THANK THE GODDESS for AirPods.
Delilah spent the entire drive back to Bright Falls with a sapphic fantasy audiobook blasting in her ears. After an afternoon of touring the vineyard and snapping photos of Astrid, Iris, and Claire tasting all sorts of fancy wines and then hocking them back into what can only be described as a spittoon, and trying her best to ignore Claire while making it seem like she totally wasn’t ignoring Claire, all she wanted right now was her chintz-covered couch at the Kaleidoscope Inn, some liquor she could actually swallow, and a nice long session with her California Dreaming Minx.
Iris sat next to her in the back seat, which Delilah would also thank the goddess for except Iris legit kept writing messages to her on her phone’s Notes app, then thrusting the thing under Delilah’s nose.
What now?
We have ten days.
Come on, I’m sure you can think of something really devious.
Hello?
If you don’t answer me, I’ll just get more annoying.
When Delilah did nothing but glare, Iris did indeed get more annoying. She snatched Delilah’s phone right out of her hands and started tapping at the screen with a smirk on her face. Delilah fumed silently, not wanting to draw attention to whatever the hell Iris was doing. She finished with a final jab of her forefinger, and Iris’s phone immediately buzzed with a text.
And so did Claire’s.
Delilah snatched her phone back, her book still playing, and looked at her screen. Her messages were open, and there was a new group text that included her, Iris, and Claire, because of course Iris had just gone ahead and put everyone’s numbers into Delilah’s phone. Iris had named the chat OSB, whatever the hell that meant, and apparently, Delilah’s first text to the other two women had been You’re both queens and I live to serve you.
Claire shifted in the front seat, turning slightly to look over her shoulder at her.
Delilah quickly tapped out a text.
DELILAH: I hate you both.
IRIS: That’s not what I heard.
In the front seat, Claire choked and went into a coughing fit. Delilah felt her cheeks go red. Had Claire fucking told Iris what happened between them last night? No. She wouldn’t. Not if she was so set on Astrid not finding out. Iris was clearly not a great secret-keeper, as evidenced by her texting the two of them right now while Astrid sat in the driver’s seat and babbled on and on about some design job she was doing for a law firm.
IRIS: You just said we were queens.
Delilah relaxed a little while Claire chugged her water and made uh-huh sounds at Astrid.
CLAIRE: Ris, what are you doing?
IRIS: Um, texting?
DELILAH: What the hell is OSB?
IRIS: Operation Shit Boot
DELILAH: Shit boot?
IRIS: SHIT. BOOT.
Delilah looked at Iris, half irritated and half amused. Iris just smiled, then went back to texting.
IRIS: What’s our next move?
CLAIRE: I think we can wait to talk about this until Astrid isn’t two feet away from me.
IRIS: We could, except we only have ten days and last night did not go as planned.
DELILAH: Last night went exactly as planned.
Claire cleared her throat, and Delilah wanted to roll her eyes. She opened up a thread with just Claire.
Not what I meant.
I know, Claire texted back.
IRIS: Are you two texting on your own?
CLAIRE: No.
DELILAH: Maybe.
Claire huffed out a breath, and Delilah couldn’t help but smile.
IRIS: Okay, no secret conspiring. I don’t care if you two do want to bang each other’s brains out.
Delilah choked on her own spit, which caused a coughing fit. She pounded on her chest while Claire’s thumbs flew over her screen.
CLAIRE: Ris! For god’s sake.
IRIS: I said what I said.
“Who are you texting?” Astrid asked, glancing at Claire’s phone white-knuckled between her hands.
“No one,” Claire said. “Josh. He’s . . . bringing Ruby over to the house.”
Astrid nodded and Claire retreated toward the window, her phone abandoned in the cup holder.
Delilah fired off one final text.
I still hate you both.
AFTER ASTRID HAD dropped off Iris and Claire, Delilah remained in the back seat.
“I’m not your chauffeur,” she said as she pulled away from Claire’s house on Linden Avenue. Delilah just stared at the window, taking in the Craftsman that looked exactly like something Claire would love. Small and cozy, with a large front porch and bright white trim, natural stone base and dusky-blue shingled siding. Claire walked up the front walk without looking back, her hips swaying under her tight jeans in a way that made last night rise up in Delilah’s mind like a flash flood.
Christ.
All morning and afternoon, she had tried not to think about it. She’d kissed Claire, felt her up good and proper, and now she could move on. It didn’t matter that Astrid didn’t know and wouldn’t know until after the wedding—or the non-wedding or breakup or whatever the fuck Iris was trying to accomplish—Delilah knew. And Delilah had gotten through life by putting herself first, only concerning herself with what she knew was true, because she’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t control anyone but herself. She couldn’t change anyone’s mind, couldn’t make someone love her who had no interest in doing so, and couldn’t keep someone from leaving her if that’s what they wanted to do. She couldn’t make agents see her. Couldn’t make art lovers buy her pieces.
She couldn’t make Claire feel unashamed over what had happened. And she couldn’t change the fact that she was stuck with the woman and her lovely hips for another ten days. All she could do was mind her business and take the damn photos.
Except as Astrid pulled away, Claire paused on her porch and turned. She met Delilah’s eye through the window, and Delilah felt it—that look—shoot down her legs. It was that same look Claire shot over her shoulder at the brunch. Interest. Intrigue. Fuck, it was want.
“Hello?” Astrid said.
Delilah swallowed and looked away, sighing heavily. “The inn is what? A mile from here? Just drive and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Astrid released her own sigh. “I asked you if I could see some of the photos you’ve taken so far.”
“Oh.” Delilah rubbed her forehead. She had to get her shit together. It was a kiss. A really good one. A great one, but still, it was just lips and tongues. Delilah had kissed a hundred people, heard a hundred people gasp into her mouth like she was the air and they’d been drowning.
Or . . . well, fine, she hadn’t heard a hundred people make that sound when she was kissing them, but surely, she’d experienced it before.
“What the hell, Delilah!”
She jolted in her seat. “God, sorry.”
“Where are you, back in New York?”
Delilah rubbed her hands down her face. “If only.”
Astrid pressed her mouth flat and turned onto Main Street, which was bustling with the predinner crowd. The sky was a marbled gray and white, the promise of rain and an earthy scent in the air.
“That’s Claire’s shop,” Astrid said as they passed by River Wild Books. A few customers milled around inside, a woman with blue hair manning the counter.
“Mmm.”
“You went there a lot as a kid, didn’t you?” Astrid asked.
Delilah leaned her head against the back of the seat. “Mmm.”
“It’s different now. Claire’s turned it all modern and beautiful.”
“Mmm.”
Astrid huffed an irritated breath that made Delilah smile. She pulled up outside the Kaleidoscope, and Delilah leaped out like the car was on fire.
A bath. That’s what she needed. A bath, some room service, a huge glass of wine. But when she turned to wave goodbye to Astrid, spit out something polite like thanks for the free spa treatments even though you’d rather I hadn’t been there at all as evidenced by your three-person reservation, her stepsister had rounded the car, purse on her shoulder, eyes wide with expectancy.
“Um . . . are you staying here too?” Delilah asked, jutting a thumb toward the inn. “Spencer snores, huh? Or wait, he makes you sleep on the couch when you’ve eaten garlic and you just can’t handle that lumpy sofa anymore.”
Astrid, unfortunately, did not take the bait. “I’d like to see the pictures I’m paying a fortune for, if you don’t mind.”
“You mean Mommy Dearest is paying a fortune for.”
Astrid just pursed her lips and continued to stare at Delilah. The woman would win a national blinking contest, hands down.
“What, you don’t trust me?” Delilah said, pressing her hand to her chest. “I am an artiste. A visionary. An intrepid explorer through the wastelands of time. A veritable—”
“I’ll just get the key from Nell,” Astrid said, brushing past Delilah and heading into the three-story brick building.
“Oh, well played,” Delilah said, following after her.
Once in her room, she tossed her suitcase onto the bed and removed her camera from its bag. Hooking it up to her laptop on the desk, she clicked around on the camera until all the photos she’d taken so far started uploading into Lightroom, which she’d always preferred over Photoshop. Less flashy, but simple was good in Delilah’s opinion. Cropping, exposure and white balance, contrast and color, vibrancy and saturation. That’s all she needed to play with. The real art was in the eye, the angle, the moment she hit the shutter.
“Keep in mind, these aren’t edited,” she said as Astrid sat at the desk and watched as images flipped onto the screen, piling into Lightroom like a deck of cards.
Delilah felt a flare of nerves. She’d never shown Astrid her work. Not once. Not the unflattering photos Delilah had taken of her and her coven back when they were teenagers, not a single wedding shot or portrait or a black and white of a piece of gum on the sidewalk. But now, she was going to see a lot. Wedding stuff, sure, but also just random shit Delilah snapped when she was walking through town after talking with Claire in River Wild, images she took just because they caught her eye, like a lollipop stick in the grass and a crack in a wineglass and—
Delilah’s posture snapped straight.
And Claire when she didn’t know Delilah was watching. Lots and lots of images of Claire when she didn’t know Delilah was watching.
Well, shit.
“Um, what do I do?” Astrid asked when a notification popped up announcing the upload was complete.
Delilah didn’t move, wondering if she could make some excuse as to why Astrid couldn’t see the photos yet, but there was nothing. They were right there already, in front of Astrid’s eager face, and the woman was like a dog with a very expensive bone when she wanted something. No way she was letting go.
It was fine. Delilah had taken candids of Astrid and Iris too . . . hadn’t she?
She leaned around her stepsister and tapped on the first image, then showed Astrid where to click to move to the next. Astrid leaned in as the photos of everything Delilah had taken over the past three days bloomed onto the screen.
Delilah perched on the side of the bed, her stomach suddenly in knots, not just over the photos of Claire—which she could totally play off as an attempt at intentionally driving Astrid bonkers, which Astrid would have no trouble believing—but over her perfect stepsister digging through her work, her brain, her heart.
Jesus, Delilah, your heart? Get a damn grip.
So she did. She gripped her thighs and stared down at her jeans while Astrid silently clicked . . . and clicked . . .
. . . and clicked.
God, she was taking forever.
“I need a drink,” Delilah said, shooting up from the bed and removing the complimentary bottle of sauvignon blanc she’d found in their room at Blue Lily last night from her bag. She nearly cried in relief when she saw it was a twist cap. Filling one of the paper cups stacked up by the mini Keurig to the brim, she gulped the first three swallows, shuddering as it hit her bloodstream.
Then she paced and drank some more until she saw Astrid land on a photo of herself and Spencer at the Wisteria House dinner.
It was a good photo. Black and white, Spencer’s arm around her shoulder while they sat side by side at the table. The light was soft and lovely, the glow of candles and fairy lights curling around the couple like a blanket. The saturation needed some adjusting, the contrast, but other than that, it was the perfect candid.
Except for one thing.
The bride.
Delilah stepped up behind Astrid, peering closer at the screen. Spencer was laughing, his smile broad and bright, eyes twinkling on someone in front of him. His fingers curled around Astrid’s shoulders—some might say protectively, but Delilah wouldn’t. Possessively was the right word here, and it seemed like Astrid felt it. Her body in the photograph was rigid. Not so much as to draw attention during the actual event, but looking at the image now, frozen in time, she did anything but radiate warmth and happiness. Her smile was there, but it was plastic, didn’t reach her eyes at all. Delilah had even managed to capture the subtle way her fingertips bled white, ever so slightly, on her wineglass.
God, she was good.
Still, Delilah felt anything but pride as Astrid continued to stare at the image. She felt a sinking in her stomach. A sick, heavy thud. She tried to shake it off—after all, Astrid’s misery had always been her delight. And this clear horror Astrid was experiencing over seeing herself as a Stepford Wife in black and white would probably make Iris and Claire happy.
But even as Delilah thought it, wondered why the hell she even cared if Claire was happy or not, she also knew it wasn’t true. Claire wouldn’t be happy. She’d be heartbroken for her friend. Iris might gloat a little, revel in being right—god, Iris and Delilah really could’ve been friends in a different world—but she would’ve eventually settled down and supported Astrid no matter what, come up with a plan of action.
But Delilah wasn’t Iris, and she sure as hell wasn’t Claire.
“Astrid,” she said, just to shake the woman out of her stupor.
Her stepsister startled, clearing her throat before skipping to the next photo. “These are beautiful.”
Delilah blinked at the compliment. “Okay . . .” she said slowly.
“I really love the details. Like this one.” She pointed to the photo on the screen, a sharpened image of Isabel that brought out every wrinkle the Botox just couldn’t seem to reach.
Delilah snorted a laugh, and Astrid looked over her shoulder, a grin on her own face. They watched each other for a split second, something passing between them that made Delilah’s breath catch. Something that felt young and almost hopeful.
Astrid turned back around and clicked to the next photo.
One of Claire.
Just Claire, the night of the Wisteria dinner. Evergreens crowded behind her, and the sun obscured part of her body, her face shadowed, but there was no doubt it was a lovely photograph.
There was also no doubt that she was looking right at the viewer. Delilah remembered taking the picture, Claire turning her head a split second before Delilah hit the shutter, a smile on her face at catching the wedding photographer in the act.
A smile that most definitely reached her eyes.
“This one is . . .” Astrid started, but then cleared her throat again. Then she scooted her chair back so fast, she nearly ran over Delilah’s toes. She stood up and dug her phone out of her bag and checked the screen. “I should go.”
“Oh, did Spencer summon you?”
As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Instead of rolling her eyes or volleying a sharp comment back at Delilah in their perpetual barb match like Delilah expected, Astrid looked down, like she was embarrassed, and said nothing. Her throat worked around a hard swallow as she motioned toward the photo of Claire still on the screen.
“You should put that one on your Instagram,” she said. “People would really love it.”
“My . . . wait, you know about my Instagram?”
Astrid’s mouth twitched, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, tentative. “How do you think I knew I would love your wedding photos?”
Surprise shot through Delilah’s veins. Of course Isabel and Astrid knew Delilah worked as a wedding photographer. They knew she did portraits and waited tables in one of the most expensive cities in the world. But they didn’t know about her art, her ambitions, her desire to be a name among American photographers. That’s what her Instagram was for. A showcase of what she could actually do when she wasn’t doing someone else’s bidding and snapping pictures of couples mooning—or in Astrid’s case, not mooning—over each other. Delilah had never told them about any of that. Not that a simple Google search wouldn’t pull up her social media, but to even do that, Astrid would have to give half a shit to type in her name.
“Hang on,” Delilah said. “You—”
“See you later,” Astrid said, then swept out the door, leaving Delilah with a tight feeling in her chest that wouldn’t go away no matter how many paper cups of wine she tossed down her throat.
