Page 311 of Playing With Fire

Delaney climbs off my lap and reaches for her coffee.

I stand, taking the quilt from her shoulders long enough to shake the snow off the corner. Then I drape it back around her. She slips her hand into mine. We walk toward the door together. For the first time, I don't feel like I'm sneaking around in a house that isn't mine.

Mrs. B knows. And she still wants me here.

Not because I'm Declan's best friend.

Not because I play hockey.

Not because I've spent years trying to be the kind of person the Becketts would be proud of.

Just because I'm me.

I squeeze Delaney's hand.

She squeezes back.

Then, right before we step into the kitchen, she lets go.

Not because she's embarrassed.

Not because she thinks I've changed my mind.

Because she knows I'm not ready to have this conversation with Declan in the middle of Christmas morning.

And she's giving me the chance to do it right.

I glance down at her.

She smiles. A small, knowing smile that says she understands.

Of course she does.

She's always understood me better than I understood myself.

“Hey,” I murmur.

She looks up.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being patient with me.”

Her expression softens. “Don't make me regret it.”

I lean down and kiss her forehead. “Not planning to.”

From the living room, Declan shouts, “Are you two coming or what?”

Delaney rolls her eyes. “Your best friend is obnoxious.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

We step inside.