My Heart for Yours (16 page)

***

I never told Delia about that visit from her dad, and it wasn’t our last run-in. I
did
make her life difficult, in every way possible. If I wasn’t so damn selfish, I probably would’ve let her go a long time ago. I always thought that if D and I could have just locked ourselves away from the outside world, that we’d be okay. We could last forever. But that wasn’t realistic. And after last night, I doubt I had to worry about her ever so much as speaking to me again. She’d seen me drunk plenty of times, but I’d never acted out toward her.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand next to me.

I’m bringing Weston today. I hope you understand.

Honestly, I can’t blame her. She sees stupid drunk everyday with her mom, I’d always been so careful to never cross that line in front of her and last night, I’d done it. She
does
deserve better. I hope she’s found it with Weston.

I sit up too quickly and the pressure in my head makes me dizzy. I chug what’s left of a bottle of water on my nightstand and pop the cap off a bottle of Advil. It’s empty. It’s going to be a fucking gold-star day, I can tell already.

The thing I wonder most often is if I should even bother writing my thoughts down

Who would want to hear from a spoiled daughter of an asshole for a senator

And who would want to read poems, from a country girl

Sixteen
Delia

I lie completely still in bed. Maybe if I don’t move, it will make today not real. Normally, when Weston sleeps over, I make sure I’m downstairs good and early to do something for breakfast. It doesn’t happen often, but last night was not the first night that Dad had allowed Weston to stay the night.

No way he’d have allowed that with Tobin. The only time Tobin managed to stay over was when Gram died, and all he did was hold me. Well, and Dad was out of town, and I’m sure Mom never told him.

My eyes rest on my bookshelf. I still haven’t moved.

Nothing but poetry. Eamon gave me such crap over that. I’d read Leaves of Grass ten times over in one summer, and he stole that book from me more times that I can count. He’d start to read in a ridiculous voice, and at first I’d try and jump up to catch it, and then I learned that if I was patient enough, he’d get bored and give it back.

Tobin got it, just like he got everything about me. No one but grandma asked why my bookshelves were filled with poetry. But Tobin understood; even let me read to him, even though it had to be against some LeJeune boy’s code for poetry to be read out loud. Tobin gave me a book for it after my surgery, a leather journal I still have. Still write in.

They won’t all be good, but I know you have it in you, Delia, I love you.

I’ve wanted to rip that page out so many times, but I can’t, and now I’m so glad I didn’t.

My grandmother was the one who got me interested in poetry. Whenever I would come home sick from school, I’d go to her house. She would set me up with a nice fluffy pallet on the sofa using squishy down pillows and soft quilts that had been passed down on her side of the family. She’d make me hot cocoa—the real stuff, not from a cheap packet and read me poetry. Not all classics, some serious, some silly—all wondrous. I loved how you could say things in a poem—even simple, mundane things and they sounded beautiful, important. Writing poetry gave me the courage to acknowledge my thoughts. It made them valid. Real.

I actually think Tobin started to love it too, or maybe he loved me enough that he understood.

Enough about Tobin.

If last night wasn’t enough to show that he and I have nothing left, I don’t know what is. We’ll be lucky if we can salvage a
friendship
after the mess we’ve dug ourselves into.

I can’t believe we’re burying Eamon today. I blink and a few soft tears hit the pillow. Damn him for being so stubborn and thinking he was invincible. It makes me wonder if Tobin was sitting in the place where Eamon died. I hope not. That was our spot on the tracks.

“
Okay, Delia,” I say to myself. “Stop. You can try to salvage a friendship, but now is not the time. Let’s just get through our day. You know how to get through a day. One foot in front of the other, one smile over another. You can do it.”

And this is when I’m thankful for Weston. He knows how to get me through days like today, and not only does he get me through them, but he wants to be there for me. It’s why I fell in love with him. There isn’t room in my heart for two boys—I’m too stretched out already.

I’ve got to let Tobin go.

I wander downstairs in my pajamas, throwing a black tank over my white one so I don’t need to mess with a bra. My face is clean, my hair is down, and it feels amazing.

“
Morning.” Mom’s sleepy eyes don’t even glance my way from her favorite chair on the porch beyond the kitchen.

I wonder if her and Dad made up, or if they’re back to their quiet politeness. I’m waiting for her to say something about last night.

“
You’re welcome to have one.” She gestures to the counter.

“
A Bloody Mary?” I can feel my eyebrows pull up as disbelief sets in.

“
Why not? You’re practically married to a politician. You need it.” She takes another long drink, and I start to wonder if Mom remembers last night when she waved me out the door.

I grab the counter and lose my breath. Is she right? No. She isn’t right. I’m not married to Weston. I’m barely graduated from high school. I haven’t even picked a major yet, and it surely won’t be anything to do with politics.

But he might as well be.

I grab Mom’s mix and pour a large glass before taking a seat near her to look out across the empty lawn. “I’m not married to Weston.”

Mom gives me this odd look over her drink. “You know you’re a half-step from it. He’s talked with your father.”

I spit half my drink out, and my heart’s hammering so hard I’m not sure if I’ll hear her answer.
“He’s what?”

“
Who’s what?” Dad laughs as he steps onto the porch, and then frowns as he catches sight of my drink.

“
Don’t start,” Mom says, gesturing loosely with her hand. “It was my idea.”

Dad lets out a frustrated breath. “I’m going to hit the golf course while I’m here, see what old Mickey’s up to. Maybe get a few swings in before the funeral this afternoon.”

“
Fine.” Mom’s voice has the apathetic, quiet quality it nearly always has – except when she puts her foot down about something and she and Dad have it out.

Dad glances at my attire. “For God’s sake, Delia. Clean yourself up.”

I open my mouth to argue, but remember that the new Delia is strictly forbidden from speaking up. Not that I ever did much of it before, but after we left Crawford, and Dad buried my secret—
our secret
, it was very much enforced.

Weston’s hands touch my shoulders and then run down my arms. “I don’t have to go,” he whispers onto my bare shoulder. “I came here to be with you. I’m sure your dad will survive without me.”

“
Go.” I nod.

He softly kisses the side of my face. “I want you to be sure.”

“
I’m sure.” I pat his hands, and catch Mom doing the same thing to Dad out of the corner of my eye. My stomach flips over. I’m my mother. I don’t want to be my mother.

“
You’re the best.” He kisses my cheek again before pushing away.

“
We okay?” Dad asks.

“
My girl says its fine.” Weston gives Dad a wink, and I want to throw my glass against the wall.

They start talking golf before they’ve even stepped into the garage. Weston came for a funeral.
One where they’re burying a friend of mine
. And now he’s going to play golf.

“
Don’t break the glass.” Mom gestures to me before taking another drink.

I’m clutching my cup of Bloody Mary so tight my fingers ache. “I’m going for a walk.”

Mom nods in understanding, but I’m pretty sure she’s already had a couple re-fills on her drink. “Clean yourself up a little first, Delia. You’re a mess.”

There are very few things that grate me more than Dad’s words echoed in something Mom says. Instead of making a fuss, I down the rest of the Bloody Mary, and head upstairs to “clean up.”

A shower, blow-dry, and a clean outfit later—tiny blue shorts with a silk top—I’m headed back downstairs.

Mom’s still in her housecoat in the kitchen when I sit to buckle my wedge sandals.

“
You forgot your makeup.” She gestures to my clean face as she moves out of the room with her drink.

“
Thank you, Mom.” Hopefully she won’t say anything else. I can’t imagine wearing makeup in this heat. And suddenly I’m not sure if I’m going anywhere or not. Today is Eamon’s funeral.

My chest cracks again.

***

“
Why don’t you like me?” I asked Eamon after Tobin and I had been together a few months. Eamon was nice enough, but it felt forced, and I swear all he knew how to do with me was tease.

“
I like you just fine, Delia.” He planted a wet kiss on my cheek.

“
Gross, Eamon.” I shoved him away as I laughed.

He stepped outside, where I’d been waiting for Tobin to come home from work. He was running late like he often did—Tobin hated leaving a project half-done.

“
Eamon. I’m serious.” I followed him into the yard.

“
And so am I, Miss Priss.”

“
See!” I threw my hands in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

He sighed as he threw a leg over his dirt bike and reached for his helmet.

“
Do you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“
Nope. Not that poor bastard.” Eamon chuckled. “He’s lucky he can get anyone to notice him.”

“
Then what is it?”

“
I got no problems with you, Delia. You’re pretty cool for a spoiled, rich girl.”

“
Uh…” I wanted to throw an insult back at him, but wasn’t sure what to say.

“
It’s not you. It’s the whole idea of someone as young as him, and especially as young as you, attaching themselves like y’all are doing. I think it’s stupid, and it sucks because when it all goes to hell between you two, I’ll be the one to pick up the pieces because that boy is gone over you.” Eamon put on his helmet.