Page 36 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Delilah is the albatross, obviously. Using my typical realist style, I’ve drawn her and the other characters as mostly human, with avian accents on their lower bodies and elaborate wings extending from their backs. I’m a stuck-in-the-past great curassow, whose jaunty crest resembles a bad eighties perm—a nod to the Bieber mop. My father and the Becerra cartel are bullying grackles. Mom is a small but mighty wren, capable of surviving dark, cold winters. Desmond is a hoatzin, known for its pungent body odor; Lennon is a Dong Tao chicken because the bird is obscure enough for his hipster self and has gnarly thick legs that are a blast to draw; Cal is a comforting barn owl; and Jake is the all-powerful eagle who grips everyone’s shoulders and takes charge.

Here’s the thing about my art. I don’t write stories. At least, I haven’t written or imagined a plotline since entering WITSEC.

Before I lost Delilah, I’d muck around with graphic novel ideas like a bowlegged hero who could walk over cities. I’d plan action sequences, imagine dark villains with sad pasts who didn’t choose their villainy. I’d give my heroes obstacles they could only conquer if they faced their personal demons. Then Dad happened. My world became too dark, too cynical, too much like the unbelievable story lines I wrote. I kept sketching, but for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine a hero beating a villain. I couldn’t write an action scene without imagining myself standing over my father with a bloody knife in my hand.

Meeting Sathya at that comic exhibition was kismet. She doesn’t draw, but her brilliant mind is full of off-the-wall, larger-than-life stories. We came together, feeding off each other: her stories, my art. I didn’t have to imagine impossible worlds. She didn’t have to draw stick figures. We’ve both made a solid living combining our forces.

Now, suddenly, I’m writing. Imagining. Telling a story again for the first time in ten years.

“Do you still have that appointment?”

I slam my book shut. The fact that I was so absorbed in my plotting I didn’t notice Delilah’s approach shocks me to my core. I grin at her. “We still do, yeah. A tough, important appointment. Let’s get to it.”

She’s not in her usual work attire. Darker jeans cling to her curves, and her light-blue sleeveless top complements her eyes. Little buttons run down the front—buttons that would be so fun to undo—the soft-looking fabric hugging the generous swells of her breasts, finishing in a casual tie at her waist.

I need a minute before I stand.

Once I’m up and less hypnotized by Delilah’s beauty, I lead the way to my new truck.

The day before I drove to Windfall, I purchased the truck. Something about being in my hometown and driving my blend-in-with-the-crowd Nissan Altima didn’t sit right. I love big trucks: their power, the country vibe, the flatbed where I can snuggle with Delilah while we watch stars pop in the sky. Unwilling to be beige in this new life I’m rebooting, I bought myself a used Ford F-150 truck in my favorite color, blue.

I’m parked behind the clothing store that’s under my apartment. When we get there, Delilah gives my new purchase an approving nod. “This is the exact truck I expected you to drive.”

The simple comment winds me. Proof I’m no longer as invisible as the generic name Brian Baker on my driver’s license. “I’ve spent so long pretending not to be me, it’s like I’m learning who I am all over again.”

Delilah steps closer, the lines of her face softening. “It can’t be easy, but I’m glad you’re finally finding yourself again.”

“It helps having you back in my life.”

Her gaze drops. I hate not having her in my arms.

Playing it as cool as my noncool self can manage, I open her door and breathe in her sweet bakery smells of cinnamon and chocolate. She twists as she gets into my truck and—I swear this is not my imagination—she leans in closer and sniffs my neck.

Eternity still delivers.

I hope the nostalgic scent shoots her back in time to us on that soft gray blanket, me whispering “Let me touch you first,” getting her ready for our first time.

Her chest expands. Her eyelids flutter. Then she’s clambering into the passenger seat, attention dead ahead. She buckles her seat belt with a hard click.

Once we’re on the road, I make a decision. I do not blare “Pillow Talk” from the stereo. Yes, playing that blast-from-the-past tune is number seventeen on my list, but it’s too soon to unleash that secret weapon. She’s seen a suggestion of my abs. She’s sniffed my cologne, but her knees are slammed together like the time she got her period in the middle of English class.

Better to save the big guns for later.

Instead of playing our song from my phone, I fiddle with the dial and find a classic rock station. Steve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run” fills my truck’s cab. I bet Dad loves this tune.

“I told my mom,” Delilah says.

Colorful Windfall homes, bright and well maintained, stretch down the side streets. I glance at her, then back at the road. “Told her what?”

“Why you left town. I didn’t tell Maggie or anyone else, but she needed to understand why you’re here out of the blue. Why I’ve let you back into my life.”

Being the glutton for punishment I am, I’ve replayed Hayley Moon’s seething anger more than is healthy, dissecting her “you devastated my daughter” and “she has wounds that will never heal” umpteen times. All I ended up learning is how crappy I can feel. “Yeah, sure. I get it. She probably still hates me, though.”

“She does.”

There should be a magic pill that cures I-hurt-a-great-woman’s-daughter nausea. “Maybe one day she’ll forgive me.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault, E.” Delilah’s even more vehement than the other night. So emphatic a portion of my guilt ebbs.