Page 91 of And Now, Back to You

I do as she says. Delilah and I tuck our heads together over the phone.

“Hey, Maggie,” Delilah says. “Is Keith giving you trouble?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. He seems intent on making your life as difficult as possible,” Maggie says. “I think he’s planning something.”

Delilah’s gaze flicks up to mine. She looks tired, defeated.

“Should have known that phone call was too good to be true,” Delilah sighs, frustrated.

“I think he hates how much this city loves you. He’s looking for any opportunity to minimize your credibility. But we’re not going to let that happen. Are we, Jackson?”

I nudge my knuckles under Delilah’s chin. A fierce surge of protectiveness settles across my shoulders, pulling tight beneath my breastbone. This is how I prove it. This is how I show her.

“No,” I say. “We’re not.”

Mark is waiting for us in the lobby, his supplies stacked in a neat pile by the door. Camera. Wires. A large backpack with a transponder inside that will feed our footage back to the station, hundreds of miles away. The one that only works, apparently, when I’m begging Delilah to kiss me.

“I thought you’d be setting up for the shot,” Delilah says, reaching for some of the wires. She hoists them over her shoulder. “Do you need help carrying this stuff out?”

“I was just bringing it back inside.” Mark rubs his hand over his head. “Our broadcast has been canceled this morning.”

“I’m sorry. It sounded like you just said our broadcast is canceled.”

“That is what I said.”

She snorts. “I’m so glad you finally feel comfortable enough to joke with me after three years but now is not the time.” She reaches down and grabs the bag too. “I’m not sure the deck will be a good choice for today’s shot. How about we go down the path a little bit. There’s a grove of trees that should shelter us from the worst of it.”

Mark darts a quick glance at me, then back to Delilah.

“I’m not joking about the broadcast, Delilah.”

“You are.”

He shakes his head. “I just got a call from the production team. They won’t be tapping us in. We’re not broadcasting this morning.”

Delilah looks out the window where the snow is falling in earnest. “But this is—” She has to pause to take a deep breath. “It’s the whole reason we’re here, Mark. The snowstorm. The historic snowstorm. The one that is happening. Right outside.”

“I know,” he says.

“Last night we got almost a foot and a half. There’s so much more coming. They’re cutting our footage now? It’s just getting good.”

“I know,” he repeats.

“Who made this decision? Who canceled the broadcast?”

Mark just stares steadily at her, his jaw jumping. We both know the answer to that question.

Delilah huffs. “He can’t—he can’t cancel the fucking news, Mark. What are they going to report on back in Baltimore? The Trash Wheel again? Maybe the goose migration?”

I lightly touch the small of Delilah’s back and she exhales a harsh sound. Something that sounds suspiciously like this motherfucker.

“What did the production team say?” I ask.

Mark rocks back on his heels, reluctant. He keeps shooting Delilah concerned, apprehensive glances out of the corner of his eye like he expects her to start wielding the aux cords as a weapon. Delilah notices his hesitation and wilts like a flower.

“Don’t spare my feelings, Mark.” She yanks off her beanie and shoves it into the same pocket she put her snow goggles. “I’m going to find out whether you tell me or not.”

Something in his face turns faintly pitying, and my stomach free-falls.