Delilah's Tears

Chapter Nine

Delilah

"You look...good." Meghan sips her martini and furrows her brow.

"You sound surprised. Do I usually look like crap?"

"Honestly? The last few months? Yeah."

"Gee thanks." I scowl at my best friend, but in all honesty, it's the truth. Still, I hate actually hearing it.

"Of course you didn't look like your normal self, Del. You lost your husband. That would mess with anyone." She takes another thoughtful sip, lifting the index finger off her glass and pointing it more or less in my direction. "This is different. You've gained back a bit of weight, and there's actual color to your complexion that didn't come from the cosmetic counter. You've like you've gotten more sleep, too, haven't you?"

"I have. Yesterday James and I went out for lunch after our boxing session and..."

"Wait. What? Boxing? You? And John's brother? This I gotta hear." Meghan leans forward, arms crossed on the sticky table-top, eyes wide with amused interest, mouth slightly agape.

"It's nothing, really." I don't want to make a big deal out of anything having to do with James, because Meghan will run with it. "He's been a real sweetheart. It's his brother, and he's torn up about it as much as I am. We're leaning on each other and getting through it."

"Uh-huh. Boxing. Spit it out."

Meghan's not going to let this go. "I was missing John big time. I threw my shoe. Dented the dresser. James decided I needed to get my anger out, and dragged me to the gym and taught me a few boxing moves. I hurt like hell afterward. End of story."

Meghan busts out laughing. "Isn't he some sort of Goliath? I'd have paid good money to see cute little five-foot-nothing Delilah whaling on a gym bag. How'd you feel after? Did it work?" She gulps down a big sip, making me cringe.

"Slow down, Meghan. I'll be pouring you out of here at this pace." She grins, throws up a hand and signals the bartender for two more glasses of jet fuel. I've barely drunk half of mine. "I have to say, smacking a bag helped purge some of the rage I had brewing. It was awkward as hell, though."

"How come? Did James embarrass you?"

"Not at all. He was terrific and patient. It was all the other muscle heads who were gawking." My phone beeps. I read the message and type a quick reply.

"You do realize you're blushing, don't you?"

"Uh, no. Why would I be blushing?" My face is on fire.

"Who was it and what did he say?" My phone dings once more, and the heat returns. "There it is again."

"It was James. He was asking where I am. He thought I'd be home from work, because he drove by the shop and it was dark. Said he was worried."

"And...?"

"And, I told him I was with you at the bar across the street from the condo." The bartender sets down our second round of martinis, and I'm suddenly glad I'm within walking distance, because driving after drinks with Meghan is impossible, and always results in an Lyft ride or taxi. I push away my empty cocktail glass—how did that happen?—and slide the fresh drink toward me. Maybe I should switch to water instead. A sip convinces me the cocktail is the way to go. This isn't going to turn out well. It never does.

"Hey, haven't I seen you at the gym? With that big guy?" Startled, I glance up and recognize one of the gawkers. He's tall, built, and fairly good-looking. Meghan concurs, if the drool on her lip is any indication.

"Yeah, probably."

He sticks out a hand, and offers the grin guys use when they're confident they're about to score a pick-up. "Ben Dougherty. You looked great out there."