Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)(24)

But Delilah wasn’t talking to Claire, apparently. She looked straight at Ruby and asked her question again, nodding toward the garment bag in her arms.

“I . . . I guess?” Ruby said. “Who are you?”

Delilah smiled and walked toward them. “Wicked stepsister.” Then she winked at Ruby, and Claire’s daughter actually broke out in a full-face smile, eyes crinkling and everything.

“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” Ruby said, still grinning.

“Ruby,” Claire said, but Delilah just laughed.

“Have you now?”

Ruby nodded. Claire couldn’t remember ever talking about Delilah around Ruby, but god knows what Iris had said at their house on one of their cocktail nights. After even one drink, she got even more loose-lipped than normal, and Ruby liked to lurk when she was supposed to be in bed. Claire had caught her more than once over the years, sprawled out on her stomach in the hallway just out of sight, her chin propped up on her hands, eyes wide and hungry like she was listening for secrets about buried treasure.

“What have you heard?” Delilah asked, tilting her head.

Ruby opened her mouth, and Claire saw it happen—the realization of whatever she had to relay to Delilah wasn’t necessarily kind. Pink spread over her daughter’s cheeks, and her throat bobbed in a hard swallow.

“Um . . .” Ruby said, and Claire knew she had to step in, do something, say anything. She wracked her brain for a distraction, but then, Delilah’s smile . . . fell.

An unpleasant sensation swooped through Claire’s belly, shame or guilt or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. She was sure, however, that Delilah also realized that whatever Ruby had heard wasn’t flattering.

“Never mind,” Delilah said, waving a hand, then tugged on the garment bag in Ruby’s arms. “So show me this dress.”

Ruby exhaled heavily. So did Claire, if she was being honest. She definitely didn’t want a reprisal of Iris’s drunken—or in some cases, stone-cold sober—tirades about the Ghoul of Wisteria House. Not that anything that Iris said was necessarily untrue—Delilah had left Bright Falls and Astrid, despite their strange childhood together, and never looked back—but seeing Delilah’s teasing smile plummet, as though a heavy blanket settled on her in the middle of a sweltering summer . . . well, Claire hadn’t been prepared for that.

“It’s horrible,” Ruby said as she unzipped the bag. “Just look.”

Delilah reached out a hand, pulling the lace and satin into view. Claire couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though her fingers shook, just a little, as she touched the dress. Her brow furrowed, mouth dipping downward.

“God, it is,” she said.

Ruby burst out laughing, and just like that, any empathy Claire had vanished.

“Are you serious right now?” she said as quietly as she could. Really, she wanted to scream. She didn’t need this. She just needed Ruby in the dress.

“I wouldn’t lie about something so important,” Delilah said, meeting Claire’s eyes. There was no malice there, no sarcasm. Just . . . well, hell, Claire couldn’t tell what was there. Delilah held her gaze for a beat longer than felt natural, her full mouth tipping up at the corners, just barely. Freckles spilled over her nose and onto her cheeks. Claire hadn’t noticed them last night in Stella’s dim lighting. Now, though, she saw them plain as day, and had a ridiculous desire to trace a pattern with her finger.

Claire shook her head and stepped back. “Ruby, we need to get changed, okay?”

“Mom,” Ruby said, her voice a whine, and Claire felt even more blood rush to her cheeks. This was going to turn into a fight; she could feel it. A huge, tear-streaked fight, right here in Vivian’s, at Astrid’s first wedding event. She took a deep breath to calm her wobbling stomach, trying to think of what she could say to Ruby, the magic words to make this all fine, but her mind was blank.

Horrifyingly, her eyes started to sting, a swell just behind them. She was so tired. She was so, so tired of being the bad guy.

“Hey,” Delilah said. She took the dress fully out of the bag and draped it over her arm. “Let’s see what you and I can make of this. What do you say?”

She was looking right at Ruby again, Claire forgotten. Ruby’s arms dropped and her face brightened.

“Yeah?” Ruby asked. “Like what?”

“Well,” Delilah said, heading toward the bathroom, “I happen to have a lot of experience in remaking a piece of clothing I hate into something I sort of like, and I’m thinking you’ve got some ideas up your sleeves too.” Her eyes flicked down to Ruby’s nail polish—bright turquoise alternating with a deep plum—then up to her hair, which Claire hadn’t even noticed yet. Her daughter’s locks were long and loose on one side, but on the other, an expertly woven fishtail braid arched down to her shoulder. She didn’t even know Ruby could do a fishtail braid. And when she looked even closer, she spotted a silver-and-black-striped ribbon twisted through the plait.

“Maybe,” Ruby said, grinning, and then Delilah swept Ruby into the bathroom, the heavy oak door thunking shut behind them.

Claire stood there for a few long moments, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. She felt silly, slightly embarrassed, that she hadn’t thought of just asking Ruby what she would change about the dress. It was a dress. It was already made. Astrid bought it for her, and god knew, it probably cost more than all of Ruby’s other clothes combined, which were a blend of Target and Old Navy, cheap stuff that she’d just grow out of in a year. Claire loved clothes, loved finding unique pieces in thrift stores and vintage clothing shops that made her feel like herself, but she never really remade anything. She’d never even thought about it.