Better Than You (The Walker Family Series Book 3) (14 page)

Mike wanted to pick Dennis Brooks up by his fancy lapels and chuck him headfirst through a window.

**

She did, in fact, have food poisoning. Delta took the nausea meds she was given and made a mental note to never eat at the deli down the street from the mall again. With strict orders to drink all the Gatorade she could handle, she was turned loose just after one in the morning. Mike drove her home, walked her up,
twisted the top off a Gatorade for her because she was still too weak to do much of anything. Shredded by fatigue and a sore throat, she was powerless against the overwhelming tide of hurt and embarrassment the night’s revelation had brought.

She’d never intended to tell Mike about her abortion, least of all like this, with her parents and a whole hospital staff present. She could feel his contempt, his shock and opposition. She wasn’t just cold – she was as cold as they came. He couldn’t want that.
Couldn’t care about that. He already wasn’t the sort of posh and polished man she should have been with, but now he knew her darkest truth. A cold man would have seen the wisdom of her decision. Her
father’s
decision. Mike was thinking she was a monster – he had to be.

Near tears again and afraid she couldn’t stop them, Delta shuffled into her bedroom and shed her clothes, not caring if he watched. She pulled a loose, soft cotton nightshirt out of her dresser drawer and slipped it on over her head, her back to the open door. Mike was still there, lingering, and she didn’t want to face him. She went to her bed and turned down the covers, set her drink on the nightstand. The sheets were cool and soft on her skin and if nothing else, sleep would bring a relief to the hellish evening of puke and professions.

Mike was standing in the doorway when she finally lifted her head. He’d pulled out his shirttail at the hospital and looked rumpled and tired, his strong, angular face lined with fatigue and…something else. She could just make out the green of his eyes from this distance.

“I don’t think I’ll pass out and need catching again,” she said with a pitiful attempt at a smile.
“Thank you for…helping me.”

“Delta
– ”

“I’m sorry I ruined our plans for the night. Maybe after Ch
ristmas, if you still want to – ”

“Delta,” he said more firmly.

“Or if you’d like to take some time – ”

“Delta, am I
gonna have to tell you to shut up too?” he asked, and she finally closed her mouth, shame pressing down on her hard. His expression softened further. “Sweetheart.” He started moving into the room a step at a time. “What you told me tonight doesn’t change anything for me.”

Her eyes started to fill and she didn’t want to look at him anymore.

“I mean, I kinda want to knock the shit outta your dad…” He made an attempt at a smile, but became serious again when she didn’t return it. “But all I am right now is worried about you. I’m…
crazy
…about you, and I don’t care what happened when you were sixteen.”

He didn’t feel contempt.
Wasn’t repulsed. Didn’t hate her for the coldness. He looked at her and it was like he was tunneling all the way back to her past and witnessing the tears she’d shed back then, the nightmares – his look told her all of that and more.

She tried to fight them, but the tears came; salty and hopped-up on IV fluids, they came
pouring out, accompanied with a ripping sensation deep in her chest and stomach. Through them, she watched Mike ditch his shoes and clothes, and he came around to the other side of the bed in his boxers. He climbed in beside her and nothing had ever felt as good as his arm around her, the solid warmth of his skin as he pulled her into his side.

She didn’t know if she cried for what she’d lost as a teenager, or for the confused tangle of emotions inside her now. Either way, Mike telling her that he was sorry against the top of her head was the only answer that made any sense.

**

She didn’t expect to sleep through the night, but suddenly her eyes were snapping open and morning light was streaming in through the drapes neither of them had thought to close the night before. She was on her side, curled up in the fetal position, and as awareness solidified, so did the gnawing, empty ache in her stomach. The inside of her mouth felt like sandpaper
, she’d pulled a muscle somewhere in her core, but the nausea was just a dull echo of what it had been the night before.

She rolled over, slowly, and realized she was alone in bed.
He’s gone
, she thought with a deep, resonating sadness. She pushed up on an elbow and realized that the covers had been tucked in around her, that there was a fresh bottle of Gatorade on her nightstand and that Mike’s shoes were resting under her tufted chair, his shirt thrown over the arm.
He’s not gone
, she thought, and it gave her just enough energy to climb out of bed.

Delta gagged once while she brushed her teeth, but didn’t hurl.
Which was progress. Her reflection was horrific: her hair a tangled, limp mess, her skin still sallow, dark bags beneath her eyes. She’d never washed her face, her makeup instead had been sweated and rubbed off. But the prospect of cleaning herself up was too daunting. She tied her hair back in a messy knot and went to find Mike, hoping he wasn’t too disgusted by her.

He was in the kitchen, in his khakis and white under shirt, eating something over her kitchen sink and watching the street below through the window. He turned at the sound of her bare feet across the hardwood. “You’re up,” he greeted. “How’re you feeling?”

She sat down at her little dinner-for-two café table. “Don’t you have work?”

“I’ve got a ton of vacation days.” It was toast he was eating, she could see, and he popped the last bite in his mouth. “And I called the store and told them you wouldn’t be in.”

“Oh.” She propped her chin in her hand because her head felt too heavy to hold up. “Well I was going to go in.”

“No you weren’t.”

She didn’t argue.

“You want something?” he propped a hand on the counter and turned to face her. “Mom always made us dry toast when we puked as kids. It doesn’t taste great, but the bright side, it doesn’t taste any worse coming back up.”

She had to smile. It had been her intention to refuse any further offers of help and send him off to work, but all she could think about was the night before:
crazy about you
, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, and all the sweetness her parents didn’t possess. And here he was now, barefoot in her kitchen, wanting to make her toast.

He was precious.

“I might be able to choke some down,” she said, and watched him pull more of her organic, spelt flour bread out of the freezer and pop it into her toaster oven. He watched it brown with comical earnest, burned his thumb getting it out and cussed about it. He brought her two slices on a paper towel and yet another Gatorade.

“You should keep drinking,” he reminded as he sat down across from her. “Doc said.”

Another tired smile tugged at her lips as she broke off a corner of toast and contemplated it. “Thank you,” she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugged. “
It’s just toast.”

Her smile widened. “No, I mean…” she needed to take a deep breath for some reason, “thank you for last night. For being the kind of guy who can handle vomit and ER visits and my dad and…”
my secret
, she thought, but didn’t say.

He watched her a long moment while she fiddled with her toast corner, his hair flat and spiky from sleep. He needed to shave and he’d probably borrowed her toothbrush again; the image of his big,
bare arms in his wifebeater furthered the contrast between him and her father. Delta felt something deep in her aching, raw stomach that was warm and tingling and had nothing to do with food poisoning. His expression told her he was probably feeling it too.

“Sit tight,” he said, and slid out of his chair, left the kitchen and headed toward the front door. Delta forced down a bite of toast in his absence and prayed it stayed down. When he returned a moment later, he had a square little box in his hand wrapped in re
d and gold striped paper. “Here.” He set it on the table with a smile he tried to hide and sat down across from her again.

Delta rubbed the crumbs off her fingertips and stared at the box, pulse coming to attention.

“It’s not
that
,” he said.

With a sheepish half-smile, she picked it up and
peeled off the tape on the bottom, unfolded the paper. The box was white and plain. There was a necklace inside: a dainty silver chain with a tiny silver charm that was a crown. With a glittering clear stone set in the middle. She pulled it out and held it up to the light, watched it catch the morning sun that came in through the window.

“It’s white gold,” Mike said in an uncertain voice, “and that’s a real diamond, not a fake, I swear.”

Her gaze swept up from the necklace and to his face and she saw a blush rising along his cheekbones.

“My brother got his wife one of those heart necklace thingies from Kay, but I knew you’d hate it. And I thought…I
dunno…I thought you’d like something original better.”

Delta wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted to hug someone the way she wanted to hug him now. “You thought right,” she said, and felt a lump forming in her throat.
“Very right.”

His smile was wide and white and pleased; she just wanted more of it.

“My parents are going to Barbados for Christmas,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “They leave tonight and I’m not going because I have work and…” she took another deep breath, “I know we said we’d keep Christmas separate but I…I don’t want to.”

Surprised and happy, he tried to hide it, showed her just a trace of a smile.
“You know that means seeing my family again, right?”

She curled her hand tight around the little white gold and diamond crown in her hand.
Princess
, he called her, and he’d given her a crown. She nodded. “I don’t care.”

18
.

“Y
ou’re skinny. How much weight have you lost this week?” Mike’s big hand molded against her ribcage and slid around to the front of her charcoal dress, pressed up beneath her breasts as his reflection towered over her in her closet door mirror. He dropped his head and sniffed her hair like a dog. “You smell good though.”

“Don’t say ‘skinny’ like it’s a bad thing,” Delta chastised as she faste
ned her teardrop earrings into place.

“You were skinny to start with, though.” He pulled her back against him with just the one hand, a sort of almost-hug. He was hands-on anyway, but it fel
t like he’d been holding her up: waiting and ready to catch her while she was sick. It would have bothered her if she’d thought it was a macho, possessive behavior. But she was starting to learn that it wasn’t about that; it was about affection and attachment and him wanting excuses to touch her.

She brushed a finger across the shining crown charm around her neck and glanced up at his reflection to see him watching her. “What?”

“Are you sure you feel up to this?”

She was still a little pale and
shaky, and only just getting reacquainted with solid foods. She’d lost eleven pounds in two days and was exhausted because of it. But it was Christmas Eve and Mike was expected at his mother’s house at six. The prospect of another visit with the Walker clan was a strain on her fragile digestive system, but where Mike was going, she was going. He wasn’t the only one with affection and attachment issues now.

“Yes,” she said with a smile she didn’t quite feel.
“I feel really good today.”

He kissed
the top of her head and said, “You’re lying,” against her hair before he let go of her and stepped away.

**

The Walkers had a massive tree that was too big for the room, wedged between the mantel and the window. Most of the ornaments looked like they’d been handmade by the kids years ago – painted glass balls and hard baked gingerbread men, popsicle stick Stars of David and plastic spoon reindeer with red pom-pom noses. Somehow, Delta laid eyes on the tinsel and colored lights and red strands of beads, said, “It’s lovely,” and sounded halfway sincere.

“It’s tolerable,” Mike’s older sister Jessica amended. She was in a simple red sheathe dress, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand, and Delta wondered if she might be the one other Walker
she might actually have something in common with. “Come on. Are you any good in the kitchen?”

Delta had spent countless hours in the kitchen with Mrs. Miller and her husband, the Brooks’ chef, pouring and measuring and boiling and learning how to do what her mother never could. “I’m okay,” she said, and followed Jessica down the hall and into the laminate and linoleum nightmare that was Beth Walker’s kitchen. There were too many silk plants and too many ceramic birds and wallpaper that should have been outlawed. Beth was in a red and green Christmas sweater complete with Santa Claus face, a black skirt and flats that had seen better days. Her hair was clipped on top of her head, but loose strands were curling in the steam that hissed up from the skillet she stood over.

“Oh, Jessie,” she said distractedly as they entered, “pull the roast out of the oven, honey.”

Jessica picked oven mitts up off the counter and did as asked, leaving Delta standing alone and awkward in the threshold.

Beth’s eyes came to her, a fast, uncertain darting, and then returned to the roast she browned. “Delta…um…I’d hate for you to get your dress dirty. Jo’s setting the table. You could help her with that.”

She shouldn’t have been, but Delta was a little bit offended. Who was to say she couldn’t tie an apron on over her dress and whip the potatoes?
Beth Walker, apparently. But she dipped her head in a nod and backtracked down the hall to the dining room. Jo was pulling what was probably the good china out of the cabinet against the far wall and stacking it on the edge of the table. She had piles of flatware and napkins in a wadded up bundle. As if her jeans and dirty socks weren’t enough proof, she clearly didn’t know a thing about tablescapes. Or anything feminine. Her eyes were unfriendly as they lifted from the short stack of plates she added to those she’d already pulled.

“Your mom said you needed help,” Delta offered and earned a displeased frown.

“I can’t cook. Now I can’t even set the table, apparently.”

“Well…the napkins
are
probably wrinkled.”

“So?” Jo challenged. She picked up a plate and set it at an empty place setting. “We’re going to wipe our mouths with them.” She gathered knife, fork, and spoon, flanked the plate with them, but not in the right order.

“Do you actually need help setting the table? I could show you how,” Delta asked, truly curious. It was hard to imagine that someone could get to twenty-one without knowing which side of the plate the fork went on, but Jo had somehow managed. Maybe it wasn’t even her fault. Her name was
Jo
after all, and maybe the tomboy curse of Jo March was inescapable.

“Gee, thanks,” Jo said to the table as she went for an
other plate. “I don’t know how I’d live without knowing where the forks go.”

Delta’s hands found her hips – they were bony thanks to the tuna salad from
Highrise Deli – and formed a retort she knew she couldn’t use. Thoroughly miffed, she knew her hands were tied by the necklace around her throat, by the gentle brush of Mike’s hand across her forehead two nights before, by the sight of him making her toast in her kitchen and the feel of his big, strong fingers laced with hers at the hospital. These people were offensive, but they were his family, and if she wanted him, she’d have to learn to deal with all of them.

“Fine,” she said coolly to Jo and left her to make a fool of herself, returning to the living room and the arm of the sofa beside Mike.

He was talking to his brother Walt about some sort of dull problem Walt was having with his trash pickup service, but flicked a glance up to her face, a hand closing over her knee in silent question.

She tidied a piece of his short blonde hair and forced a smile.

**

Dinner was beef tenderloin with potatoes, green beans, salad and big fluffy rolls. None of it was fancy or artfully arranged, but it smelled like heaven. Or, at least, it would have, if Delta’s stomach wasn’t still tender and angry. She put exactly five bean pods and a small dollop of potatoes on her plate that she picked at with her fork. She hoped no one would notice, but of course, that was impossible. She was some exotic bird in the Walkers’ eyes – mysterious and never before seen and possibly ugly.

“Delta, you’re not having roast?” Beth asked in a voice that wavered just enough to reveal how self-conscious and nervous she was.

“No, I…” Beth’s pinched expression told her there was no way to say this acceptably. “I don’t eat red meat.”

Jo smirked down into her plate and Jordan gave a little twitch of his eyebrows.

Randy frowned, not unkindly, but it was still a frown. “You’re not one of those – what do they call ‘
em –
vegans
, are you?”

And what if she was? She didn’t get the feeling that
would be welcome news. “No, I – ”

“She’s been sick,” Mike stepped in, and she felt his shoe butting up against hers under the table. “She had really bad food poisoning a couple days ago and she’s not back to her fighting weight yet.”

If he’d intended to quiet their curiosities, he’d done the opposite.

“Oh, no!”
Gwen said. “That’s awful. Where’d you eat?”

“The
Highrise Deli.”

“Down the street from the mall
?” Jessica asked.

“Yes.”

“That place is disgusting,” her husband, Dylan said, lip curled in demonstration.

“Believe me, I know that now,” Delta said with a little sigh.

“I didn’t know you’d been sick,” Beth fretted. “I would have made something else if I’d known.” The look she tossed to Mike was absolutely wounded.

“Don’t get upset, Mom,” Jessica said.

“Well, I would have liked to know – ”

“The potatoes are fine, Mrs. Walker,” Delta offered with a tight smile that was an effort. “The doctor said to stick to just starches until I was feeling back to normal.”

“Doctor?” her pale brows knitted together. “It was bad enough you had to go to the doctor?”

“She passed out,” Mike blurted before she could stop him. “She had to go to the ER and get hydrated.”

“Oh my God!” Beth gasped. “Michael, you didn’t
say anything
.”

“Didn’t know I needed to,” he grumbled.

“I’m always in the dark with you these days,” his mother complained.

Delta glanced up to find Randy watching her. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asked.

His wife smacked at his arm immediately and he had the grace to look sheepish, but all Delta heard was another father asking her if she was pregnant. Mike’s hand found her leg beneath the table, but it didn’t make the moment any less awkward or painful. She stared at her plate and tried to pretend none of them existed.

**

The family would open presents the next morning and be joined by a boatload of relatives for lunch the next day. Mike informed her of this in a whisper as the dinner plates were cleared away and then asked if she was ready to, “Blow this hole.”

She was.

Delta made the awkward goodbye rounds, thankful that an end to the evening was in sight. She wanted nothing more than to skip Jo, but her ingrained sense of propriety won out and she went in search of the youngest Walker against her better judgment.

Jo was back in the empty dining room, just barely visible thanks to the light from the streetlamp outside that filtered through the windows. She was sitting in the sill, arms wrapped tight around
herself, one leg drawn up and crossed over the other. In profile, her face looked even smaller and more delicate, fairy-like almost, her eyes luminous half-disks bright with the streetlight. She was lost somewhere in her head – maybe in 2003 in a photo booth with her older brother’s best friend. Maybe some other moment. The grim, downward twist of her mouth reminded Delta of Tam, and left her almost curious enough about what had happened to the two of them to actually
care
.

“We’re heading out,” she said finally, and thought Jo gave the slightest twitch of surprise that she tried to hide.
“Merry Christmas, Jo.”

“Hmm. Merry Christmas,” she said to the window without turning.

It was a shame things hadn’t worked out between her and Tam – they were both miserable and rude enough to deserve each other.

**

Both of Mike’s parents hugged her, but the gestures felt empty. There was an undercurrent of stress in every moment that hung between her and Mike’s mother and she couldn’t explain it or shift the tide of it. Beth was either intimidated or embarrassed or overly protective of her son, and Delta hadn’t the skills to deal with any of the three.

When the front door closed behind them, the cold caress of December air against her face was wonderful. It was crisp and crystalline and blessedly free of uneasy small talk. Delta released a deep breath that felt like it caved her ribs in together and led the way down the sidewalk to the Beemer.

Mike didn’t speak until he’d opened her door and handed her down into the passenger seat. He braced a hand along the roof of the car and gave her a look through the darkness that was full of apology, the streetlight touching the lines on his face. “I don’t think they mean to be like that,” he said, which surprised her. She’d expected an outright tirade about his family. “They’re just…” he twitched a frown. “I dunno. They’re weird about new people coming into the family, I guess.”

“You haven’t ever brought a girl home, have you?” she guessed, and was rewarded with a chuckle.

“No.”

Somehow, that felt good. Good like the way the night was giving her goose bumps. Good like the way tension was fading and being replaced by the kind of internal warmth she’d wanted for this night.

“It’s cold out.” She pulled her legs up into the car. “Let’s go home.”

He closed the door so he could walk around and s
he realized, as her breath fogged a patch of window glass, that she didn’t know where
home
would lead him. She didn’t really care.