Page 11 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Excellent deduction skills.”

“At least she didn’t deck you.” He rubs my back. “What lie did you use when explaining why you left?”

I stiffen. Right. That. “I maybe panicked and said some things I shouldn’t have?”

He yanks me up by my chin. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know.” I nudge his hand away. “It all just rushed out—WITSEC, the cartel—but she doesn’t know my new name or where I live. There’s zero connection to our new identities, not that she believed me anyway.” Our unbelievable life story only happens on sets like Ozark or The Godfather: Part Forty-Three, with directors yelling Cut, try again, get it right this time.

I’d like to try again. Have a second take. Say something less bullshit sounding and ease Delilah into the truth of my past ten years, but that fucker Life didn’t install a rewind button.

“If it helps,” I say, “you were right. I definitely made her feel worse. She even lied to me about her loser fiancé. Said he was a great guy.”

Lennon skewers me with a dark look, then plants his elbows on his knees. “First of all, I’m pissed you told her about WITSEC. Rookie move. You know better. The odds of it biting us in the ass are slim, but God help me if any of us gets hurt. Second . . .” He scrubs his hand down his face. “If she lied to you about her fiancé, she did it because seeing you likely brought back a lot of intense feelings. She was just protecting herself.”

I perk up on my seat.

Delilah didn’t just lie to me once. She said she was engaged to a great guy (lie number one, according to that flight), then she repeated the really great (lie number two), then she said he treats her like a queen. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s a triple-axel, spinning-through-the-air-with-a-leotard-riding-up-your-butt lie. Triple-axel lies only happen when someone is desperately trying to control a situation and their emotions. As WITSEC pupils, Lennon and I are well acquainted with that tactic.

Delilah lied to my face the way I lie to the people I meet. Self-defense. Protection mode. The critical need to keep my truths hidden. Her lies could equate to unresolved feelings where I’m concerned, a hint of affection hovering under all the hurt. There was at least one moment where she looked downright thrilled to see me, however brief.

Lennon massages his temples. “My nerves are fried. Meet me at the next gate. I need to mainline a gallon of green tea.”

He trudges off, but I don’t move. I keep trying to capture Delilah’s image, memorize it to replay later, wondering if she really might harbor feelings for me.

Before I can reel in my hope, I’m reliving Best Day Number Two, meeting Delilah at the edge of her driveway, both of us sixteen, officially a couple, the fall wind kicking up dust and leaves.

She bounded toward me that day, at her usual speed of head-on. Grabbed me and hugged me, practically knocking me to the ground. “Good morning,” she said, fitting her arms beneath my backpack.

I draped my arms over her bulky pack and kissed her softly, because kissing was a thing with us by then. “Morning.”

She hummed against me, because humming was a thing with her. “I missed you.”

“We talked all night.”

“But not yet this morning. I always miss you in the mornings.”

I missed Delilah always, even when I was with her. It was the strangest feeling I couldn’t put into words. I imagined it was how astronauts felt, surrounded by everything—limitless infinity and beauty—unable to touch the universe. Delilah was all the stars in the galaxy, so big and bright I could never quite hold all of her. Couldn’t fill my lungs all the way when she was near. “We should fix that,” I said. “Tell your folks you’re sleeping at Maggie’s. Let’s sleep outside and wake up together.”

“It’s fall, E.” She stepped on a dead leaf, crunched it under her boot, punctuating her point. “We’ll freeze.”

“You don’t trust me to keep you warm?”

She bit her lip and bounced her knee, then gave me her secret smile, the one that said dare you. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Pumped, I grabbed her hand, gave it a kiss, and walked us toward the bus.

“Did you finish your history paper?” she asked.

“Does drawing doodles in the margins count?”

“You don’t draw doodles. You draw jaw-dropping creatures that should hang in galleries.”

“Not according to my family.”

She squeezed my hand. “Your brothers are a bunch of jealous jocks, and all parents cringe when their kids want to pursue art. All that worry about stable futures. I bet Stan Lee’s parents told him to quit drawing and get a real job. Your artwork is that good.”

“Stan Lee didn’t draw his comics,” I said, dodging her compliment. Most people didn’t consider comics art. Most people thought what I did was a silly hobby. Except Delilah.