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...
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I'd forgotten how much I love talking to Delaney – how much I love the sound of her voice. We talk about school, her degrees – plural – and the sharp edges of city life compared to South Grove. She tells me about her first day at NYU, when her heel caught in a sewer grate and Nico yanked her out of the way just before a cab barreled past. The shoes were expensive, a gift from her parents, and she nearly sacrificed herself trying to save them.
Nico was her knight in a Louis Vuitton blazer – her words – and from them on, she rarely went anywhere without him.
Lucky bastard.
He was her Knight in a Louis Vuitton blazer – her words – and now she rarely goes anywhere without him.
She tells me about her Manhattan internship, and I skim the surface of my minor league career, three years in the farm system before getting called up. She doesn't press for details, just lets me lead, knowing without asking that it's not something I like to dig into.
Then she tells me about the article her boss offered her—the same day she found out about the affair. Nico thought she was crazy to turn it down, and I did too, until she said she caught Will and his assistant in their bed. After that, she couldn't think straight, much less pour herself into the work. "If I can't give one hundred percent," she said, "I don't want it." And I knew exactly what she meant.
"So, there's something I've been wanting to say," she says, turning toward me. "I'm sorry about your dad."
I freeze, taking a long pull from my beer. "Who told you?"
"My dad. He told me everything." She smiles sadly. "Grey, I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could do."
"Thanks, Del. It's been hard, watching him fall apart piece by piece. But he's been in remission for a while. We're hoping it stays that way."
Her hand settles over mine, soft and warm. She squeezes. "He's going to be okay. I believe that."
The conversation drifts, effortless. We laugh about how naive we once were, how our ten-year reunion is somehow around the corner. Neither of us plan on going, but we can't believe how fast it's come. We tease each other over bad choices, nonexistent wrinkles, and supposed gray hairs. And as I sit there, I remember how easy this is with her—no agendas, no expectations. Just me, seen and accepted for who I am.
"Guys, I'm taking Hannah inside to clean her up before the fireworks," Jo calls.
"I be wight back, Aunt Waney. Don't weave," Hannah says as Jo carries her toward Delaney's house.
"Hurry up, banana. You don't want to miss the show," I say.
"I not a 'nana, Uncle Geyson." Over Jo's shoulder, she waves her little arms. "I a big gawl."
I chuckle, shaking my head as they disappear inside. When I glance back at Delaney, her gaze flicks between the darkening sky and her diamond-studded rose-gold watch.
