Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(22)

“Thanks, I think?” I look down at the Bruisers T-shirt I’m wearing with a pair of khaki shorts. What else am I supposed to wear to a baseball game? “You’re making me self-conscious now.” It’s been two weeks since Delilah Spark made Twitter swoon by accepting a date with me.

Coincidentally, I’ve been on a two-week high. But now it’s showtime.

“Sorry,” she says with a giggle. “The girls and I always tell each other how nice we look before a big night out. It’s a habit. You’re lucky Rebecca didn’t show up to do your makeup.”

“Yikes. I knew there was a reason I don’t really date.”

She smiles like I’m adorable. “I hope you have a great time. Are you going to get all tongue-tied in the presence of your idol?”

“Let’s hope not.” Although it’s totally possible. I can still see the scar on my thumb from where I sliced myself the first time I ever saw her. Keeping cool in front of Delilah has never been easy for me.

“Take this. There’s a Bruisers jersey in here for her.” Georgia hands me a shopping bag. “And there’s a teddy bear in here, too. After tonight she won’t have any trouble remembering which team to root for.”

Or root against, if this goes badly. I’m still a little stunned that she hasn’t canceled. That could mean one of two things—either she still hasn’t realized that I’m Ralph from Roadie Joe’s. Or she figured it out and still wants to see me.

I hope it’s the second one. But I’m worried, even if I’m not willing to explain the whole thing to my friends. “Thank you, Georgia.” I say, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks for setting up the baseball game.” That’s the plan for tonight—a seven o’clock Brooklyn Cyclones game, with box seats.

Georgia arranged for us to have a nice but casual meal there. And it’s semi-private—the cameras will catch us if they want to, but nobody will be able to harass Delilah for autographs.

“It’s my pleasure. Oh! And I got you these.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small package of… I’m afraid to look.

I take it from her. “Brooklyn Breath Mints? You’re so subtle.”

She cackles. “At least I didn’t buy you a box of condoms. Knock her dead, cowboy. I expect a full report in the morning.” Her smile is wide and teasing. “But no pressure.”

“Jesus.”

She heads for my apartment door, laughing. “Your car will be here in ten minutes. Don’t forget to call me tomorrow. In the morning. No hour too early.”

Finally, she leaves. My apartment grows quiet again, and I exhale. I’ll admit to being a little nervous. Delilah will probably be mad at me for surprising her like this. I’d debated coming clean, but I decided against it, because I’d rather apologize in person.

And maybe she already knows. If you Google my name, you can find team photos where I’m not wearing all my gear.

My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out, expecting the caller to be the car company. I’d arranged to pick up Delilah in Manhattan and then drive all the way back to the Brooklyn ball park. It won’t be a short trip, but it gives us a chance to talk alone.

It’s not a number I recognize, though. “Hello?”

“Hi, Silas? This is Becky, the publicist for Delilah Spark.”

“I remember. Hi, Becky.”

“Look, there’s been a change of plans.”

My gut shifts uneasily. “What kind of change?”

“Dee’s record label needs her at a meeting at seven tonight. So she can’t make the baseball game.”

“A meeting. At seven o’clock,” I echo stupidly. I can’t believe she’s blowing me off at the last minute. “What about tomorrow?”

There’s a pause, because I don’t think Becky was expecting me to suggest an alternative time. She didn’t think I’d make her turn me down twice. “I’m so sorry—we leave on a midmorning flight. I’m afraid it just won’t work.”

Again, I’m speechless. But I can’t come this close to seeing Delilah again and then have the moment snatched away.

“Silas, look,” she says. “You seem like a really nice guy. I just want you to know that this it isn’t just a story Dee cooked up so she could stay in and watch Netflix. The meeting with her label is real. She’s not happy about it.”

A mental image of Delilah arrives in my mind. She’s wearing her Kind of a Big Deal T-shirt and scowling at Brett Ferris. Back then, she was a nobody and getting jerked around by the Brett Ferrises of the world seemed normal. But now I have to wonder why such a successful woman is still taking orders.

That gives me a bad feeling. “Listen, Becky. Are you needed at that same meeting?”

“Me? No. Why?”

“Hear me out. You name a spot—any coffee shop in Manhattan. Let me meet up with you, so I can give you a note for Delilah.”

“A note?” I can hear the hesitation in her voice.

“Yeah. This date isn’t a publicity stunt for me. I need to tell her something important.”

There’s a wary silence on the other end of the line. Becky is trying to figure out if I’m some kind of nutter.

“I won’t even seal the letter. You can read it first and decide for yourself. But I promise you’ll understand. What I have to say is important.”