Delia picked at the raw sores of her conscience. . . Drunk or sober, Delia lived in the small town in her heart, ignoring the world in which all her love had turned to grief.
Delia was an overbearing cake with condescending frosting, and frankly, I was on a diet.
I knew her well enough to understand that when Delia pushed you away, it was her way of making sure she didn't get shoved first.
I laughed, loud enough that Delia looked up at me. She made motions for me to come over, but I pretended to be looking past her into the food tent. "Hurry. Pretend you're pointing something out so I can pretend not to see her. " Luke put a hand on my shoulder and pointed with the other towards the sky. "Look, the moon. " "That was the best you could come up with?" I demanded.