Page 26 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

With no other option, I fall back on my second planned answer. “There was a family emergency I can’t talk about yet.”

“Yet you’re here, sitting in Delilah’s lovely shop, pretending like you never left. What part of you thinks this is okay?”

“I’m sorry you worried,” I say gently, unsure how to navigate this minefield. “My mom’s fine, though. Still sucks at quilting and misses all of you.”

Mrs. Jackson makes a grunting noise and blows out of the café.

I slump on my seat, rub my eyes. The bell chimes again. When I force my eyes open, Avett Lewis is looming over me, his jacked-up arms crossed. My former best friend has a trim beard now, his black hair not as dark as the spite in his eyes. He’s bigger than when we’d slingshot beer cans in the quarry and get wasted on vodka and deface stuffed animals. He’s Jake and Cal big, like he hits the gym regularly.

He looks like he wants to hit me now. “Where the hell have you been?”

“It’s complicated,” I say, but the line’s getting old fast, and Avett deserves more than a pat answer. Even with the past two weeks to prepare myself, I don’t know where to start. “It’s great to see you,” I say lamely.

He flinches. “We were best friends for eight years, and you dropped off the face of the earth. Didn’t call, nothing. And all you can say is ‘It’s complicated’? Jesus. You left Delilah and—” He clacks his teeth together. “What you did was beyond messed up.”

More insinuation that I destroyed Delilah, reiterations of Maggie’s claims yesterday, and I’m no longer deflating in my seat. I’ve mutated into a cockroach-man, an invasive insect who deserves to be squashed. Stepped on. Sprayed with venomous hate. “There was a family emergency I can’t talk about yet,” I say, weaker this time. “But I missed you and wanted to call. Should’ve called when I got here, I just . . .” Didn’t. I didn’t, because I was a coward and could only deal with one major confrontation at a time, namely Delilah.

He gives me another angry grunt, shakes his head, then marches out of the shop.

Heat prickles my neck. Anxiety does the breaststroke through my stomach. That flashback to my Number One Best Day did me no favors. When your best day merges with your worst, bad things happen. Crying-in-the-shower things. Or in this case, mutated-cockroach-man things.

I still feel everyone’s attention on me, including Delilah’s. She’s behind the counter, no doubt eavesdropping on every ugly word launched at me. And hey. I get it. I wasn’t the catalyst that set this nightmare in motion, but it still feels partly my fault. My life. My disappearance. My repercussions to absorb. Every nasty look and dirty word adds rocks to my heart, a wall of jagged stones, building higher, cutting deeper.

I’m definitely a mutant cockroach-man, but not like Gracklin of the Black Waters—the underworld creature Sathya and I created for Gates of Ember. Gracklin has badass attributes: night vision, impermeable exoskeleton, the ability to survive for extended periods without food or water. The character is dark and creepy and was fascinating to develop. If I were to draw my mutated-cockroach self, I’d be the runt of the litter, weak shell, damaged immune system, one finger flick from rolling on my back and croaking.

I risk a glance up. Delilah’s behind her coffee machine, peeking at me over the fancy apparatus. Instead of disgust and a serves-you-right smirk on her face, there’s something else in her eyes. A slight tenderness that flays me.

Then she disappears. Literally drops out of sight, as though she ducked.

The door chimes again like I’m a contestant on the worst game show ever: Guess Who Hates You Next! Unable to avoid my fate, I glance toward the front door.

Shawn Harden, former drummer for the Tweeds, saunters in. His white skin’s paler than I remember, his nose ruddy. Instead of yelling or glaring at me like I kicked his puppy, he slaps my shoulder and says, “Dude, you’re back. That’s so cool.”

He smells as strongly of weed as he did when we hung out in Ricky’s hot-boxed basement. I never thought it would feel this good to see him.

The next visitor isn’t angry either. A friend of Callahan beelines for me, concern in his searching eyes. “I’m sure whatever happened with your family, it was intense. I’m here if you need to talk. Also”—he lowers his voice—“I speak Russian.”

“Thanks,” I say slowly, unsure why he’s sharing his language aptitude. “I appreciate the concern.”

He winks at me and mouths, Russian, again.

Delilah’s cousin comes in next. He’s angry and accusing and tells me I should be banned from town. A woman from Mom’s quilting group follows. She slides a pamphlet toward me and says, “I know you wouldn’t have left on purpose. If you start having visions, let me know. You are not alone.”

The pamphlet is titled Aliens Among Us.

Three more confrontations over the next hour have me scratching my head and sinking lower in my seat. One guy asks if I can use my “hacking skills” to access the mayor’s spending account, a second tells me he believes my family wouldn’t have left without good reason while insinuating he can help me hide bodies. Delilah’s hairdresser is a whirlwind of anger. Her hissed “get out of town before you hurt Delilah worse than you did the first time” has me queasy.

A man with any sense of self-preservation would have left already. Cut his losses and hid in his apartment with the blinds closed, but I keep replaying everyone’s nasty or confusing words. The town seems to be divided into two camps: those less affected by my disappearance, who seem to have concocted a slew of stories as to why we vanished, and Delilah’s friends and family, who would like to see me beheaded with a dull blade, proving just how damaging my disappearance was to her.

The smells of chocolate and coffee are doing zilch to settle my stomach. There’s a twitch in my right eye I can’t shake. I need to go for a run. A marathon along the back roads—hard-packed gravel under my feet, fall air soothing my clammy skin, my blood pumping hard enough to dislodge the despair seeping through my veins.

I’ll come back to the shop tomorrow, when I’m not a minute from breaking down. I’ll be able to smile at Delilah, who deserves nothing but fresh-faced smiles.

I reach to gather my bag, but the bell chimes.

Someone mutters, “Oh, shit.”

Cutlery clatters from behind the counter.