author's note: I own nothing you recognize, and some of the things you don't. I've taken an eight year hiatus because, well, life happened. I decided to pick this story up later in Adam and Delilah's lives, because I honestly can't think like a high schooler anymore, no matter how hard I try—I've gotten too old now L Hope you don't hate it!
Playlist:
Flaws- Bastille
Clementine- Sarah Jaffe
Vienna – Billy Joel
Midnight City – M83
"So, after a month and a half in this city, you'd think I'd be used to bike couriers, but obviously not," he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders and a gesture to his cast. Up close, Dee could see some faded bruising and road rash on his left cheekbone, presumably where he'd hit the ground.
"You are so lucky that you aren't more injured, or dead!" Dee took a sip of her martini and studied the scribbles on the cast, obviously drawn by a child, which they had not yet discussed. "So, when did this happen?" Adam chuckled, raising his eyebrows as he leaned back against the pale pine booth they sat in. The lights were dim and as he backed away, his facial injuries faded from view.
"Interestingly enough, about thirty minutes after our run-in on the street last week, on my way back to the hospital after lunch. I was running to get back to an appointment because I'd stayed out a little too long, and BAM!" he lightly slapped the table with his good hand for emphasis. "Which is why I hadn't gotten in touch with you sooner." Dee felt a little better now. Sure, initially she'd been appalled that her ex-fiancé so conveniently showed up in her personal space—in her new life, so far away from the one they'd shared together—but then, as the days passed with no text, no call, disappointment set in. Why? Did she want to show him how successful she was without him? How happy she was? In terms of running into an ex, theirs had been pretty perfect: they both looked great, nobody was sick, nobody was fat, and nobody was drunk; why did she want to re-open that door to awkwardness and embarrassment? Still, curiosity got the better of her and when his text finally popped onto her phone, she couldn't help but say yes. Well, she could. She did. She waited twenty four hours before she even called Marianne to let her know he'd asked to meet up, and then another two before responding. And here they were, finishing up their first drink in a bar near her loft that he'd selected. He had to have found this place on Yelp or something; it was actually the perfect place to meet- quiet, with a secluded booth and reasonably-priced-for-New-York cocktails.
"Isn't the only hospital near where we met a children's hospital?" Dee asked before draining the last of her martini. That was it. She wasn't going to order another one. One martini was enough—she was not going to get drunk with an ex. She would not be that cliché! Adam took a sip of his beer and smiled again, taking a second to swallow and think before speaking.
"Yeah. Actually, believe it or not, I specialized in pediatric orthopedics." He laughed as a look of shock quickly passed over Dee's face. "I got to my internship in Cambridge and realized I really didn't want to be a cardiologist. Those guys are such jerks, and after years of being taken care of by an ortho as a kid playing hockey, it seemed like a logical path." He drained the last of his beer before speaking again. When he did, he raised his cast arm off the table and leaned forward. "See, I always sign my patients' casts after I put them on, so when they came in to see me in a cast, of course they asked if they could sign mine. How can you say no to that?" They both laughed, and Dee felt relief sweep over her— maybe he was still single and childless then. She wasn't sure she could handle him being married with kids quite yet. "What about you? What are you doing at a marketing agency with an M.A. in art history?" The cocktail waitress arrived before Dee could answer, and Adam ordered them another round of drinks without giving her a chance to protest. Two martinis would be fine, but only two.
"I didn't actually get an M.A. in art history; I got an M.B.A. with a focus in marketing and public policy." Now was Adam's time to look shocked. "I took a semester of classes and realized I wasn't really happy with the Art History program, so I put in a lot of elbow grease to get transferred to the business school and made up my lost semester over the summer while doing an internship." Their drinks arrived and they both thanked the cocktail waitress before a moment of silence as the sipped their drinks. "I'm actually doing marketing work for nonprofits, like museums and performing arts centers, so I didn't totally leave that world behind." She took a breath and then a drink before the next question—the one she wanted to ask but didn't want to know the answer to. "So, are you seeing anyone?" She tried to look cheerful, but her smile might have looked like a grimace.
"Subtle," he laughed, leaning forward on his unbroken elbow. "No, I'm not. Medical school isn't really good for the old social life, and I feel like I'm still getting my bearings here." He looked down at his drink, then back up at her, his forehead wrinkling ever so slightly, his eyes sparkling in the light of the small candles on the table. "Your turn."
Even in the dim lights of the bar booth, Adam could see that Delilah's cheeks were flushed pink from the red wine she'd switched two after the second martini. It was well after midnight, and she was definitely more drunk than he was – she'd matched him drink for drink, but he had around a foot of height and sixty pounds of muscle on her, and he'd been drinking beer, while she'd started with martinis and moved on to cabernet sauvignon. It was amazing how a few cocktails could transport you like a time machine, from perfect strangers almost to familiar lovers. She looked so beautiful. Where did this woman come from, this powerhouse who oozed confidence?
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked, focusing intently on the wine she swirled in her glass, careful not to glance up at him. "I mean, I was awful to you. Why are you being nice to me now?" She looked up at him now, her green eyes searching his face for an explanation. Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing that the conversation hadn't come back to the break up.
"Delilah, losing Guy was hard on all of-"
"Losing Guy wasn't why we broke up, and it certainly wasn't why we called off the wedding." She sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. "We have to stop blaming Guy for us not working out. I treated you terribly. I blamed you for things you could never be responsible for." She looked back down at the wine, swirling it still. "I projected my own insecurities on you, and you were nothing but a perfect gentleman." A new blush settled in on her cheeks: one caused by shame, not alcohol. Adam reached across the table to grab her hand with his good one. They hadn't touched in six years, apart from when they ran into each other on the street a few days before. He pressed a thumb into her palm, gently running his fingers across the back of her hand.
"Deli- sorry, Dee. I care about you. I've never stopped caring about you. You were a huge part of my life and I can't just write that off because of words spoken in anger and plans broken." Delilah pulled back her hand and placed it in her lap, then quickly swallowed the gulp of wine she'd been swirling in her glass.
"Adam, we were so very young. We didn't know what we wanted from life, or even what we wanted to be when we grew up."
"I know. I think you did the right thing by calling it off. For both of us." Delilah broke eye contact with him, now nibbling absentmindedly on a fingernail as she studied the wood grain in the table. Old habits die hard. "It's late. I think I should walk you home."
Dee staggered slightly as they left the bar, but as the wall of heat hit her as the stepped outside, she began to sober. Why had she agreed to let him walk her home? She only lived a few blocks away and this part of the city was perfectly safe—she walked it all the time by herself. He kept trying to rest his hand at the small of her back like some sort of southern gentleman, the way he had when they were together. She didn't need steadying; she just needed to get home. They walked in silence until they approached her building, and then it became obvious that he was intent on seeing her to her actual apartment door, gentleman that he always was. Adam followed closely behind her on the three story walk, and then stopped, hands crossed behind him when they reached her door. "Thanks for agreeing to meet up with me." He smiled that same old beautiful smile and Dee could have sworn his eyes twinkled. The last six years had been really good to him.
"Thanks for the walk home. That was really sweet of you and really unnecessary." She leaned in to hug him goodbye, but quickly recoiled, the scent of hockey pads and unwashed gym clothes hitting her nose. "Adam, your hair smells awful." He blushed, backed away from the hug and sighed, and she instantly regretted making the statement.
"It's just that I can't wash it right now." He looked utterly helpless, like a kicked puppy. "I can shower okay—a bar of soap is easy to manage one handed, but I just can't figure out how to wash my hair with my casted arm hanging out of the shower, and I don't have a roommate to help me." Dee smiled a small smile and pushed open the door to her loft. "Come on." What the hell am I doing? She motioned him inside. "I'll wash it for you. Go in the bathroom and take off your shirt." What the hell am I doing?
Adam walked into the bathroom as instructed and struggled his way out of his shirt, unbuttoning each button with one hand. He'd rolled up the sleeves on both arms, and to get the sleeve over his cast, he had to unroll the sleeve and struggle a bit to pull it over the heavy plaster. After a slight cardio aerobic activity of wrestling his shirt off, he leaned his good arm on the sink and sized himself up in Delilah's bathroom mirror. What the hell are you doing? Was he crazy? Should he have even agreed to this nonsense? What did he think was going to happen? Washing his hair seemed like a thinly veiled way to get him up into her loft, and she was after all, a little drunk. Adam ran a hand through his hair and then smelled it. Regardless if it was a ploy or not, his hair really did need to be washed. The situation, however, still felt too intimate for two former lovers who hadn't seen each other in half a decade.
"Turn on the faucet to a temperature you like and sit down in front of the tub," Delilah called from around the corner, it sounded like, most likely in the part of the loft her bed occupied.
"Roger that," her replied, using his good hand to crank the faucet to a nice warm temperature. He used the closed toilet to lower himself to the floor, then leaned back against the cold porcelain, his head resting on the edge of the bathtub. What the hell are you doing, dude? He closed his eyes, listening to the rushing water and the soft padding of Delilah's footsteps as she flitted around her apartment. When the footsteps stopped, he opened his eyes. She stood before him in a black bikini, towel over her arm and what looked like a beer pitcher in her hands.
"Alright, let's get that hair washed," she said with a smile, sounding much more sober than she had on the walk home. Delilah knelt beside him, handing him the towel and placing the beer pitcher under the faucet.
"You're a little underdressed," he choked, his voice cracking a bit more than he would have liked.
"I don't want my clothes to get wet. A swimsuit made sense," she said matter-of-factly as she placed her hand on his forehead and poured the pitcher of water over his hair. The freckles on her shoulders, like brown sugar sprinkled on cream, stood out in stark contrast with the black triangles and straps of fabric on her upper half. Adam closed his eyes, feeling a slight stirring in his groin. Play it cool, dude. That's not what this is about. He could hear her opening a bottle and squeezing something into her hand. The scent of rosemary and mint filled the bathroom as she began to massage the shampoo into part of his hair.
"Um, Adam, this is kind of difficult. I can't do this from one side," she said. Adam felt her shift, and then a long leg stretched across his lap and the next thing he knew, she was straddling him, massaging the shampoo into his hair. "Sorry, is this okay?" she asked, fingertips scratching his scalp. Adam didn't open his eyes and merely grunted an "uh-huh." A moment later he felt warm water rush over his scalp.
"Okay, great, thanks!" he said, opening his eyes and pushing up from the tub with his good arm, but he quickly felt hands on his shoulders pushing him back down.
"Nope," Delilah said, grinning at him as she squeezed another tube into his hands, still straddling him. "You've got long enough hair now that you need to condition it."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously. It's a thing people do." Her hands were back at his scalp, massaging the creamy liquid in to his hair. Adam felt his cheeks flush. "You'll thank me later—your hair will be so soft and shiny." He closed his eyes again, his head thudding slightly against the tub edge as he relaxed. This felt old again. It felt like home. This was getting dangerous. A minute later, the warm water washed over his scalp again and he opened his eyes; her breasts were hanging over his face as she turned the faucet off. She grabbed for the towel and wrapped it around his head to dry his hair, scrubbing against his scalp with the white terrycloth. As she did, her breasts bounced as she scrubbed, and without thinking, he placed his good hand on her waist and placed a kiss on her chest square between the two black triangles of fabric. Delilah dropped the towel and sat back on her heels, still straddling him, a quizzical look on her face. Adam lightly ran his hand down her waist to her hip, fingers toying with the black bow of her bikini bottoms tied there. A moment of silence passed and he would have given anything to know what was on her mind in that moment. He could feel his heart beating in his ears. Had he done the wrong thing by acting on instinct?
Delilah placed a hand on either side of his head, running her fingers through his damp hair; her thumbs rested on his cheekbones, rubbing softly at the skin there. She bit her lip, that perfect little freckle staring him in the face as she looked him over, studying as if trying to decide just what to do with him. After a moments more hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed him, her body resting against his. Her lips were hungry and after a few moments of tentative probing, they fell quickly into a rhythm they both new all too well but hadn't practiced in quite some time. Reaching behind her with his good hand, he tugged at the strings that held her top in place and the garment quickly cascaded off of her. Surprising even himself, he held her with his casted arm, pushed away from the bathtub, and stood, her thin, pale legs wrapped around his waist. On instinct, he navigated to the only piece of furniture in the apartment he recognized, her bed and gently lay her upon it, tugging at the strings on either side of her swim bottoms so that the garment fell away, revealing her entire, beautiful body to him.
"Will you do me a favor?" she asked, separating their kiss by mere centimeters as she waited for his response.
"Anything," he breathed back to her, his heart pounding.
"Will you call me Delilah?"
