Delilah Green Doesn't Care

This is what I want,” Delilah said. “My whole life, this is what I’ve wanted. A best friend. Someone who gets me, who accepts me. Someone who fights like hell to get me to see that they love me. Someone who lets me love them back. Someone who’s so goddamn beautiful, she makes my toes curl. Someone who calls me on my bullshit. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who makes me look at her like this and looks at me the same way. Someone who . . . who’s my home.

And Delilah had gotten through life by putting herself first, only concentrating herself with what she knew was true, because she’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t control anyone but herself. She couldn’t change anyone’s mind, couldn’t make someone love her who had no interest in doing so, and couldn’t keep someone from leaving her if that’s what they wanted to do.

It occurred to Delilah that this was probably the longest she'd ever really looked at her stepsister. She'd spent years perfecting the art of avoidance, of protection, of never letting Astrid see how much Delilah was hurting. If eyes were the window into the soul, Delilah's had long been shuttered.

Okay, I’ll give you that Wuthering Heights is the least romantic book in the history of Victorian romances, but Jane Eyre?” “Is that the one where the douchebag hid his wife away in the attic and then lied about it to the girl he wanted to bang who was, like, half his age?” Claire winced. “Well, when you put it like that.

That's a lot of feels,” Iris said. “And you know how I hate those,” Astrid said, replying without humor

Tattoos vined down her bare arms. God, Claire loved a good tattooed arm.

Delilah Green didn’t care. Because they’d never once cared about her.

If eyes were the window into the soul, Delilah’s had long been shuttered.

And what was more, Delilah didn’t want this to be only that, just kisses and coming. She wanted . . . this. Roller skating and amazing sex and this peaceful sort of talking and not talking, cuddling and questions and a place to belong. A person to belong to.

Did she actually want a sister and Delilah simply didn’t know how to be one? How to be anything to anyone as a little girl who’d just lost the only person who’d ever made her feel wanted?

Ruby saw the world in a way that felt familiar to Delilah, an artist’s point of view, and it could be a lonely way to move through life. Ruby wasn’t alone, of course. She had myriad people who cared about her, so she and Delilah were different in that way. But in other ways, with this little birdbath and what it might symbolize, they were alike.

But then she moved her arms around Ruby, pressed her cheek to the top of her hair. She exhaled what felt like a decade’s worth of anxiety, and accepted the girl’s love.

Iris lifted her glass. “To shitty men and the women who put them in their goddamn place.

No one could ever accuse Delilah of feeling affection for her stepsister, but she felt even less for assholes who so obviously wielded their dicks like swords.

My whole life, this is what I've wanted. A best friend. Someone who gets me, who accepts me. Someone who fights like hell to get me to see that they love me. Someone who lets me love them back. Someone who's so godddamn beautiful, she makes my toes curl. Someone who calls me on my bullshit. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who makes me look at her like this and looks at me the same way. Someone who... who's my home. (pg 365-364)

One strap of her tank top had slid a little down her shoulder, and Delilah fought the urge to put it back in place-or slide it down even farther.

A place to belong; a person to belong to.

She didn’t scream or yell. She never had in all the time Delilah had known her, but Christ, that woman could spit out an invective like no one else, her tone always measured and cold, which, honestly, made everything worse.

which just reminded her how desperate she was to be something, someone in this world. Someone who mattered and who people remembered, who people wondered about and sought out, even if they were just strangers chasing the emotions her photographs evoked.

It was fascinating to see this bold, brash woman look like a deer wandering in the woods. Claire wasn’t sure what it was all about, but she really wanted to know, which was exactly why she swallowed her questions with a too-big gulp of alcohol.

It’s always a risk,” Claire said, “talking to another woman in a bar. Not that I do this all that often.” “A risk?” Claire nodded. “You could be straight as an arrow.” Delilah laughed but gave nothing away. “And you’re not?” “Oh.” And the blush was back. “No, not at all.

You showed up for family, even if you got paid for it and gritted your teeth the entire time.

I’m putting you first, Claire. In case you couldn’t tell, that’s what’s happening here.

She wanted the Delilah hanging up there on the wall to be the real Delilah. Strong and resilient. Battered by the world and circumstances beyond her control, sure, but instead of resentful and angry, that woman was calm. Peaceful. Serene. Grateful. She belonged somewhere, despite years and years of emotional displacement. She’d found something. She’d been found by someone.

Aunt Iris finally punched you, huh?” she said. “I’m glad to see my work is noted and appreciated,” Iris said.

And it was from these images, Claire, beautiful and in pain in the river, that Delilah got the idea for a series that would define her style, her whole career. Queer women, turmoil, and water.

And for the first time since her father died, Delilah hadn’t felt alone in Wisteria House.

Claire pretty much ran River Wild Books now, the store her grandmother had started back in the 1960s, and was trying her best to bring it into this century. Her mom let her do what she wanted, but what she wanted-putting in a café, hanging local art on the walls, getting some e-commerce going— took money, and lots of it. So far, she’d managed to brighten up the shelves and walls, setting up a little reading area with soft leather couches in the middle of the store, but that was it. Still, it was a start.

Claire, Iris, Ruby, the wedding and the money she'd be paid for it, even the show at the Whitney, which just reminded her how desperate she was to be something, someone in this world. Someone who mattered and who people remembered, who people wondered about and sought out, even if they were just strangers chasing the emotions her photographs evoked. (277)