Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I'd forgotten how much I like talking to Delaney – how easy it is, how quickly I fall into the rhythm of her voice like no time has passed at all.
We trade pieces of the years we missed, filling in the gaps without forcing it. She tells me about school – and degrees, plural – and the sharp edges of city life compared to South Grove. About her first day at NYU, when her heel got caught in a sewer grate and Nico yanked her out of the way just before a cab blew through the intersection. The shoes were expensive, a gift from her parents, and she nearly died trying to save them
"Nico was my knight in a Louis Vuitton blazer," she says, rolling her eyes at herself.
"Of course he was."
From then on, she tells me, she rarely went anywhere without him.
Lucky bastard.
She moves on to her internship in Manhattan, the long hours, the pressure, the kind of environment where you either keep up or get left behind. When it's my turn, I keep it surface level – three years in the farm system before getting called up – nothing more than facts, nothing that invites questions.
Though I have a feeling she gets it, because she doesn't push for more.
Then she tells me about the article her boss offered her – the same day everything fell apart. Nico thought she was out of her mind for turning it down, and I did too, right up until she mentioned walking in on Will and his assistant in their bed.
After that, she says she couldn't think straight, let alone write something that mattered.
"If I can't give one hundred percent," she tells me, "I don't want it."
And I get it. More than I probably.
"So, I have to say this," she starts, turning toward me. "I'm sorry about your dad."
I pause, lifting my beer to my mouth to buy myself a second. "Who told you?"
"My dad." Her expression softens. "Grey... I'm really sorry. I wish there was something I could do."
"There's not," I say, a little more quickly than I mean to, then ease back. "But thanks. It's just... hard. Watching him like that." The truth sits there for a second before I add, quieter, "He's been in remission for a while. We're hoping it stays that way."
Her hand settles over mine, warm and steady, her thumb pressing lightly against my skin.
"He's going to be okay," she tells me. "I believe that."
I don't know if I do, but I nod anyway.
The conversation shifts after that, not forced, just natural, like we both feel the weight of it and chose to set it down for a while. We fall back into easier territory, laughing about how naïve we used to be, how our ten-year reunion is somehow coming up like it didn't take a decade to get here.
