Page 12 of And Now, Back to You

Breaking News. Local Man Makes Fool of Himself with Woman Dressed as Turtle.

I’m my worst self with Delilah, and it’s entirely her fault.

“Here,” she says, fingers easing the frames over my nose. She holds them there with her thumb between my eyes, then gives me a bright smile. Now I can see every detail of her face beneath mine. The collection of freckles on either side of her nose. The slight gap between her two front teeth. Her long hair, spilling out beneath her on the floor.

“There,” she says. “Good as new.”

I blink at her. “These are my favorite glasses.”

“And they look great.”

She removes her hand and they tilt crooked. One half of her is blurry, the other in focus. Her hand snaps back into place, holding them steady.

“I can fix them,” she whispers.

“Please don’t.” I’m not interested in whatever that nightmare brain cooks up next. I replace her hand with mine, holding the glasses against my face.

I shift to the side and leverage myself up, extending a hand to help her. She ignores it, crawling up slowly after me instead, using the wall for leverage. She has a giant coffee stain in the middle of her turtle-clad chest, one side of her hair wet at the ends. I have a stain, too, slowly spreading across my abdomen.

We stand there in the corner of the bustling newsroom, staring at each other. No one pays us any attention, and I have to wonder: How often is Delilah tackling people to the ground?

“So,” she says. “What are you doing over here?”

When I stare at her blankly from behind my broken glasses, her cheeks flush pink. “I usually see you in the parking lot,” she explains. “Not in the middle of the station.”

“I have a meeting.”

She stops trying to wring the coffee out of her hair. “Here?”

“Not in the hallway, no, but at this station. Yes.”

She frowns. “With who?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” I reach into my wet pocket and pull out the half-crumpled note that was left on my desk at the radio station. Delilah plucks it out of my hand. “Help yourself,” I mumble.

“YBAL offices,” she reads. “Ask for Keith.” Her eyes close in defeat as she slaps the note against the middle of my wet chest. “I think I know where your meeting is.”

“Where?”

She points wordlessly at the half-ajar door no more than two feet away. I glance at it.

“Great,” I say slowly. “Thanks.”

I move toward it and Delilah follows. I stop abruptly at the threshold and she bumps into my back.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I’m still holding my glasses to the side of my face. “Want one more shot before we go our separate ways?”

“Fun as that sounds”—resignation firms the corners of her mouth—“I have a meeting too.”

I point at the door. “In this room?”

She nods. “Yup.”

“With me?”

“It would seem so.”

A prickling sense of awareness creeps up my spine, itching between my shoulders.