Hey There, Delilah... (19 page)

Weekends usually fly by, but this one is dragging on forever. After Charlie finally left Thursday night, I crawled back into bed, letting myself mope some more.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  Well, I do, but that’s not what I mean.  I was with Ryan for what felt like a lifetime, but it took me less than a week to get over his betrayal.  But, now, with Nick, I
don’t know what my problem is. I have only known him for a few months, and we never even really dated, but his betrayal feels so much worse. 

Last night might have been rock bottom for me. Saturday night. Our night. 
I got all dolled up. Did my hair and make-up, and even slipped into some new red lace lingerie I bought during my shopping spree a few weeks ago.  I was going to go to Club M to see Nick, er, Nico.  Oh, let’s face it, I was going there to spy on him. I thought that if I could just see him interacting with another woman - flirting, dancing, and bringing her up to his VIP room - then maybe I would get completely disgusted by him, and work him out of my system.  However, Charlie called last minute and said she couldn’t go, and there was no way I could be a secret agent without my lead detective, so I chickened out.  Nothing new with that story.  

So I kept to my usual routine of ice cream and TV, but I changed it up from the rocky road and reality shows. A step in the right direction, I told myself.  Mint chocolate chip and Lifetime movies. 
Okay, maybe it was a step, but not so much the right direction.  I cried through
Steel Magnolias
, especially during the deaths – shocker! - and threw my spoon at
the TV during
Notting Hill
,  when Julia Roberts’ character talks shit about Hugh Grant.  What a bitch!  I need to get out of this house and get a life. How can I let a man affect me like this?

So, now Sunday is finally here.
I wake up at the crack of dawn with a spring in my step. New day. New week.  And tomorrow I interview for a new job.  No more pity party for me.

I spend the next few hours cleaning my apartment becau
se I really let it go over the past week.  I eat a nutritious breakfast, also something I have not done in a week, and make a plan for my day.  I shower, pop in my contacts, dress in a brand spanking new outfit that makes me feel good, blow out my hair, and put on some mascara and lip gloss. All this before 8:00 am!  New day. New week. New me.  Sayonara, frump girl!

I sit down at my kitchen counter to make a
food-shopping list.  Something I have been completely remiss about.  That will at least ensure my eating habits improve.  I pick up the phone to call Charlie, wanting her to come over later to help me pick out my interview outfit again, but realize it is way too early.  I gather my cell phone, keys, and purse, then head to the door for my food shopping adventure.  Just as I approach the door, I hear a knock.

I stare at the door for a minute wondering who the heck would be knocking on my door before 9:00 am on a Sunday morning.  I look down at my cell to see if I missed a call, but nothing.  Who would it be?  Charlie is without a doubt still sleeping.  My dad went to visit his brother in Florida for a few weeks to try to escape his reality. Carmella?  No, she would definitely call first.   My attention is brought back to focus when there is a second knock. 

“Coming!” I yell to the unknown visitor.  “Keep your pants on,” I grumble under my breath.

I unlock the
two locks, and unlatch the deadbolt, but I leave the chain hooked.  I open the door about four inches, which is all the chain allows, and peek out.  I breathe in sharply, gasping in shock!  Nick. He is rubbing his hand roughly against his jaw, but is as beautiful as ever, nonetheless.   I stare wordless for a few seconds, and realize he looks… tired.  Like he has not slept in a week.
Ha! Welcome to my world
.  I am stunned to see him, and secretly pleased that he looks like he is miserable.  I spend about two point five seconds feeling bad for him, then my anger returns and rears its ugly head.  I straighten my back and look him dead in the eye, remembering how awesome I look this morning.

“What do
you
want? “ I snarl.

“Hey there, Delilah…”  He sighs with a shy smile. 

“What? Don’t ‘Hey there, Delilah’ me. Go home, Nick,” I say resolutely.

“Oh
, come on, don’t be like that,” he gripes.

“Seriously.
I am on my way out. I don’t have time for your bullshit, Nick,” I say rudely, trying to get him to take the hint and go away.  I keep repeating his name to remind myself what he did.  It helps to keep me strong.  I will not allow him to walk all over me again.

“Please, LaLa. Let me in,” he implores, but his using my nickname like that just reignites my fury.

“Are you fucking kidding me?  Don’t you dare think pulling out my nickname will lessen the damage you’ve done,” I hiss.

“I’m sorry
, you’re right. Please, Delilah.  I don’t want your neighbors hearing our business.  Let me in, please,” he nags.

He is probably right, but I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.  “Fine, but not because you want me to.  I
’ll let you in, but only to spare my neighbors from your ridiculous drivel so early on a Sunday morning,” I say.  

“I’ll take what I can get, D
oll,” he replies, and for a brief moment, the butterflies are in my stomach.  I used to love it when Nico called me “Doll.”
Asshole!
  He knows what he is doing.

I take a
step back and close the door. I take a deep breath, and do a quick hair, teeth, and face check in the hall mirror, before I unchain the door. 
Thank God, I look damn good today!
  I open it slowly, and extend my arm, giving him permission to enter. I try to keep my expression completely impassive, even though my head wants to punch him in the face, and my heart wants to jump on him and kiss him to death.

He walks past me and takes a seat on my couch. The couch. The one that he kissed me on the last time he was in my apartment. Just after my mother died.  Shit!  Don’t go there.  No tears, no tears, no tears. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, I yell at myself.  He looks over at me and I know he can tell
that I am struggling. I walk toward him and he pats the seat next to him on the couch, but I continue to walk past him. Just as I get a few feet past, I hear him inhale.  Men are so easy. Never underestimate the power of a good smelling lotion.

I
take a seat in my favorite leopard print wingback chair, perpendicular to the couch, to his right - my power chair.   He looks at me through squinted eyes, clearly deciding on what to say. He has to know by now that I am two sheets shy of losing it.

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I am at a loss for words.  That really never happens to me. I make a living out of being able to talk people in and out of doing things. Yet, I have no idea what to say to Delilah.  I am out of my depth, out of my league, and way out of my comfort zone.  I have never chased a woman, never thought twice about her feelings, and certainly never showed up at her apartment, ready to beg for forgiveness.  But, here I am, ready to do all three. I never thought a woman like this existed. She is the perfect woman, inside and out.  My woman.  My Delilah.

“Why are you looking at me like that? I ask, treading lightly.

“Like what? How am I looking at you?” she asks, not backing down.  I know she is pissed as hell at me, but I am finding her
obstinence
sexy as shit.

“Come on, Delilah.  It’s just you and me here.  Stop this.”

Well, that certainly was the wrong thing to say.  Delilah suddenly shot out of her chair and approached me like a tiger going in for the kill.

With her left hand on her hip, and her right pointer finger i
nches from my face, she laid into me.  “Are you seriously this self involved, that you can’t see that what you did was an utter betrayal?  That once you knew for a fact who I was, you continued to use that knowledge to extract information that wasn’t yours to hear?”

She berates me for a few more minutes, and I just sit here in stunned silence.  On one hand, I am pro
ud of her for standing up to me - completely turned on, even; on the other hand, I realize now that I am in a lot deeper shit than I originally thought.

This is why I don’t do relationships. They are so much goddamned work!  If this were any other woman, my ass would have been out that door a long time ago. What am I saying?  If this were any other woman, I would have never come here.  And I most definitely would not be here to apologize. Make up sex? Maybe. Apologize? Fuck no!

She sits back down in her wingback chair in a huff.  I take a moment to formulate my thoughts, knowing I may only get one shot at this.  I scrub my hand across my overgrown beard and take a deep breath.  I grab my balls, as Calvin so instructed, and turn to face her.  Devastation.  I am looking in the eyes of pure, unadulterated desolation.  And I caused it.  As much as I want to think that she should have known, that she could have figured it out before me, to place the blame on her, I know it’s time to take responsibility for my actions. I fucked up. The question is, how do I fix it?

I scoot to the end of the couch closest to her chair and lean toward her.  I need
to gain her trust back somehow.  She meets my eyes, and my heart twists.  Her beautiful hazel eyes are glossy, tears ready to fall.  It was so much easier when she was just my secretary.  This is exactly why I never let it get personal in the past.

“Please don’t cry, Delilah. It hurts my heart,” I say honestly.  Maybe if I show my vulnerability to her, I can break through her anger.

“You took advantage of my affection for Nico, and manipulated me into telling you my most personal thoughts and feelings,” she says softly and breaks eye contact.

I move in closer
and move my hands toward her face slowly, so as not to startle her. I hold her face under her chin and force her to look at me.  “I know. You’re right. I was the biggest asshole. You will never know how truly sorry I am.”

“Sorry for what? That you got caught?
” she asks, not so subtly pointing me in the direction I need to go.

“
Of course, not.  I am sorry that I hurt you, Doll. You have become so important to me. I would never intentionally hurt you,” I reassure her.  “You must know by now, through all of our texts, and all of the things that I shared with you - physically and emotionally - that I care deeply about you.”

“
My heart wants to believe you, Nick.  But my head.  Man, it doesn’t stop,” she admits, placing one hand over her heart, the other squeezing the bridge of her nose.   I take this as some kind of progress. Obviously, she still has feelings for me, or her heart wouldn’t be open to the idea of forgiveness.

“
This could easily have just been a one night stand.   But that night, that glorious night.  What we shared.  I had to have more of you.  You have to know. To understand that ...” I trail off, lost in thought.  I don’t think I am getting my point across clearly.

“What does that mean, Nick? What are you trying to say?” she asks, understandably confused, as I am completely baffled myself.  I am at a total loss having never been in this situation before, and I don’t think I
’m doing a very good job digging myself out of the hole that I created. 

I grab her hands, pull them to my lips, and kiss them
softly. I look into her tear stained, hypnotizing, hazel eyes, and see that my time – and her patience - is running out. So I lay it all out on the table.  “Delilah, everything I have said to you this morning has been straight from my heart, no bull shit.  I am not used to this. Not used to begging for forgiveness, or admitting my faults.  And clearly, I suck at it.  But please, Doll, I need you to know that everything that we did together, all of the time that we shared together, and all the personal sh.. – stuff – we discussed, that was all me. All Nick.  And it was all real.”  I start rubbing my jaw, completely anxious and uncomfortable with what I just divulged.

She stares at me for a few seconds, and I give her that time to soak in my guts that I just spilled to her.  I know she is angry with me, but
I pray that at least some of that got through to her.  She removes her hands from mine, stands up, and just as I am about to give up hope, she moves to the couch, taking a seat next to me.

She cocks her head t
o the side and just looks at me, obviously still processing our conversation.   What is she thinking?  I need to know my fate.  “What is it exactly that you want from me, Nick?” she asks suspiciously.
Hell yeah, I am in!
 

“Can you give me a chance to make it up to you? To prove that you can trust me again?
” I beg.  Yes, this is me, Nick Santino - high powered, always in control, non-committing, (former) ladies’ man - now officially begging for a woman’s attention. 

“
And how do you plan to do that?” she asks apprehensively.

“Maybe we can start over? I know I can regain
your trust if you just give me a chance.  I’ve learned my lesson…I promise!” I bolster.

“And what exactly are we starting over, Nick?  Spell it out. I don’t want any more miscommunication going on between us,” she states firmly, but I know I am wearing her down.  Her body seems to have relaxed some, and her face has softened.

“I think we should start dating,” I say as a matter of fact. 

She chuckles and I can’t help but smile.  Best sound
that I have heard all week. 
Damn, I’ve missed that!
 

“For real?  Like
date date? Like go out in public, dinner and movie, stroll in the park dating? Not secret Club Masquerade Saturday night meetings?” 

“
Well, we can do that, too.” I say with a smirk.  “But in all seriousness, yes, Delilah. I want us to ‘date date.’  Like dinner and movie, long drives to the beach, strolling
hand-in-hand
in the park,
catching a show on Broadway, hanging with each other’s friends kind of dating.”

“
You want me to meet your friends?”

I am thoroughly puzzled by her question because all of my exes, including ones I didn’t even date regularly, expected to meet my friends. But I never wanted that, so I never did.  Now with Delilah, I want
to show her off, and she questions it?

“Of course! 
That’s what couples do while they are dating.  I have already met Charlie, and you have met Calvin. We can all hang out together.  Or I can introduce you to some of my other buddies. Wouldn’t you want that?” I ask, bewildered.

“I don’t know,” she answers softly and looks away. She pulls on her shirt
, trying to stretch it out, and looks uncomfortable all of a sudden.

I once again reach for her chin and angle her face so
that she has to meet my eyes. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’?   That’s an odd response. What’s the matter?  Don’t clam up on me now, Doll.  And stop looking away from me.  I hate when you hide your gorgeous eyes.”

“Look at me, Nick!” she shouts.  “I may look put together right now, but today happens to be an exception to my usual.  You know that I rarely have my hair done, I almost never wear make-up
, and live in my glasses.  And most days, you will find me in a baggy Grateful Dead t-shirt and jeans or yoga pants.  And my work clothes don’t fit me properly, either.  I mean, I went shopping with Charlie and bought a butt load off new stuff, but still…” she rambles.

“Still what?  Now it’s your turn to say what you mean. No miscommunication, remember?” I
say unruffled, reminding her of what she demanded of me earlier.

“Your friends? They are never going to believe
that we are dating.  They are never going to believe that you are interested in someone like me. I’ve seen what you go for, remember?  I am so not that! Are you prepared to accept me for all this?” She stands and waves her hand dismissively in front of her whole body. Then sits again but looks past me, defeat in her eyes.

At first I think she is taking a dig at my friends, or maybe me even.  That we are superficial and judgmental.  But then it dawns on
me.  She has got to be kidding!  Her self-deprecation once again ignites my anger, but I try my damnedest to stay calm.

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