Page 130 of And Now, Back to You

Then she waltzed through my front door and greeted the girls like two long-lost sorority sisters instead of the daughters she willingly signed over custody for. I spent the duration of her visit in the living room, pretending to read the Farmers’ Almanac, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation. But I did hear Camille’s laugh when she spotted the whiteboard next to the fridge with all of our important dates listed out. Her light and breezy He still does that, does he?

When I walked her out an hour later, I stopped her on the sidewalk in front of a cherry red Mercedes that looked like it was held together by optimism and sheer force of will. The bumper had duct tape, for god’s sake.

“Don’t mess this up with them,” I told her, nudging my glasses up my nose, ignoring the familiarity in the curve of her chin and the blue of her eyes. I spent so long looking for scraps of affection from this woman. I refuse to do it in adulthood. “This will be your last chance. Do you understand?”

“Always so serious.” She smiled and pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry so much, Jackson. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Then she slipped into her car and peeled away.

Now I’m here. Standing at the bottom of the narrow steps that lead up to Delilah’s row home, staring at the screen of my phone, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. But the girls are back at Aiden’s for a pre-promised sleepover after their ice-cream date, and I felt the walls of our empty house pressing in on me. I was in my car before I could think too much about it.

Hey, I finally type out. Are you busy?

“Stupid,” I grunt. I’m no better than a sixteen-year-old boy. Might as well start throwing pebbles at her window.

But her answer comes through almost immediately. A picture of her in another ridiculous, oversized novelty T-shirt, holding a carton of Chinese next to her face.

Very, she says.

I grin at my phone.

Want some company?

“Hey!” Someone shouts from across the street. “What are you doing over there?”

I turn. An old man in a matching velour jumpsuit is leaning over the railing of his front porch, brandishing a pair of . . . knitting needles. An ancient portable heater sputters at his feet, a lumpy, presumably hand-knit blanket tossed over the aluminum folding chair behind him.

“Yeah, you!” He gestures at me again with the needles. “It’s the middle of the night.”

I clear my throat. “I’m waiting for—”

“Get out of here!” he interrupts before I can finish. He lifts his weathered fist, scowling. “Go on! Shoo! This is a nice neighborhood, you vagrant!”

A porch light turns on at the house next to Delilah’s. Two doors down, a dog begins to bark. I’m not doing anything wrong, but my fight or flight kicks in. I debate making a run for it.

Behind me, a door opens.

“That’s enough, Mr. Ribaldi.” Delilah’s voice floats down. She sounds like she’s laughing. “He’s not a vagrant.”

Mr. Ribaldi frowns, suspicious. “Then why is he loitering?”

“That is an excellent question.” Delilah balances her hip against her doorframe, poking around in her carton of Chinese. “Jackson?” she calls. “Why are you loitering?”

Fuck, it’s good to see her. All the tension that’s steadily been winding tighter at the base of my spine abruptly vanishes at the sight of her in her too-big T-shirt, flannel pajama pants underneath.

“I don’t know,” I yell back. “I think I’m kind of an idiot. Can I come inside?”

A loud bark of laughter drifts down the steps, curling around me like ribbon.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Come on up.”

I can see her T-shirt better when I get to the top of the steps. It’s one of those oversized bathing suit cover-ups with the figure of a woman in a hot pink bikini stenciled on. Delilah is airbrushed across the bottom in lime green. She spreads her arms wide, kicking out one leg and pointing her toe.

She still has my socks, apparently.

“I got it at the Boardwalk in Ocean City. Do you like it?”

“I do.” I stop at the top step and gaze up at her in the halo of golden light that spills out from her house. “Hey,” I breathe.