My Heart for Yours

8. Delia

Delia

Weston. Here. In Crawford. With my dad—the guy who was too busy to come. It's so like Weston to swoop in and rescue the girl when she's down. I should be thrilled, but I don't know what I am. The confusion from my whole day seems to be surrounding everything I do.

My heart's pounding, and I hate that Tobin saw Weston here, but I shouldn't. That's why I was so horrible at the end of us. We went from not knowing how to talk, to me unleashing every fear, hurt and frustration I had. My heart broke as I did it. I knew everything would be easier if Tobin hated me...until I saw him again. I wish I still wanted him to hate me now, because if he didn't before, the hard look on his face when I got out, solidified that how I'd hurt him was all still there.

What Tobin doesn't know is I feel the same way—hurt, angry. I've just learned to be a lot better at pretending.

We probably would have survived my family's move. I know he loved me. I know he would've waited for me until we came back from D.C., but there was a lot more to overcome than miles. And that's the part he bailed on.

Weston and Dad are pulling suitcases out of the trunk of his car, and I'm standing in the roadway, watching each piece of luggage hit the driveway, wondering how long exactly they plan on staying here.

Weston with his neatly trimmed brown hair, and perfectly shaved face, and tidy clothes—even Tobin all dressed up has something rough around the edges. And it may have been the bit of slouch that attracted me to Weston, but that wouldn't be noticed by anyone in Crawford. Weston here is all polish and rich perfection.

As Dad and Weston joke about something in the driveway, all I can think about is what it was like to say goodbye to Tobin. It happened where they're standing.

~ ~ ~

Dad sat in the driver's seat waiting. It was one of those horrible early hours of the morning that no one should be awake.

Tobin's grasp on my hip tightened and he pulled me in close as he whispered, "Don't worry, Delia. I'll make this okay."

I believed him. Tobin always made things okay, he'd just been busy, distant. We weren't over, we'd just been under a lot of pressure. I knew as I thought those things that they were excuses. He was wimping out. Leaving me. But the longer he held me, almost desperate, the more I wanted to believe that we were still okay.

I imagined feeling those strong arms wrapped around me almost daily when we first got to D.C. Wishing

Tobin was there to hold me up. Wishing we could just go back to before things got so out of control, when we felt like things were still fixable.

But it was the thing he wouldn't talk about. The thing that I can't bring myself to think about. That's what kept us from trying after I moved. Maybe me leaving town was a relief for both of us.

Neither Tobin nor I knew how to deal with something so much bigger than us, but I'd wanted him to know. I'd wanted him to take care of me, to tell me what to do, and he didn't. I was dealing with too much, and the move to D.C., the move away from home, and I needed him. The harder I held him, the more I more I could feel myself breaking. His lips pressed to mine, and he backed away.

"Bye, Delia," he whispered, and let Mom lead me to the car.

I knew I wasn't good enough for Tobin—he was letting me go.

I'm actually still amazed Dad let him come say goodbye, but I paid for that one later, too.

The shocking realization hit me as I climbed in the car. Tobin hadn't known what to do with our situation, and he hadn't known what to do with me.