God, she was taking forever.
“I need a drink,” Delilah said, shooting up from the bed and removing the complimentary bottle of sauvignon blanc she’d found in their room at Blue Lily last night from her bag. She nearly cried in relief when she saw it was a twist cap. Filling one of the paper cups stacked up by the mini Keurig to the brim, she gulped the first three swallows, shuddering as it hit her bloodstream.
Then she paced and drank some more until she saw Astrid land on a photo of herself and Spencer at the Wisteria House dinner.
It was a good photo. Black and white, Spencer’s arm around her shoulder while they sat side by side at the table. The light was soft and lovely, the glow of candles and fairy lights curling around the couple like a blanket. The saturation needed some adjusting, the contrast, but other than that, it was the perfect candid.
Except for one thing.
The bride.
Delilah stepped up behind Astrid, peering closer at the screen. Spencer was laughing, his smile broad and bright, eyes twinkling on someone in front of him. His fingers curled around Astrid’s shoulders—some might say protectively, but Delilah wouldn’t. Possessively was the right word here, and it seemed like Astrid felt it. Her body in the photograph was rigid. Not so much as to draw attention during the actual event, but looking at the image now, frozen in time, she did anything but radiate warmth and happiness. Her smile was there, but it was plastic, didn’t reach her eyes at all. Delilah had even managed to capture the subtle way her fingertips bled white, ever so slightly, on her wineglass.
God, she was good.
Still, Delilah felt anything but pride as Astrid continued to stare at the image. She felt a sinking in her stomach. A sick, heavy thud. She tried to shake it off—after all, Astrid’s misery had always been her delight. And this clear horror Astrid was experiencing over seeing herself as a Stepford Wife in black and white would probably make Iris and Claire happy.
But even as Delilah thought it, wondered why the hell she even cared if Claire was happy or not, she also knew it wasn’t true. Claire wouldn’t be happy. She’d be heartbroken for her friend. Iris might gloat a little, revel in being right—god, Iris and Delilah really could’ve been friends in a different world—but she would’ve eventually settled down and supported Astrid no matter what, come up with a plan of action.
But Delilah wasn’t Iris, and she sure as hell wasn’t Claire.
“Astrid,” she said, just to shake the woman out of her stupor.
Her stepsister startled, clearing her throat before skipping to the next photo. “These are beautiful.”
Delilah blinked at the compliment. “Okay . . .” she said slowly.
“I really love the details. Like this one.” She pointed to the photo on the screen, a sharpened image of Isabel that brought out every wrinkle the Botox just couldn’t seem to reach.
Delilah snorted a laugh, and Astrid looked over her shoulder, a grin on her own face. They watched each other for a split second, something passing between them that made Delilah’s breath catch. Something that felt young and almost hopeful.
Astrid turned back around and clicked to the next photo.
One of Claire.
Just Claire, the night of the Wisteria dinner. Evergreens crowded behind her, and the sun obscured part of her body, her face shadowed, but there was no doubt it was a lovely photograph.
There was also no doubt that she was looking right at the viewer. Delilah remembered taking the picture, Claire turning her head a split second before Delilah hit the shutter, a smile on her face at catching the wedding photographer in the act.
A smile that most definitely reached her eyes.
“This one is . . .” Astrid started, but then cleared her throat again. Then she scooted her chair back so fast, she nearly ran over Delilah’s toes. She stood up and dug her phone out of her bag and checked the screen. “I should go.”
“Oh, did Spencer summon you?”
As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Instead of rolling her eyes or volleying a sharp comment back at Delilah in their perpetual barb match like Delilah expected, Astrid looked down, like she was embarrassed, and said nothing. Her throat worked around a hard swallow as she motioned toward the photo of Claire still on the screen.
“You should put that one on your Instagram,” she said. “People would really love it.”
“My . . . wait, you know about my Instagram?”
Astrid’s mouth twitched, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, tentative. “How do you think I knew I would love your wedding photos?”