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And maybe it’s a bad idea, maybe it’s a terrible one, but the way Lila’s mouth curves into a soft smile, looking at me like I hung the fucking moon…I find I simply don’t fucking care.
Fifteen
DELILAH
It feels strange, foreign even, when Ian’s hand finds mine as we enter my apartment building. It’s a quiet thing; he doesn’t draw attention to it, doesn’t make a production of the act, but our fingers tangle and his grip tightens until it’s definitely a holding type of situation, and what would teenager Lila think if she knew this was going to happen? How many afternoons did I spend daydreaming about this, just this? It fills my belly and my chest with all sorts of flutters that are mostly elation but at least a tiny bit of nerves—something that I find surprising, because I rarely get nervous about anything. Especially when it comes to men.
But this is Ian, my brain reminds me. As if I could forget.
“Building is nice,” Ian comments as we ascend the stairs.
I scoff. “It would be better if they would fix the damn elevator. Stairs and I don’t really vibe.”
“Good for your heart,” he says offhandedly. “Cardio is important.”
I give him a sly smile. “I can think of a lot better ways to get your cardio in.”
His cheeks flush and his eyes turn upward while he mutters something that might be prayers for some sort of guidance; I can’t actually make it out. I love when I can rile him like this, when I can break through that composure of his. It feels like a secret side of Ian that’s just for me.
We’re stepping onto the landing for the third floor—one below mine—when he changes the subject. “Have you lived here long?”
“Since I moved back,” I tell him. “I love the neighborhood, and it’s so close to work…The place is small, but it’s never made any sense to move. It’s perfect for just me.”
“I have to say, I am intrigued by what your place might look like.”
“Why is that?”
“Do you still have your collection of porcelain cat figurines?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you implying that the Porcelain Pride isn’t amazing?”
“Oh God. You named it. Are there more? There have to be at least a hundred of them by now.”
“I don’t feel inclined to answer that.”
“So, yes, essentially,” he laughs.
I roll my eyes, pushing open the door to my floor and leading him through it. “At least they’re organized now. They have their own special shelf and everything.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“Unless it’s to tell me how cool they are, keep your comments to yourself.”
He makes a motion like he’s zipping his lips, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. That fluttering sensation is back, intensifying when we get to my door. It’s only just hitting me that Ian is here, at my place. It’s only just occurring to me what will most likely happen after we go inside. What I have thought about happening for so long it’s embarrassing, considering I’ve only been on his radar for a month, at best. A chilled sort of tingle spreads through my limbs as I dig in my purse for my keys, swallowing around a dry lump that’s forming in my throat as I reach toward the knob to undo the lock. I get so far as sticking the key in the latch.
And then I fucking freeze.
I’m nervous, I realize. Actually nervous. Like, heart pounding, stomach clenching, full-on panicking with my key trembling in my hand and my dumb key chain with a mixer on it that says “beat it, just beat it” tinkling softly in the quiet space of the hall.
How the fuck can I be nervous? I’ve literally dreamt about this moment for longer than I care to admit. So long that I might as well have a goddamned play-by-play for it in every possible way that it could go.
But maybe that’s the problem, I rationalize. I’ve built it up for so long, fantasized about what it might be like for Ian to be mine, really mine, and what if it’s not what I expected? What if it ruins everything? Could I live with that? Could I really—
“Lila,” Ian says softly from right behind me, where we’re still lingering outside my apartment door. “Lila,” he says again, his fingers coming to brush against the underside of my forearm that’s still outstretched toward the lock. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m sorry,” I splutter. “Sorry, I’m being ridiculous, I—”
“Lila.”
