He Swore He Hated Seafood, So Why Did His Lips Taste Like Oysters? - Chapter 100: Chapter 100
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When I woke up, I was lying in the hotel bed.
Madison sat beside me, eyes swollen like peaches.
"How could you handle something this huge all by yourself?" Madison's eyes were red, voice choked. "You completely wore yourself out!"
She gripped my hand tightly, tears falling on my skin: "Ryan's such a piece of SHIT, acting all perfect on the surface while doing disgusting crap behind your back!"
I weakly forced a smile: "I only found out a couple days ago..."
Suddenly there was commotion outside, Ryan's voice carrying through: "Let me in! Del, please hear me out..."
"What's going on?" I tried to sit up.
Madison held me down: "Ignore that asshole! Your guy friends are keeping him out." She tucked the blanket around me. "Don't worry, we won't let him bother you."
My phone suddenly vibrated with a new message:
[Flight to Denver booked for tomorrow 10:20 AM.
There's a great little bar in Aspen—go decompress a bit.]
Him again.
Lucas Reed, a client from my last project.
I couldn't help but laugh: "Is Mr. Reed some kind of ticket scalper? How do you get everything?"
"Way more connections than any scalper."
I transferred him the money without refusing.
I really did need time—alone—to think things through.
The noise outside gradually faded as our friends apparently dragged Ryan away.
I forced myself to pack, but ran into Ryan's mom at the stairwell.
"Del..." She grabbed my suitcase handle, hesitating. "Five years... you can't just throw it all away..."
I stopped, hearing her continue: "Ryan made a mistake, but he swore to us he never actually DID anything with that girl. He knows he screwed up..."
Ryan's mom suddenly lowered her voice: "A girl like you with no mother, and your dad doesn't even call—you're almost 30. If you leave Ryan, in the future..."
His mom had always been good to me, but now I was genuinely pissed.
I yanked my suitcase away from her.
"Ma'am," I stepped back, anger clear in my voice, "my mother may be gone, but she taught me to have some damn dignity. I'd rather die alone than crawl back to your son!"
His mom's face went white as I walked into the elevator without looking back.
The Colorado sunshine was more blinding than I'd expected.
I dragged my suitcase down Aspen's cobblestone streets, earbuds playing that song from the concert on repeat.
Street vendors calling out, tourists laughing—everything felt like it was behind frosted glass, blurry and distant.
Following Lucas's directions, I found the bar tucked deep in an alley.
When I pushed open the door, wind chimes tinkled softly, and the guy behind the bar looked up.
"You got here earlier than I thought." Lucas set down the glass he was polishing, lips quirking up.
I stood frozen: "How are you..."
"My place." He shrugged. "The plane ticket was just a suggestion—didn't think you'd actually come."
The bar played lazy jazz. I sat in a corner watching Lucas expertly mix drinks. He didn't ask questions, just slid me a cocktail.
"Try it. It's supposed to help you forget your troubles."
I took a sip—sweet and sour with a bitter aftertaste, just like those five years.
"Lucas," I swirled the glass, "you knew, didn't you?"
His polishing slowed: "After our last project ended, I saw Ryan with that girl." He looked directly at me. "But it wasn't my place to tell you."
Outside, the sunset painted the bar golden.
Lucas suddenly said: "Delilah, I'm not here to take advantage."
I smiled: "I know."
"But I do like you." His voice was quiet. "From the moment we met."
I stared at the liquid moving in my glass and was completely honest.
"Lucas, I can't get over him yet..."
"I know." He cut me off. "I just wanted you to know someone's waiting for you."
"Need a tour guide?"
I set down my glass: "Thanks for the drink. But I want to finish this trip alone."
He nodded without saying more.
The next morning, I headed out alone with my backpack.
The cobblestones were wet with morning dew as I found the bus to the lake following my map.
Sitting by the window, watching the mountains emerge and fade in the morning mist, I felt some of that tightness in my chest finally ease.
Every morning I woke to sunshine, sitting on my inn's deck watching the lake shimmer.
Sometimes I'd sit there all day, watching clouds roll by, thinking about nothing.
On my last day, I rented a bike and rode along the lakeside road.
Wind whipped through my hair, sun warming my face—I hadn't felt this free in forever and couldn't help laughing out loud.
Passing a small dock, I saw an elderly couple taking photos.
The elderly gentleman fumbled with his camera while his wife laughed and fixed her silver hair that the wind had messed up.
The night before my flight back to New York, I went to Lucas's bar again.
When I pushed open the door, he was singing folk songs with his guitar.
Seeing me, he stopped strumming.
"Leaving tomorrow?"
"Yeah, morning flight."
He set down his guitar and mixed me a drink: "This one's called 'Fresh Start'—on the house."
I took the glass and sat at the bar. There weren't many people, and we chatted casually about Aspen.
As I was leaving, Lucas suddenly said:
"Delilah, I'm not Ryan."
I stood in the doorway, wind chimes softly ringing overhead: "I know."
"So..."
"Don't wait for me."
As the plane took off, I watched the mountains shrink outside my window and thought about Lucas.
He was a good guy.
But healing from pain doesn't necessarily require new love.
Madison sat beside me, eyes swollen like peaches.
"How could you handle something this huge all by yourself?" Madison's eyes were red, voice choked. "You completely wore yourself out!"
She gripped my hand tightly, tears falling on my skin: "Ryan's such a piece of SHIT, acting all perfect on the surface while doing disgusting crap behind your back!"
I weakly forced a smile: "I only found out a couple days ago..."
Suddenly there was commotion outside, Ryan's voice carrying through: "Let me in! Del, please hear me out..."
"What's going on?" I tried to sit up.
Madison held me down: "Ignore that asshole! Your guy friends are keeping him out." She tucked the blanket around me. "Don't worry, we won't let him bother you."
My phone suddenly vibrated with a new message:
[Flight to Denver booked for tomorrow 10:20 AM.
There's a great little bar in Aspen—go decompress a bit.]
Him again.
Lucas Reed, a client from my last project.
I couldn't help but laugh: "Is Mr. Reed some kind of ticket scalper? How do you get everything?"
"Way more connections than any scalper."
I transferred him the money without refusing.
I really did need time—alone—to think things through.
The noise outside gradually faded as our friends apparently dragged Ryan away.
I forced myself to pack, but ran into Ryan's mom at the stairwell.
"Del..." She grabbed my suitcase handle, hesitating. "Five years... you can't just throw it all away..."
I stopped, hearing her continue: "Ryan made a mistake, but he swore to us he never actually DID anything with that girl. He knows he screwed up..."
Ryan's mom suddenly lowered her voice: "A girl like you with no mother, and your dad doesn't even call—you're almost 30. If you leave Ryan, in the future..."
His mom had always been good to me, but now I was genuinely pissed.
I yanked my suitcase away from her.
"Ma'am," I stepped back, anger clear in my voice, "my mother may be gone, but she taught me to have some damn dignity. I'd rather die alone than crawl back to your son!"
His mom's face went white as I walked into the elevator without looking back.
The Colorado sunshine was more blinding than I'd expected.
I dragged my suitcase down Aspen's cobblestone streets, earbuds playing that song from the concert on repeat.
Street vendors calling out, tourists laughing—everything felt like it was behind frosted glass, blurry and distant.
Following Lucas's directions, I found the bar tucked deep in an alley.
When I pushed open the door, wind chimes tinkled softly, and the guy behind the bar looked up.
"You got here earlier than I thought." Lucas set down the glass he was polishing, lips quirking up.
I stood frozen: "How are you..."
"My place." He shrugged. "The plane ticket was just a suggestion—didn't think you'd actually come."
The bar played lazy jazz. I sat in a corner watching Lucas expertly mix drinks. He didn't ask questions, just slid me a cocktail.
"Try it. It's supposed to help you forget your troubles."
I took a sip—sweet and sour with a bitter aftertaste, just like those five years.
"Lucas," I swirled the glass, "you knew, didn't you?"
His polishing slowed: "After our last project ended, I saw Ryan with that girl." He looked directly at me. "But it wasn't my place to tell you."
Outside, the sunset painted the bar golden.
Lucas suddenly said: "Delilah, I'm not here to take advantage."
I smiled: "I know."
"But I do like you." His voice was quiet. "From the moment we met."
I stared at the liquid moving in my glass and was completely honest.
"Lucas, I can't get over him yet..."
"I know." He cut me off. "I just wanted you to know someone's waiting for you."
"Need a tour guide?"
I set down my glass: "Thanks for the drink. But I want to finish this trip alone."
He nodded without saying more.
The next morning, I headed out alone with my backpack.
The cobblestones were wet with morning dew as I found the bus to the lake following my map.
Sitting by the window, watching the mountains emerge and fade in the morning mist, I felt some of that tightness in my chest finally ease.
Every morning I woke to sunshine, sitting on my inn's deck watching the lake shimmer.
Sometimes I'd sit there all day, watching clouds roll by, thinking about nothing.
On my last day, I rented a bike and rode along the lakeside road.
Wind whipped through my hair, sun warming my face—I hadn't felt this free in forever and couldn't help laughing out loud.
Passing a small dock, I saw an elderly couple taking photos.
The elderly gentleman fumbled with his camera while his wife laughed and fixed her silver hair that the wind had messed up.
The night before my flight back to New York, I went to Lucas's bar again.
When I pushed open the door, he was singing folk songs with his guitar.
Seeing me, he stopped strumming.
"Leaving tomorrow?"
"Yeah, morning flight."
He set down his guitar and mixed me a drink: "This one's called 'Fresh Start'—on the house."
I took the glass and sat at the bar. There weren't many people, and we chatted casually about Aspen.
As I was leaving, Lucas suddenly said:
"Delilah, I'm not Ryan."
I stood in the doorway, wind chimes softly ringing overhead: "I know."
"So..."
"Don't wait for me."
As the plane took off, I watched the mountains shrink outside my window and thought about Lucas.
He was a good guy.
But healing from pain doesn't necessarily require new love.
End of He Swore He Hated Seafood, So Why Did His Lips Taste Like Oysters? Chapter 100. Continue reading Chapter 101 or return to He Swore He Hated Seafood, So Why Did His Lips Taste Like Oysters? book page.