It’s not even empathy.
It’s worse.
It’s understanding.
And I don’t want to be understood.I don’t want anyone peeling back the layers and finding the hollow beneath.
“Don’t do that,” I say.My voice is low, gravel over water.“Don’t look at me like you’ve figured something out.”
“I haven’t,” she answers, quiet but clear.“But I’m trying to.It makes sense now ...why you’ve pulled away every time things got close.Why you didn’t want sex ...even when I nearly showed up at your door wearing nothing but nerves and tequila.”
