Page 25 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“You okay?” I rasped.

She nodded. “Deeper.”

I settled my forearms on either side of her head, making sure I had control. Don’t lose it and pound into her. I pushed in another bit. She let out a taut moan, lifted her hips, a small move that had fire licking at my spine.

Don’t you fucking lose it.

“More, E. Deeper. I want all of you.”

She had more than all of me. She had the atoms that made up my bones and marrow, the veins that carried my pumping blood, the misfiring synapses fuzzing up my brain—all of me was hers. I eased in farther, couldn’t believe how good she felt. This was a full-body buzz from my tense feet to my tingling scalp. Then she grabbed my ass and forced me flush.

She gasped.

I damn near shot my load. “I hurt you. Did I hurt you?”

“Just . . .” She swallowed, adjusted her hips. “It hurts a bit, but it’s getting better. Start moving.”

She didn’t have to ask me twice. My hips were already pulling out, easing forward. Small moves that wouldn’t shatter my barely-hanging-on composure. On my next retreat, I leaned down to kiss her, needing her lips, her breath, her tongue, even that messy clack of our teeth. Our tongues twirled in our usual rhythm, the easy slide perfected over the past two years, and I pushed into her harder, erasing all the space between us.

No matter how many times I replay this part of our night, it’s hazy. A blurred tangle of groping hands and grinding hips and heat and love and those blue-blue eyes locked on me as she whispered, “I love you, E,” a tear slipping down her face.

I was so full of everything I didn’t know how to separate the hot grip of her body, the hard clench of my heart, the intensity of wanting the moment to last forever. She came first. Thank God she came first, and I wasn’t far after, crushing her with my weight as my body shook and my vision blurred.

“Wow,” I said into her hair afterward.

“Definitely wow. I wasn’t expecting to get off our first time.”

“Guess I’m a sex savant.”

She laughed, the shaking of her abdomen forcing me from her body. “I got off because it’s us, E. Because we’re good together.”

I dealt with the condom best I could, regretted not bringing a towel. There was blood on the blanket. Just a bit, but I wished I had a damp cloth to clean Delilah, take care of her beautiful body the way she deserved. I lay back down. “Pillow Talk” still crooned around us. I tucked Delilah against me, fed her a lemon macaron, laughing when she licked the crumbs off my chest.

We only used the one condom for one round of the Sex, and I didn’t care. As far as I knew, we had a lifetime of sex and stripteases and crumb licking ahead of us.

If I’d known my kiss good night to her would be my last, I might not have called her Mars on her front porch. Or Uranus when she pinched my side. I might have told her again how much I loved her and that she was my albatross. If I’d known I’d get home to strange men and women in my house and my brothers forcing me into a van while I fought and yelled and told them I couldn’t leave Delilah, tears spilling down my face, my throat raw from screaming, I’d never have promised her I’d see her the next day at the chicken coop.

NINE

As per usual, memories have a habit of eviscerating my vital organs. My pencil is hovering over my sketch of Delilah the albatross, trembling with the beauty and pain of our last night together. My heart’s beating so fast I have to remind myself that my and Delilah’s story isn’t over. I’m out of WITSEC. She’s lying about being engaged for a reason. We’re at the crossroads of a new beginning, not hurtling toward another viciously painful end.

But when I glance up from my sketchbook, I have the overwhelming sense that everyone in Sugar and Sips is staring daggers at me.

For example, Mrs. Santos, who used to work at the town variety store and would slip an extra pepperoni stick into my grocery bag, is standing a foot from my table, staring at me like I slashed her tires. I don’t know the tween sprawled on the yellow armchair, but he’s sending me an award-winning stink eye. The little kid with the braids who’s holding her mother’s hand? She’s sharpened her tiny eyes into mini bayonets.

Some might call me paranoid, but I know dagger eyes when I see them, and I know Windfall. The rumor mill has churned all night and morning. Word of my resurrection and not-so-triumphant return has spread. Assuming Delilah heeded my plea and didn’t share my story, as far as anyone in this town knows, my family left out of boredom, and I returned for shits and giggles.

Delilah finally makes an appearance, puttering through her shop, smiling extra wide at everyone who isn’t me, stopping to talk to patrons, saying things like “How’s Emilia’s sprained ankle?” and “I’m so jealous you’re reading Next Year in Havana for the first time.”

She pretends like I’m not in the shop, dipping and diving around the daggers flying my way, but I catch her glancing at me several times. The second she knows she’s caught, her eyes dart away.

Needing a distraction, I resume my sketching, but my skin prickles with awareness. When I look up again, she’s wiping a nearby table while watching me. Instead of ducking her head this time, her attention lingers. Long enough for my heart to skip a beat. I swear I see softness around all that Sonic blue. Compassion. Like she maybe googled the cartel killings and knows I’m not lying. Then she’s bustling, clearing tables, smiling extra wide at everyone else, as though I don’t exist. I sigh into my coffee cup.

The front door chimes, announcing another patron. Mrs. Jackson, who used to lead Mom’s quilting group, enters and scans the shop. She’s a tall Black woman with a plentiful stomach. When she finds me, she approaches with clipped steps. “Where in God’s name has your family been for the past ten years?”

On instinct, I clasp my hands on my lap, like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Mrs. Jackson has one of those voices that demand attention. “It’s complicated,” I say, my stellar planned reply.

“That nonsense doesn’t fly with me. You vanished into thin air, not a word to anyone. Left that poor girl to—” She flattens her lips, gathers her purse close to her body. “I called your mother, but her number was disconnected. I even went onto social media when I don’t do social media. I held our quilting sessions every week and listened to everyone’s shock and worry, and still not a word from any of you. We thought you were dead, for heaven’s sake. So, I’ll ask again, where in God’s name has your family been?”