DELILAH STOOD IN the driveway, Wisteria House rising up above her. It was dusk, the air a soft lavender, and it seemed like a few people were already here. She could not—would not—walk into that house with just Isabel and make small talk. Or, in Isabel’s true medium, passive-aggressive talk. She wasn’t even sure she could walk in there regardless, even with it full of other people.
Wisteria House had always been a confusing place for Delilah. On the one hand, she’d lived here with her father for two years, from ages eight to ten. She remembered that time, unlike the foggy, unformed pictures in her mind from her earlier childhood in Seattle. Her mother, dead by the time Delilah turned four, was just a shadow by now, a blur of curly hair and a soft hand on her cheek. But her father, Andrew, she remembered his face perfectly, his dark blue eyes, the way he laughed so loudly, from way deep down in his belly, always causing Delilah to laugh too, even if she didn’t get the joke. Wisteria House was his, built and named for his new family, for his daughter he never got to see grow up.
But Wisteria House was also theirs. Isabel’s. Astrid’s. After Andrew died, Isabel’s grief was heavy, a dark cloak over everything. She’d already lost her first husband to cancer—which was one reason she and Andrew had initially bonded: a shared grief over a horrible disease—and losing another so suddenly nearly killed her. Delilah remembered thinking, through her own sad haze, that Isabel might actually die of a broken heart and then she and Astrid would be left truly alone or maybe even sent away.
But Isabel survived, and as she slowly came back to life, Delilah kept waiting for the mother she needed. The parent. She waited for comfort and assurance. Hell, just a hand squeezing her shoulder in passing would’ve made her heart feel a little bit more at home in her own chest. Astrid sure as hell wasn’t going to give it. But it never came from Isabel either. The woman fed her. Provided her with school supplies. Made sure she did her homework. Bought her Christmas presents. Clothed her with designer labels that Astrid loved and Delilah never cared for, but that was it. Basic needs, leaving love out of the equation altogether. Granted, she wasn’t overly affectionate with Astrid either, but she was involved. Always asking about school projects, Astrid’s friends, going to every single track meet during high school and cheering loudly, pushing Astrid to be better, faster. That was a kind of care, wasn’t it? Astrid lapped up all that attention when they were younger, and then seemed to grow annoyed by it when they got to high school. Still, whenever Delilah sat next to Isabel on those metal bleachers, watching Astrid fly around a track with her blond ponytail flicking behind her, Delilah craved a question, any question, any push to greatness.
It never came. So when Delilah’s fingers curled around her high school diploma to polite, dispassionate applause, she knew it was time to leave for good.
Now, just like each of the few times she’d been back in the last twelve years, she looked up at the lovely Georgian brick exterior of Wisteria House and felt a low simmering panic just under each breath. She pressed her hands to her stomach and inhaled. She knew she had to go in, get through this just like she’d gotten through the brunch. She just needed a moment to prepare. But one moment turned into another, and she knew, any second, her phone would go off with Astrid screeching about professionalism and timeliness.
She took one step toward the front stoop, then another, and was nearly to the bottom of the stairs when a familiar car pulled into the driveway.
A silver Prius.
Delilah watched as Claire opened the driver’s door and two other people got out of the car as well—Iris and some guy Delilah had never seen before. He was dressed in sleek gray dress pants and a black button-down, dark hair pulled into an impressive man bun. He wrapped an arm around Iris, and Delilah let out a breath of relief.
Which gave her enough space to actually focus on what she was seeing.
Claire, in red heels, red lipstick, and an incredibly tight vintage dress that seemed welded around every perfect curve. This was the kind of dress fantasies were made of, designed for bodies like Claire’s, with its inch-wide straps hooking over her round shoulders and the sweetheart neckline showing off the perfect amount of cleavage. The black-and-white polka dots lent an air of innocence to the whole style, but shit, Delilah’s thoughts right now were anything but innocent.
She felt her mouth drop open and couldn’t do a single thing to stop it.
“That’s exactly what I did when I saw her,” Iris said to Delilah. “She looks just like Bettie Page, am I right?” She elbowed Claire.
“What?” Claire said. “No way. My boobs and ass are way bigger than Bettie Page’s were.”
“Yeah, and that’s a good thing.” Iris grinned at her, shaking her head.
Delilah dimly registered the conversation they were having—vintage model, boobs—because dress. All she could do was stare as Claire got closer.
“Hey there,” Iris said when she stopped in front of Delilah. She tilted her head at her, like she was waiting for something.
“Can I help you?” Delilah asked after clearing her throat.
“You can. You’re blocking the steps.”
Delilah considered suggesting in a saccharine tone that Iris use pretty please in a sentence, but with the task of walking inside the house still hovering over her and Claire standing there looking like a pinup model, she didn’t have it in her. She simply moved aside, flourishing her hand up the stairs.
“Hey, I’m Grant,” the guy said as he passed by.
“Delilah,” she said, and his eyes went wide. Her stomach clenched a little. “Yes, that Delilah.”
“Oh, um, yeah, nice to meet you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Smooth,” Iris said, taking his arm. She glanced at Claire, nodding her head toward the door. “We’ll meet you inside?”
“Yeah,” Claire said, then she just stood there as Iris and Grant disappeared, shifting from one foot to the other and pulling on the straps of her dress.
“It looks amazing,” Delilah said.
Claire froze. “What?”
“The dress.” She motioned to Claire’s hand still on the left strap. “It looks good. Really good.”
She watched as a little smile curled one corner of her mouth. “Yeah?”
“Oh yes.”
Claire pursed her lips, clearly trying to fight a larger smile, but her cheeks went pink. She let her hand drop. “Are you going in?”
Delilah sighed and looked up at the house, at red-brown brick and shiny windows. “Eventually. You?”
“Well, I value my life quite a lot, so, yes.”
“Astrid always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?” The words came out quieter than she meant them to, sadder, and Claire’s brows dipped as she searched Delilah’s face. Delilah tried not to look away, but damn this woman, she had some very deep eyes, their brown like a bottomless pit, and Delilah didn’t feel like falling tonight.
She pushed her gaze down, adjusted the camera bag on her shoulder. She needed to gain control of this situation, of what she was and was not doing with Claire Sutherland, one of Astrid’s mean girls, for god’s sake, but control was never something she felt when she was at Wisteria House.
“We could walk in together?” Claire said, more a question than a statement.
Delilah considered it. Claire’s shoulder pressed to hers as she went through the front door, a buffer. But also . . . the look on Astrid’s face when she saw them come in together.
Delilah smiled. “Yeah. We could definitely do that.” Then she looped her arm through Claire’s and pulled her body close, just for good measure.
DELILAH’S SHOULDERS CREPT up to her ears as they walked through the door and into the wide foyer. The smell hit her first. Lavender and bleach, like chemicals attempting to tame something wild. Then the temperature curled around her, frigid cold, the air-conditioning blasting to the point of rustling hair and skirts. Finally, there was the view, the entryway still painted a light gray, the dark hardwood floors still gleaming and pristine, the walls still dotted with the most boring paintings imaginable, neutral-colored abstracts and boring riverscapes. In between these masterpieces, there were, of course, posed photographs of Astrid at all ages. Black and whites in driftwood frames of a blond princess in her ballet costume, her track uniform, her hunter-green graduation gown loaded down with gold and white honors stoles.
There was one picture featuring Delilah—an eight-by-ten family portrait of her and Astrid around age nine on the white sofa in the living room, Isabel and Delilah’s father perched on either side of them, his blue eyes sparkling. A plain antiqued gold frame surrounded the happy scene, set on the console table near the staircase and half covered by a velvety succulent in a ceramic pot.
She felt dizzy for a moment, but that wasn’t all that unusual. She just needed a minute to get her bearings, coat herself in her usual Isabel-and-Astrid armor—sarcasm and disdain. She rolled her shoulders back, her arm tightening on Claire’s as she did so.
“You okay?” Claire asked, watching her.
“Peachy,” she said, but she didn’t let go of Claire.
And Claire didn’t let go of her.
At least, not until Astrid appeared around the corner that led into the living room, her eyes immediately narrowing in on Delilah’s and Claire’s arms. Only then did Claire untangle herself, straightening her dress and clearing her throat.
“Hey,” Claire said.
“Hey, yourself,” Astrid said back as she came closer. She was wearing a strapless ivory jumpsuit with wide legs, sleek and expensive. Ironically, it paired perfectly with Delilah’s own strapless black jumpsuit.
The angel and the devil.
If Astrid noticed, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she air-kissed Claire’s cheeks while she side-eyed her stepsister.
“You made it,” she said to Delilah.
“Miraculously,” Delilah said.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you remembered where it was.”
Delilah just tilted her head at her stepsister. “Point me toward the champagne tower?”
“There isn’t one,” Astrid said, her tone laced with venom.
“Pity.”
“Okay, so,” Claire said brightly, “everything’s set up outside?”
Astrid seemed to unclench and nodded, so Delilah let herself shift into professional mode and mentally ran through the lens she’d need for that kind of light. The champagne tower incident was therapeutic, but she wouldn’t put it past Isabel to fire her ass, and at the end of the day, she had to get paid. A fact Astrid knew full well.
Wisteria House had a huge backyard, flat and green with a pool area just below the porch and a vast space of green lawn that rolled down into the banks of Bright River. There was a dock with a couple of Adirondack chairs set up, a little skiff that Isabel strictly forbade anyone from using when they were kids, and a tire swing that hung from the huge oak whose thick branches arched over the silver-blue water.
“Any particular shots you want me to get?” Delilah asked, but before Astrid could answer, a man appeared around the corner in dark gray pants and a blue button-down, both of which had that very expensive sheen to them. He was tall and lean, his golden blond hair cut short on the side and a little longer on top. He sauntered toward them, hands in his pockets until he reached Astrid, then he hooked an arm around her waist and tugged her closer.
“There you are, babe,” he said, while Delilah watched his fingers dig into Astrid’s hips. She fought an eye roll—cishet white men and their proprietary pet names.
Astrid, though, immediately curled into his side, putting a hand on his chest. “Spencer, this is Delilah.”
His eyebrows rose. “Delilah, huh?”
“In the flesh,” Delilah said. She didn’t lift her hand to shake his. For his part, though, neither did he.
“I never thought I’d have the pleasure,” he said, but he didn’t give Delilah time to respond to that little tidbit. Instead, he turned to Astrid, hoisting her closer, and said, “I need more champagne, babe. Help a guy out?”
“Sure, of course,” Astrid said, then looked at Claire and Delilah. “Do you two want some as well?”
“God, yes,” Delilah said, but it echoed. She looked at Claire as she realized they’d both said the exact same thing at the same time. Claire laughed.
“Okay, I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Astrid said, her brow furrowed. “Coming right up.”
She click-clacked toward the kitchen while Spencer just stood there watching her go, his legs wide and his hands on his hips.
“She’s a good girl,” he said, and Delilah’s jaw clenched even tighter.
“I think you mean woman,” she said. Claire shifted, her shoulder just touching Delilah’s.
Spencer turned back to them. “Excuse me?”
“Woman.” Delilah waved to where Astrid had disappeared into the kitchen. “Astrid, your fiancée, is a woman. Nearly thirty years old, if I recall correctly.”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, but then he smiled. “Astrid said you were . . . fiery.”
“And Astrid said next to nothing about you.” The words just came out, rude tone and all. She heard Claire’s quiet intake of breath and knew she should shut up—she was on thin ice with Isabel already—but something about this guy felt like sandpaper rubbed over a sunburn. No one could ever accuse Delilah of feeling affection for her stepsister, but she felt even less for assholes who so obviously wielded their dicks like swords.
His smile didn’t budge, his stance still space-taking. Finally, he swung his gaze to Claire, eyes flicking to her chest for a split second and then back to her eyes. “Good to see you, Claire.”
“You too, Spencer,” Claire said, her voice like stone.
And then he sauntered down the hall until he reached the back door, disappearing onto the porch, where a dozen human-shaped shadows undulated in the dusky light.
Next to her, Claire exhaled so heavily, Delilah was sure she’d crumple to the ground. She shook out her hands and shivered. Delilah watched her, waiting to see what else she’d do.
Claire caught her looking and shook her head. “Sorry. I just . . . well, now you’ve met Spencer.”
“Is he always such a dick?”
Claire stilled. “Is he a dick?”
“Um, hell yes,” Delilah said.
“God.” Claire clutched her stomach. “I’m so glad to hear someone other than Iris and me say that.”
“It’s not obvious to literally everyone?”
Claire deflated, her shoulders slumping south. “Well, Astrid’s one of the smartest people I know, and she’s marrying him.”
Delilah wrinkled her nose.
“Plus,” Claire went on, “Iris and I have really only hung out with the two of them a few times. If she’s not with us, they do their own thing. I was hoping he’d grow on me as time went on.”
“How’d she meet him?”
“She redesigned his office late last fall. He’d just moved here from Portland, took over Dr. Latimer’s practice after he retired.”
“Dr. Latimer only just retired last year?”
Claire laughed. “God, I know, he had to have been in his seventies when we were in high school.”
“At least.”
“Anyway, Spencer asked Astrid out after the job was done in January. Iris and I met him a couple weeks after their first date, and they were engaged two months later.”
“Two months? Jesus. So they’ve only been engaged since March?” Delilah now remembered when Astrid called her about photographing the wedding—it had been cool in New York, winter just loosening its hold over the city.
“I know, right?” Claire said. “It took her a year to pick out a couch for her living room.”
“What does Isabel say?” Delilah asked, even though she already knew. Rich, prestigious career, nice golden-boy hair. Isabel loved Spencer, and Claire confirmed as much.
“I can never put a finger on it,” Claire continued, “but he just . . . He’s . . .”
“Smarmy?”
“Yes!” Claire reached out and grabbed Delilah’s arm in solidarity but quickly dropped it. “But like . . . in a sneaky way. Like, right now, what just happened with him all”—here she fluttered her hands around her boobs—“what would I say about that to Astrid? ‘Hey, your future husband looked at me’?” She shook her head. “Even Iris, who will legit say anything to anyone, can’t figure out how to word it.”
Delilah ran her brain through what she would say—Your fiancé’s a douche, he looks like a Ken doll, he ogled your BFF’s tits, you turn into a sycophant when you’re around him—but each and every observation that popped into her mind would only piss Astrid off, which, now that she thought about it, might be a delightful way to spend an evening.
And a sure way to get fired.
Still, the idea of Astrid’s wedding falling apart and all of Isabel’s money and plans and dreams of the society event of the season crumbling before her face-lifted eyes? Well, let’s just say it made Delilah feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
“Spencer never does anything concrete,” Claire said. “It’s just a feeling, the way she acts around him.” She rubbed her forehead. “God, she’d kill me if she knew I was saying any of this to you.”
“Not exactly how a maid of honor wants to feel about the groom, I guess.”
“No. No, it’s not.”
Delilah watched as genuine worry settled on Claire’s features. Then, as Astrid’s heels echoed down the hallway again, it bled away just as quickly. Lines smoothed out, and Claire smiled at her friend. But that was genuine too, the grin crinkling up her eyes and pressing a single tiny dimple Delilah had never noticed before right next to Claire’s mouth. This woman loved Astrid with her whole heart.
God only knew why.
“Cheers,” Astrid said as she handed flutes of golden bubbly to Delilah and Claire, keeping one back and looking around. “Where’s Spencer?”
Delilah took a sip of her drink then said, totally deadpan, “Hopefully, taking a flying leap off the dock into the river.”
Claire choked on her champagne.
Delilah felt a rush of pride, but then she saw the look on Astrid’s face.
She expected angry or annoyed. She didn’t expect . . . crestfallen. Her stepsister’s mouth went slack, and her eyebrows dipped in confusion. Delilah’s stomach already felt wobbly from walking into this house, but now, suddenly, it was a pit of writhing snakes, and she didn’t like it one bit.
“What?” Astrid asked.
“Nothing,” Delilah said, waving her free hand, preferring Astrid’s professional indifference to this unfamiliar wounded version standing in front of her. “You want me to take some pictures before dinner, right?”
“Yeah,” Astrid said, her eyes flicking to Claire.
“Let’s go out back, then,” Claire said, clearing her throat. Then she hooked her arm through Astrid’s and took a step to pull her away.
Delilah readied herself to be left behind, to go farther into the house on her own. She’d done it before. She’d spent ten years in this house, eight without her dad or any other ally. She could certainly walk through a goddamn foyer as an event photographer.
But this house, Astrid, Isabel, all of those things stirred together in one pot was a potent brew; one sip was all it took to make her feel like an odd, lonely teenager again.
She closed her eyes for two seconds, breathed in some lavender-bleach air, and ordered her feet to move. Before she could, though, before she even opened her eyes again, she felt soft fingers curl around her arm.
Delilah blinked to find Claire, one hand still holding on to Astrid and the other . . . smoothing down Delilah’s tricep to her elbow. Astrid frowned at her, though her expression was more curious than angry, and Delilah felt something uncoil in her middle.
“Come on,” Claire said gently. “Ready?”
No, Delilah wanted to say. She never was.
But as Claire’s fingers tightened on her skin, just a little, her feet unfroze and she took one step, then another, then another. Before she knew it, she was through the white-couched living room where she’d spent many a Christmas morning digging through her stocking in silence, and outside on the wide back porch, fairy lights casting a soft glow over the whole space.
There were at least fifteen people out here. Delilah recognized some of the women from the brunch, Spencer’s family, and of course Isabel, who was holding court while perched on a patio chair, champagne sparkling in her hand. Astrid kissed Claire on the cheek before shooting Delilah her usual irritated look and breaking off to join Spencer on the far end of the deck, where he was laughing with a group of three other guys, all of them dude-bro-ing it up with their preternaturally white teeth and perfect hair.
Delilah waited for Claire to break off too, speeding toward Iris or some other friend Delilah may or may not know, maybe Josh, though she didn’t see him anywhere.
But . . . Claire didn’t move. She stayed right where she was, her fingers cool and soft around Delilah’s arm, like she was waiting for Delilah to break away too.
