Page 5 of It's About Time
And somehow, I still feel likeI’mthe only thing in this room that’s actually destroyed.
The rest of the afternoon and night is a blur—people talking about me, right in front of me, but I’m fucking numb.
I don’t even remember how I got home.
But I do remember the next morning, when the last person I imagined would have sympathy for me was there in my house when I woke up. Dilynne Clark—Henley’s little sister and the biggest pain in my ass that has ever existed.
Chapter 2
Dilynne
Stepping Up and In
“Jesus Christ, Elliot. How many baked goods does one man need?” Huffing out a breath, my eyes scour the shelves filled with cookies, pastries, and a half-eaten tray of cake. I knew that Elliot had a sweet tooth, but not to this extent. It looks like he went around the bakery section of the grocery store and picked up one of each type of confection they had, then rummaged through them all like the Hungry Caterpillar.
I shut the cupboard to his pantry and then move to the fridge in search of actual food. I was supposed to be enjoying a filet mignon with garlic roasted mashed potatoes tonight, but since the wedding never happened, neither did my highly anticipated meal.
Elliot Thorne, one-fourth of my brother’s friend group, was left at the altar about three hours ago now, and I’m the lucky person that was put on babysitting duty after he drank almost an entire bottle of Jack Daniels, once he was done destroying the bridal suite at Hart Winery.
I won’t say this out loud, but part of me was relieved that Tori, his fiancée, walked out.
My position has nothing to do with any unrequited feelings for the groom, just so we’re clear.
No. It has everything to do with my intuition hinting that Tori was hiding something from all of us. Tori Michaels was a horrible human being when we were all in high school together years ago, and when Elliot brought her back into our friend group six months ago, I got the feeling she hadn’t changed much.
Turns out, my instincts were spot-on. Especially after I saw her kissing her boss and fleeing the winery with him, leaving Elliot caught off guard and turning to alcohol to process the life-altering event. What kind of person does that kind of thing?
I glance back down the hallway to Elliot’s room, debating if I should go check on him. Looking after someone who drank their body weight in whiskey isn’t one of my many talents, but it was the most logical way for me to assist our group tonight since everything blew up in a cluster fuck and my brother and his friends all scattered in the aftermath.
Now, I’m in Elliot Thorne’s house, wondering what the hell I was thinking agreeing to be his babysitter for the evening, especially since he has very little food in his kitchen besides baked goods.
Fletcher Adams—one of the guys—and Laney Hart, my best friend, bolted after the truth came out that they’ve been fucking in secret. But not before Elliot and Laney’s older brother, Rhonan, took it out on Fletcher’s face.
Rhonan had to be contained by his father so he wouldn’t try to fight Fletcher again, and then once he was composed, helped his dad and the crew at the winery disassemble the wedding décor before going home to his daughter.
Poor Ellis. She was so sad she didn’t get to throw flower petals down the aisle. She had been practicing being the flower girl for weeks.
And then my older brother, Henley, was so busy making sure caterers were paid and calming down Elliot’s parents that it only left one person to deal with the jilted groom—me.
“Tori?” Elliot’s groggy voice calls from down the hall.
“Shit,” I mutter, holding up the bottom of my black silk dress as I race down the hallway, finding Elliot sitting up in his bed.
“Dilynne?” He glances up at me, his thick, dark hair in disarray and his words slurred. “Wh—what are you doing here?”
“Elliot, you need to lie down.”
He moves to take off his shirt, pausing when he realizes he has to undo the buttons. Groaning, he falls back. “Where is Tori? Wh—where is my fiancée?”
I move toward him, lifting his legs onto the bed so he can slide back into a horizontal position. “She’s not here, Elliot.”
“Fuck!” he shouts, pushing my arms away. “Get off of me!”
“Elliot…”
“She left! She fucking left…” His muffled words die off as his eyes close and he passes out once more.
Sighing, I leave the room again. When I make it back to the open concept living area and kitchen, I stand there, my hands on my hips, surveying Elliot’s home while I consider my next move.
