Page 39 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

I laugh, too overwhelmed and relieved and happy about her reaction to say much.

“E.” She gives my forearm a squeeze. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was you. How could I not have known?”

Her eyes turn glassy. Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” fills the small space around us, too romantic and too sensual when I can’t kiss the woman in front of me.

I move, though, reach out and cup her cheek. “I always hoped you’d read it. Putting it out into the world felt like a way to be connected to you, even if the hope was delusional.” A tear slips from her eye—a sparkling blue diamond. I brush the moisture away with my thumb. “I swear, you were somewhere in every sketch I drew.”

She leans into my touch, presses her palm over my hand. “Maybe that’s why I love the series so much. Maybe, subconsciously, I knew those amazing illustrations came from your talented hands. I always knew you’d do something special with your art.”

Because she was the one who encouraged me most growing up.

We’re on an emotional seesaw now, staring at each other with stacks of memories—beautiful and awful—between us, pushing us back and forth. I’m quickly reminded how fragile this new beginning is. We don’t know which memories or new tidbits learned are heaviest, which will tip us into the “Delilah and Me and Eternity” montage, or into the “Delilah and Me and Her Mother Yelling That I Ruined Her Life” montage.

Delilah releases my hand, but the move is tentative, slow. Like she knows how fragile this is too.

There’s no one on this quiet road yet. There’s still so much to say. So much to learn about her. “Before I left, you used to talk about teaching kindergarten or owning a day care. You never mentioned baking as a career. Why’d you make the switch?”

Instantly, her face shutters. She readjusts on her seat and faces the windshield. “I told you not to ask me about that time.”

The seesaw’s tipping in the wrong direction, but I can’t stop myself from leaning into the unknown. She’s hiding things from me, not giving me the full truth about those rough years. “I’m just curious about your career.”

She cracks her knuckles one at a time. Her stressed-out habit. “It’s hard for me to talk about.”

“Not knowing about that part of your life is hard on me.”

She makes a growly sound. “You’re relentless.”

“Didn’t you say before that you liked my relentlessness?”

She rubs her face, blocking my view, but I’m guessing an eye roll is happening. “Like I told you, my grades slipped. I wasn’t in any headspace to go to college, and I doubt I’d have gotten in. I started baking more at home. Following recipes got me out of my head, and Mom had saved for my tuition. Instead of investing in school, we decided the shop was smarter.” She turns her hard stare on me. “Happy?”

No. Not even a little. I’m struck anew by the fallout from my father’s actions. My disappearance didn’t just change the course of my life. If I hadn’t left, Delilah would probably have gone to college. She might have gotten her teaching certificate and could be molding young minds as we speak. Not that there’s anything wrong with her current career. Sugar and Sips impressed me the second I walked in. Her shop appears successful, and Delilah seems happy there. It’s just not the path she envisioned for herself.

A song I don’t recognize rocks out from the stereo. Loud and invasive. Delilah stares out the passenger window. I can’t think of a thing to say. There’s no apologizing for running a person’s life off its track, and my father’s the one who owes a mountain of apologies. This growing tension is also exactly what we should avoid. Delilah needs fun in her life, not reminders of the ugly parts of our past.

With no words to duct-tape our widening chasm, I fumble with my phone and do the thing I decided I wouldn’t do. I hit play on “Pillow Talk.”

Delilah groans. “You did not just do that.”

“It’s not me,” I lie. “There’s something wrong with my phone.”

“Honestly, E. There’s something wrong with you. I’m engaged and already regretting saying that I’m happy you’re back in town.” She sounds more exasperated than mad.

I can work with exasperated.

THIRTEEN

As my truck nears the driveway to Windfall’s animal shelter, Delilah leans forward and stares at the passing welcome sign, then swivels toward me, her jaw unhinged. “You told me you needed me for something important. The words moral support were used.”

“Yes and yes,” I say.

“And we’re at the dog shelter.”

“Again, correct.”

“If the important thing you told me you needed moral support for has anything to do with adopting a dog, you are so dead.”

I ease my truck into one of the vague parking spaces in the gravel lot. Once I’ve killed the engine, I pat my chest and thighs. “Seems like I’m still alive.”