Page 13 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Not toss oranges at me.”

He sighs. “At least put on different clothes. I can’t invite people over with you like this.”

“Your only friends are our brothers, and those idiots don’t care if my sweatpants are ratty.”

“If I did have friends,” Lennon says, “I wouldn’t be able to bring them here. And honestly, I’m getting Shower Incident vibes from you. You have to quit shutting me out.”

I grit my teeth, annoyed he brought up the Shower.

That fun time was courtesy of social media and Delilah’s sudden return to Facebook. After her initial pleas to find me, she went radio silent for two years. Two freaking years of me obsessing over what she was doing, terrified she was as devastated as me. I only found two pictures of her during that time. Not on her timeline. They were posts from her friends, tagging her. Parties somewhere, with her in the shot.

Then, on one of my weekly searches, there she was. Smiling with her best friend, Maggie Edelstein. Sunlight captured in a moment. They held up ghost-shaped cookies in their hands, Windfall’s Halloween decorations splashed over the town square. Her eyes were crinkled—Sonic the Hedgehog blue, bright with happiness—and I let out the saddest sigh of sighs.

But there was a second picture. A horrifying photograph that had me seeing spots. Delilah was smiling again, this time with Andrew Chan, their arms slung around each other. My lungs backfired. My heart shriveled to the size of a dehydrated pea.

No one’s arm belonged around Delilah Moon but mine.

I wound up huddled in the shower afterward, utterly destroyed, emotion ripping through me so forcefully I choked.

So yeah. It wasn’t a fun time, and I don’t want to revisit those dark days.

Determined to do better, I pop off the couch. “You’re right. Let’s get out. Do that hike you need to check out for your program.”

He claps. “Now you’re talking. We can grab snacks at Baker’s on the way.”

“Solid call. I haven’t had their—”

Aggressive pounding comes from our front door.

We trade wary looks. “You expecting someone?” I ask.

He shakes his head. The next pounds are louder, followed by a stern “Open up!”

That deep voice is definitely our oldest brother, Jake. The last time he smashed his fist into our door was when we thought the cartel had tracked Mom through an online purchase of the rare Corkscrew Albuca plants she loves.

Lennon points at me. “You did this.”

“I did what?”

“The cartel fucking knows,” he whisper-hisses. “They found us because you just had to speak to Delilah. Jesus Christ, we’re all gonna die.”

“I hear you dipshits in there,” Jake says. “Open up the door.”

“Just a sec!” I holler, scanning our beige walls and open kitchen area, wondering if the cartel bugged the space. To Lennon, I say, “Don’t tell Jake it was me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely telling him. I warned you this would happen. It’s your funeral, figuratively and literally.”

“You’re my least favorite brother.”

Fuming, he marches past me and yanks open the door. Jake is there, big and brawny as always, but he’s not his usual stoic self. He’s smiling so wide I actually see his teeth.

“Did you win the lottery?” I ask.

“In a manner of speaking.” He steps inside and passes his hand over his mouth. “Victor Becerra is dead. Whole cartel was wiped out.”

“I’m sorry.” Lennon is stone still, all but his pumping chest. “It sounded like you said the Becerra cartel was wiped out.”

“Obliterated.” Jake shakes his head and lets out an incredulous laugh. “The Quintero family went on a rampage at a Becerra wedding. A feud over a recent killing. There’s no one left to come after us. We’re in the clear.”