Page 45 of Sweet Ruin

The door swings shut.

The party dwindles back down to a hum.

I stand in the dark with the whiskey bottle by my foot and my cup up on the shelf, waiting for the show to begin.

As I do, I say her name, just to see what it does in my mouth.

“Delilah.”

Oh, that tastes good.

“De-li-lah. Delilah.”

Yes. Sweet. Demure. Pure. Perfect.

I pick up my cup and take a sip.

I’m going to enjoy this.

9

DELILAH

I come tumbling out of the pantry like somebody shoved me.

I promptly run right into Connor’s chest.

He steadies me with a hand on the elbow and frowns down. “Dee, there you are! In… the pantry? What the heck were you doing in there?”

“I needed, uh…” I cast around for something to explain why I was crouching among the cereal and spare toilet paper. All at once, the sense memory of the green-eyed stranger’s whiskey-tinged breath floods me. “Some liquid courage,” I finish. “I’m a little nervous about doing the slideshow.”

“Oh.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not a big deal at all. Just some dumb pictures. Who cares?”

“Right,” I say, face heating. “Yeah, right. You’re right, of course.”

“Then let’s get it over with,” he says, firmly dragging me along with him.

Vivian meets us at the entrance to the living room. “Thank God!” she cries. “Are we doing this or not? I’ve been standing around waiting for a freaking century. Some of us have plans after, you know.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I got… It doesn’t matter. Yeah, let’s get started.”

I look past her to see my mom. Like the others, she rolls her eyes. “It’s about time. Weren’t you the one who wanted to do this sooner rather than later? You’ve got us all waiting on you now, Delilah, dear.”

I start to apologize again, then realize all of a sudden that I never want to say the word “sorry” to these people ever again. Instead, I say, “Put the kids in the den, Mom. All of them, and shut the door.”

She does a double-take at my tone. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me.”

Her mouth falls open. She’s not even mad; she’s just so confused at hearing this voice come out of me that she’s completely unprepared for how to respond. “I— Well, I— They’ll want to see the pictures.”

“I’m sure they’d prefer the television.” I glance past her. “Uncle Bub, can you take them?”

With a shrug, Uncle Bub lumbers out of his seat, calls to the horde of kids, and they all go tailing off after him into the den. My mother is left flabbergasted, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Everyone!” I call out. “Find a seat! The slideshow is about to begin.”

My laptop is where I left it on the side table, cabled into my father’s projector. I crack open the lid and turn everything on. Then I grab the remote clicker, stride to the front of the room, and take my place next to the projector screen.