She wanted Claire.
She even wanted Iris.
Without thinking, she let muscle memory take over. Her feet moved her to the right and took her up the vast staircase, hand sliding along the oak bannister like it had done so many times before. Upstairs, she stopped in the doorway to her old room, but there was nothing for her to remember there. All of her things were gone, shipped to New York a month after she’d left Bright Falls at eighteen, when it was clear to Isabel she wasn’t coming back. Her old space was a guest room now, white linens with gray-blue piping, bland paintings of rivers and waterfalls on the wall, sheer white curtains framing the window.
She moved on to the next room. The second she opened the door, she felt like she was walking into a museum of her past. Astrid’s cavernous room looked exactly the same as it had when they were teens. All of Astrid’s favorite books were still on the shelves, her duvet the same delicate lavender and yellow swirls, her white-wood vanity still sporting that Cinderella jewelry box she’d gotten when she was eight, the one Delilah secretly coveted but could never figure out how to ask for.
The only thing different was the few plastic tubs on the floor filled with various childhood items, notebooks and old school folders, award ribbons and medals from all of Astrid’s accomplishments, movie ticket stubs and yellowing programs from the Portland ballet, stuff that had been sitting in Astrid’s closet, forgotten, since she went to college.
Delilah stepped farther in the room and sat on the bed. Growing up, she hadn’t spent a ton of hours in here. She and Astrid were never those kinds of sisters, of course. Still, there were times when she’d darkened the doorway and Astrid had waved her inside to borrow a book or watch a movie on the little TV that sat on Astrid’s dresser, particularly when Isabel was hosting one of her parties and they were both dressed in ruffles and lace, tired of putting on a show and ready to simply be young girls again.
Long-suppressed memories curled through her, fuzzy as though she was waking up from a dream. She peered inside one of the tubs, which was filled with leather-bound books. Astrid’s journals. Her stepsister was always scribbling in these books growing up. Delilah never asked what she wrote, but she was sure if she opened them up right now, she’d see an entry for every single day of Astrid’s life. Delilah wondered if she still kept a journal, what she’d write for today, tomorrow.
She lifted the top book from the tub. It was dark brown leather, embossed with flowers and vines twining over the cover. Flipping it open, Astrid had written her name on the first page—Astrid Isabella Parker—along with the relevant dates, the first of which placed the start of this journal about three months after Delilah’s father died when the girls were ten years old.
Delilah fanned the pages through her fingers, the paper crinkling from age and disuse. Astrid’s neat scrawl, always in dark blue ink, blurred through her vision. She had no intention of reading the journal. This was Astrid’s, filled with her private thoughts, and even Delilah Green wouldn’t cross that line. But then, as the letters rolled by, her eyes snagged on a certain word.
Delilah
Her thumb caught in the middle, and she opened the book on her lap, flipping a few pages and scanning for her name again.
It was everywhere.
Not on every page, but on a lot of them. She blinked down at the writing, knowing she should close the book and walk out of the room right now, but something kept her there. Something childish and curious, a little girl looking for something to ease this knot in her chest.
Or, maybe, to pull the knot even tighter.
She swallowed, took a breath, and started reading on a page where her name appeared several times.
September 25th
I went to Delilah’s room tonight, thinking maybe she’d want to do our homework together or watch TV, but when I knocked on her door, she didn’t answer. And then, when I peeked inside, she was just lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, which seems pretty boring to me, but then she’s always staring at stuff. I guess I don’t blame her. She’s sad. I know she is, just like Mom is and I am too. I don’t know how to help anyone though. When I asked her if she wanted to watch a movie, she just rolled over on her bed and faced the window. She doesn’t want my help.
October 3rd
The leaves are starting to change and it’s my favorite time of year. I wanted Delilah to come to Gentry’s pumpkin farm with Claire and Iris and me today, but I never got the chance to ask her. When Claire and Iris got here, Delilah had been in the living room watching TV, but as soon as the doorbell rang, she disappeared. She wasn’t in her room when I went looking for her. Iris says she’s a little weird, which I guess is true. I don’t know what to say about her to my friends, so I don’t say much of anything. It’s kind of embarrassing that my stepsister doesn’t seem to really like me at all. She doesn’t like Mom either, though I guess Mom’s not the easiest person to like. Even when Andrew was alive, Delilah was pretty quiet, but she wasn’t like this. I don’t know what to do.