Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)(33)

“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.