Delilah Green Doesn’t Care

DELILAH WAS SURE she was about to throw up.

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over Gansevoort Street, and a breeze blew over her skin, finally giving the city some relief from this mind-numbing summer heat. She was dressed in her favorite black jumpsuit, her hair big and wild, curls defined to within an inch of their lives with all manner of gel and curl crème. Her makeup was spot-on, if she did say so herself. Smoky eyes and winged eyeliner, a dark red lip that made her feel powerful and sexy, like a creature of the night in some paranormal romance novel.

Except this wasn’t a romance. Because as she stared up at the Whitney, a towering gray building, all modern lines and glass, that she’d been inside of a million times before and twice since returning to New York nearly two weeks ago, her stomach churned like it regretted her last meal.

She swallowed, inhaled, then swallowed again, but nothing was making her feel calmer. Tonight, Queer Voices launched at the Whitney. She was ready. She’d been working her ass off since she got back to New York. She’d even gotten Michaela to cover her shifts at the River Café. After her fee for the Parker-Hale wedding dropped into her Apple Cash account two days after leaving Bright Falls—no email from Astrid about it, no text, just a chunk of change that was rightfully Delilah’s anyway—she’d pushed all worries of money and rent out of her head and gotten to work.

Ten pieces.

That’s how many photographs the Whitney wanted, and by the time she’d returned to New York, she’d had one week to prepare before the museum needed everything for framing. Those seven days had been a blur—barely eating, catching cat naps on her couch, constantly poring over her existing body of work for pieces that showed the world who Delilah Green was, niche and all. But she’d done it. She’d even worked on a new piece, a shot she’d taken in Bright Falls after the camping trip during those long couple of days before she’d taken Claire roller skating. She’d gone out to the falls, about ten miles outside of town, a woodsy area where Bright River pooled under a series of small white waterfalls that cascaded down from a rocky cliff. She’d brought her tripod and her camera, then proceeded to spend the entire day lost in hundreds of shots of the natural world, herself in a soaked white blouse the main subject.

“Wow,” Alex Tokuda had said as they’d stared at the photograph five days ago when Delilah had dropped everything off. Delilah had named the piece Found. She wasn’t sure why, but it’s the only thing that popped into her mind when she’d finished editing the shot she’d chosen.

“This is . . . powerful,” Alex said, tilting the large rectangle of photo paper this way and that. Their hair was short and dark, and they wore a maroon suit with a silk black blouse, chic as hell. “Painful, even.”

“Yeah” was all Delilah could think to say, but inside, she felt as though she was made of glitter, a feeling that only increased as Alex had continued to sift through her ten pieces, commenting simply but authentically.

Later that day, when she’d returned alone to her fifth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn, the space a mess of clothes and food wrappers, half-drunk glasses of wine abandoned on side tables for more nourishing gulps of water, she’d grabbed her phone and opened up to her texts with Claire.

A thread that had been silent for a week.

Her thumbs hovered, desperate to reach out, but unsure what to say. What was there to say? The bet with Astrid, of course, was stupid. It was mean and selfish. Even though Astrid hadn’t taken it, and as soon Delilah and Claire started up their affair, Delilah rarely thought of those spiteful words she’d spoken to Astrid in her Kaleidoscope Inn room again.

Still.

It looked bad, she knew. When she thought about the trip, played every moment out like a movie, studying herself like an aspiring actress studied Hepburn, she saw it.

Her constant snarky comments.

Her meanness.

Her lack of care.

The way she lashed out at Astrid any moment she could, and for what? For revenge? For fun? It was no wonder Claire had let her leave, let her walk right out of Wisteria House and Bright Falls without a single question. Delilah didn’t blame her, she supposed. She’d made every effort to ensure everyone in Bright Falls knew she didn’t give two shits about them.

And she didn’t.

But now, as she looked up at the Whitney, her chest felt strangely hollow. There was excitement there, of course. Professional excitement. Artistic excitement. This-could-change-everything excitement, which was no small thing. But she couldn’t stop or ignore this tugging around her heart. The wish for something more. Someone, perhaps.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, and imagined what it would be like.

Life with someone’s fingers entwined with hers for nights like this.

Life with her person.

But as Delilah imagined someone walking beside her in this huge moment, that someone took on a face, a familiar feel, soft skin and brown eyes shining behind her glasses.

Claire hadn’t been like Jax.

She hadn’t been like anyone in Delilah’s life.

She’d been . . . She was . . .

Delilah shook her head, rolled her shoulders back. She had a job to do tonight, and she couldn’t afford distraction.

She couldn’t afford whatever Claire Sutherland was.

THE SHOW BEGAN at eight o’clock. By nine, Delilah had already spoken to four agents who had handed her their card and told her to email them her portfolio, connected with two other artists whose work had similar themes about some collaborative projects, and sold three pieces for more money than she could currently comprehend.

She’d also come dangerously close to breaking down into tears five different times.

There was no reason for the crying.

The night was perfect, the show a success. The exhibition room was brightly lit and soft all at once, artists and patrons sipping champagne and spilling out on the museum’s veranda, which overlooked the city. There were incredible queer photographs hanging in the space, images that showcased resilience, pain, sex, determination, hope, despair, celebration, and love. It was the pinnacle of not only Delilah’s professional life so far, but her queer life as well. Here, in this room, was everything she’d ever wanted or run from or feared.

So why this constant welling sensation, like something inside her was about to overflow? She couldn’t tell if she was overwhelmed or happy or scared or sad. She’d finally gotten a moment to breathe and grabbed a glass of bubbly alcohol, which she very much hoped would chill her the fuck out, when she heard her name.

She turned toward the sound to see a woman with a blond pixie cut in a fabulous white bandage dress sashaying toward her.

“Lorelei,” Delilah said when the woman got closer.

“You remembered,” Lorelei said, clinking her glass against Delilah’s, a knowing smile on her lips.

Delilah winced. “I’m sorry I never texted.”

Lorelei waved a hand. “Oh please. I know how to have a casual hookup.”

Delilah nodded, but something about the words—the implication of just sex—twinged something in her gut.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she said, shaking off the feeling. “For showing my work to Alex.”

“It was my pleasure. I’ve known Alex for years. We went to Vassar together. And although I’m just one of the Whitney’s many bloodsucking lawyers”—here Delilah laughed—“I know a beautiful photograph when I see it.”

“Well, it was appreciated, nonetheless.”

Lorelei nodded, her eyes on Delilah over her champagne flute. “Maybe we could get a real drink afterward? Perhaps even learn each other’s middle names?”

Delilah opened her mouth to say yes. She always said yes when a gorgeous woman asked her out after an event or before an event or, hell, for any time during an event. But her response got stuck in her throat, wouldn’t even roll onto her tongue.

Lorelei’s expression fell. “I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Delilah said, rubbing her forehead. “I . . . I want to say yes.”

Lorelei tilted her head. “But . . . ?”

Delilah shook her head. “I don’t know. I just . . .”

“There’s someone else?”

Again, Delilah’s mouth dropped open, this time a definitive no ready and waiting.

But she couldn’t seem to get that word out either. Delilah blinked, swallowed, and tried again. Still nothing.

Lorelei smiled, oblivious to Delilah’s inner turmoil, sighing and waving a hand at the crowd of nameless beauty all around them. “You’re lucky, then.”

And with that, she kissed Delilah on the cheek and sauntered off. Delilah watched her, suddenly battling a feral urge to call the woman back and drag her to some unused coat closet, then fuck her silly just to feel normal again.

She turned away, back toward her pieces on the wall. There were still at least two hours left, and she needed to focus. She couldn’t blow this chance. She couldn’t—

Delilah froze as she saw a familiar figure standing in front of Found. The woman’s head was tilted as she took in the image, her hip popped out in her black pencil skirt, holding a glass of champagne with two fingers like it was the cheapest bilge she’d ever tasted.

Blinking didn’t clear the vision, which Delilah had half hoped, half dreaded was just some stress-induced hallucination.

But no. Astrid Parker was here. In New York City. At Delilah Green’s show.

Delilah stared for a few seconds, wondering if she could get away with simply turning around and walking straight out of the Whitney, but she knew she couldn’t. Strangely, she didn’t even want to. Curiosity trumped her horror, and she made her way over to her stepsister, approaching her slowly like one might a wounded animal.

When she got close enough, she decided silence was probably best, sliding up next to Astrid and looking up at her own face in black and white. She still loved this photograph, probably more than any other self-portrait she’d ever taken. Self-portraits were tricky; they took forever, as you had to set up the shot without its subject, then do it again and again until you got it right. Double the complications if water was usually a centerpiece of one’s work. This one was no different, and it had paid off.

Alex was right.

It was powerful.

In the image, Delilah was in the water up to her waist, dressed in a thin white blouse that was completely soaked, and no bra. Her hair was drenched, slicked straight back as she leaned one arm on a rocky crag. Her body was turned to the side, her head resting in the crook of her elbow, while the falls pounded down upon her back. Water droplets flew into the air. The sliver of sky above was clouded, the trees thick and wiry. The pool rippled out around her, around the press of water from the falls. The entire setting was chaos. Nature, loud and lovely and powerful.

But the woman herself.

Delilah.

Her face was . . . serene. A third of her expression was hidden in her arm, but both eyes were visible, just off center of the viewer. Water beaded on her slightly parted mouth, her cheeks, the end of her nose. Even with all of that, she looked at peace. There was no smile on her lips, no ecstatic glimmer in her eyes. There was just . . . a quiet there. She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She’d simply been wasting time, trying not to think about how much she wanted to see Claire, experimenting with the water depths and if she could pull off a self-portrait using a timer and a tripod set up in the middle of a three-foot deep river pool in Bright Falls.

The result had been this. A shocking calm in the midst of natural cacophony.

“Interesting title,” Astrid said, motioning her glass toward the white placard below the piece identifying the artist and other pertinent information.

Delilah sighed. She couldn’t explain the title—Found. Or maybe she could, and that’s why she’d convinced herself, over and over in the past week, that the title had been arbitrary, something to fill the mandatory space.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Astrid didn’t answer right away, and when she did, her voice was soft. “I’m not sure.”

She turned then, her eyes finding Delilah’s, and the two women stared at each other. It occurred to Delilah that this was probably the longest she’d ever really looked at her stepsister. She’d spent years perfecting the art of avoidance, of protection, of never letting Astrid see how much Delilah was hurting. If eyes were the window into the soul, Delilah’s had long been shuttered.

Now, though, she made herself look, all those entries about Delilah in Astrid’s journal fluttering through her mind. She wanted to say something about them, to understand, but she’d never been forthcoming with Astrid Parker.

Not once.

The fact struck her suddenly, something regretful and sad pulling down her shoulders. It was a weight, this burden of hurt and resentment, of misunderstanding. She was tired and sore, and she wanted to be done with it. The realization was almost a relief, even if Astrid laughed in her face—she was ready for this part of her life to be over, or, at the very least, to change. Maybe that meant she and Astrid were done for good. Maybe they just needed to say goodbye, wish each other well, and walk away.

She turned and looked at her own face again, an expression she barely recognized but wanted to see in the mirror every morning. She wanted the Delilah hanging up there on the wall to be the real Delilah. Strong and resilient. Battered by the world and circumstances beyond her control, sure, but instead of resentful and angry, that woman was calm. Peaceful. Serene. Grateful. She belonged somewhere, despite years and years of emotional displacement. She’d found something. She’d been found by someone.

Or maybe, by many someones.

“Astrid—”

“You know what I realized?” Astrid asked.

Delilah looked at her, relieved to have to hold off the words she wanted to say, because she wasn’t sure how to say any of them.

“What?” she said.

Astrid took a breath. “I realized, in twelve years of you living in New York, I’ve never once come to see you until now.”

Delilah blinked at her.

“I’d bitch and moan about you coming back to Bright Falls.”

“Astrid—”

“Then I’d bitch and moan even more when you didn’t show up, but I never planned a trip out here. I never even tried to bridge that gap, did I?”

She looked at Delilah, her bangs just touching her lashes. She looked tired, her outfit pristine and her makeup natural and minimal, but nothing hid the shadow of purple under her eyes. As they looked at each other, really looked, Delilah felt something inside her release.

“It was a pretty big gap to bridge,” she said.

Astrid nodded. “Yeah.”

“And I . . .” Delilah sighed, forcing herself to keep eye contact. It was intense, that welling feeling was back, but this also felt right. Hard and horrible and right. “I did my level best to make it as wide as possible.”

Something flickered in Astrid’s expression. Something like . . . pain. Like sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Delilah said before she could talk herself out of it. Two words of apology didn’t fix it all; she knew that. But maybe it was a start. Because, no matter how hard her childhood was, how lonely, Astrid Parker was her family. Her sister. Delilah finally got that, twenty years after her father died and left her alone. She didn’t have to be alone. Not unless she just wanted to be, and goddammit, she didn’t. She was tired of trying to forget she even had a sister, tired of pretending like she didn’t want to understand Astrid because caring about her might lead to pain or rejection.

But it might also lead to so much more.

“I’m sorry too,” Astrid said. “I didn’t make it easy either. I know that. You’d lost a lot. So had I, and we were just kids. I guess . . . well, I guess neither of us knew how to handle the other. How to handle the hurt.”

“No, I don’t think we did.”

Then they both seemed to . . . let go. Literally. They exhaled, releasing what sounded like four lungfuls of air, tiny laughs filtering out on the ends.

“Good god,” Astrid said. “That only took us twelve years to say.”

Delilah smiled and shook her head, her shoulders suddenly releasing their hold on her neck. “Longer than that probably.”

Astrid nodded and held up her glass.

Delilah clinked it with her own, and they both sipped, the air between them a little clearer, a little more buoyant. They stood there like that for a while before Astrid moved on to Delilah’s next piece . . . then the next and the next. Delilah followed her, watching Astrid take in her work. She found she actually cared what her sister thought. Maybe she always had, which was why she’d never shared any of this with her before today. Not on purpose anyway, as she knew Astrid had been checking out her Instagram for years now.

“These are really lovely, Delilah,” she finally said. Astrid had never been effusive with praise, so Delilah didn’t expect any now. But that simple phrase held weight, an authenticity that Delilah felt in her stomach.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

“I especially like this one.”

Astrid had stopped in front of Delilah’s personal favorite piece, her own self-portrait aside.

Lace and Fury, it was called. In it, a twenty-five-year-old Claire Sutherland waded into Bright River in a lace dress, everything about her soft and beautiful, and at the same time, despairing and rage filled. Delilah remembered taking the photo, looking at her camera’s screen after each shot, something in her connecting with Claire’s rage. When Alex had seen it a few days ago, they’d just stared at it for a while, then shook their head.

“Pretty sure every queer person in the world can relate to that,” they’d said, setting the photo aside and moving on to the next piece.

And they’d been right. That’s why Delilah had taken the photo in the first place. Claire represented a contradiction, the discomfiting marriage of beauty and pain. But now, as Delilah looked at Claire through the glass, she realized she wasn’t a contradiction at all. She simply was. Complexity and clarity, fear and hope, love and hate and indifference. She was everything.

“I like it too,” Delilah said now, staring at Claire’s profile.

“Are you in love with my best friend?”

Delilah snapped her head toward Astrid. “What?”

Astrid just lifted her brows.

“I . . . um . . . I . . .” Delilah blew out a breath, the right word hovering just out of reach. A simple word. A terrifying word.

Astrid nodded, as though Delilah had spoken the word anyway, then lifted her glass toward the photo of Claire. “Well, I wouldn’t sell that one. I have a feeling there’s someone who might like to see it.”