Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)(94)

It was everywhere.

Not on every page, but on a lot of them. She blinked down at the writing, knowing she should close the book and walk out of the room right now, but something kept her there. Something childish and curious, a little girl looking for something to ease this knot in her chest.

Or, maybe, to pull the knot even tighter.

She swallowed, took a breath, and started reading on a page where her name appeared several times.


September 25th

I went to Delilah’s room tonight, thinking maybe she’d want to do our homework together or watch TV, but when I knocked on her door, she didn’t answer. And then, when I peeked inside, she was just lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, which seems pretty boring to me, but then she’s always staring at stuff. I guess I don’t blame her. She’s sad. I know she is, just like Mom is and I am too. I don’t know how to help anyone though. When I asked her if she wanted to watch a movie, she just rolled over on her bed and faced the window. She doesn’t want my help.


October 3rd

The leaves are starting to change and it’s my favorite time of year. I wanted Delilah to come to Gentry’s pumpkin farm with Claire and Iris and me today, but I never got the chance to ask her. When Claire and Iris got here, Delilah had been in the living room watching TV, but as soon as the doorbell rang, she disappeared. She wasn’t in her room when I went looking for her. Iris says she’s a little weird, which I guess is true. I don’t know what to say about her to my friends, so I don’t say much of anything. It’s kind of embarrassing that my stepsister doesn’t seem to really like me at all. She doesn’t like Mom either, though I guess Mom’s not the easiest person to like. Even when Andrew was alive, Delilah was pretty quiet, but she wasn’t like this. I don’t know what to do.



Delilah set the book in her lap, lungs pumping hard, her memory reaching back, back, back for this time, mere months after her father’s death made her an orphan. She remembered Astrid asking her to watch TV or do homework together every now and then, but this . . . this . . . longing that seemed to fill Astrid’s writing, the worry and wonder and even hurt . . .

That was new.

That was . . . impossible. Astrid never felt like this. She never actually wanted Delilah to be a part of her family. After Delilah’s father died, Delilah was just a burden, an orphan, a strange girl messing up Astrid and Isabel’s perfect life.

Wasn’t she?

She flipped forward a few pages, landing on an entry dated that next spring when they were eleven.


March 19th

Claire and Iris spent the night last night. I’m so glad they’re my friends. Iris is so funny, and Claire is probably the sweetest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know what I’d do without them, especially with Delilah still ignoring me most of the time. Claire asked me about her last night while we were making cookies, about why Delilah never hangs out with us or talks to me. My face got kind of hot, and I didn’t know what to say.

My sister hates me?

My sister wishes she had a different family?

It was way too embarrassing to admit, even if it was true. So I just shrugged and said Delilah was a weirdo and that she just liked being by herself.

Iris nodded and called Delilah a super weirdo. Claire just frowned and went back to mixing the dough, and we didn’t say anything else about Delilah, but I knew my face was still really red, because it felt warm for the next hour. My chest hurt too, like it always does when I do something I know isn’t right, like I can’t breathe the right way or something.



Delilah slammed the book shut and tossed it onto the bed next her. Then she dived into the tub at her feet, searching for another journal. Her hands were shaking because none of this was right. It couldn’t be right.

She grabbed a hunter-green journal a few books down in the stack. Opening it, she found the date, placing it when she and Astrid were in high school, ages fifteen to sixteen. A quick scan of the first pages filled her with relief—her name didn’t litter the writing—until she got to the middle, where Delilah seemed to appear every other word.


January 11th

I swear to god, I hate my mother. Sometimes I feel like I can’t talk, can’t think for myself at all. I’m just a doll, programmed only to say “yes, Mom” and “okay, Mom” and “whatever you want, Mom.” I’m so sick of it. Sometimes, I think Delilah had the right idea—just be a total bitch to everyone, and eventually, they’ll leave you alone. I mean, Mom asks her about her schoolwork and makes sure she won’t do anything to sully the great Parker-Green household, dragging her to a few fundraisers here and there, but for the most part, Mom leaves her alone.

Why can’t she leave me alone?

I wonder all the time what Delilah thinks about the horror show that is my mom and me. She’s probably relieved she doesn’t have to deal with it. Not that she’d tell me if she was. If we’re not at school or forced to the dinner table by Mom, Delilah’s in her room, reading or doing I don’t even know what. Anytime I try to get her to come out, she barely acknowledges my questions with a grunt. Like last week, I asked her if she wanted to come with me to the bookstore. I figured this would get her attention. She loves River Wild Books. It’s the only place she goes to in town. Claire always tells me when she sees Delilah there, which is at least a few times a week after school. But when I asked her to go? It was a flat-out “No thanks.” Even when I asked her why not, she just shrugged and mumbled something about how she was just there yesterday, like that’s ever stopped her before. Logical conclusion—she just doesn’t want to go with me.