Page 4 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

A few people shoot us curious glances. The loudspeaker announces a departure.

I attempt to battle Lennon’s panic with forced calm. “We checked for other flights,” I remind him, slipping out of his hold. “When I had to push back the departure date, you checked and said this was the only flight we could take, because you can’t miss more work.”

He glares at me. I scrub a hand down my face, hating that I can’t see Delilah from here. Missing a second of her when she’s this close is physically painful.

“Did you have fun in New York this week?” I ask, changing tactics. “The show we saw, checking out art galleries, eating a stupid amount of salted pretzels?”

He squints one eye at me. “I did.”

“And why did I invite you to come along?”

His nostrils flare—annoyance as he picks up the clues I’m dropping. “I was having a rough week, and you bought me the ticket and said I needed a break.”

Over the past ten years, Lennon shed his teen hippie tie-dye and bought hipster plaid and hipster skinny jeans and a collection of hipster hats, even though he claims he’s not a hipster. He grew his reddish-brown hipster beard and started an adventure camp for kids, where he’s upbeat and fun and a great leader, but he struggles to fill his programs. And some WITSEC days simply suck for the hell of it.

“I hoped the change of scenery would do you good,” I say. “We all know how rough this gig is. I didn’t need you with me to meet with my agent and publisher. I just wanted to see you happy.”

He slumps and rubs his eyes. “You’re not supposed to talk to her.”

“I know, but what are the odds of seeing her here? And it’s been ten years. If she doesn’t know my new name or where I live, there’s no link to us. There wouldn’t be a digital trace. One quick hello so I can hear her voice, finally let her know I’m not dead.” When he stays silent, I bring out the puppy dog eyes. “Come on, man. I need this.”

He growls and glowers, shakes his head a bunch while mumbling, then jabs my chest. “You can’t tell her about the cartel.”

“Of course not.”

“And you have to wait until we land in Charlotte. We don’t interact with her on the plane. You talk to her quickly when we arrive, then we bolt to our connection. You don’t see or speak with her again after that.”

“No interaction on the plane, then we bolt,” I agree, not mentioning the possibility of never speaking with her again. I can’t offer that promise. Seeing Delilah feels like kismet. Like that asshole Life is finally shining a ray of hope on my face.

“I need to get my head checked,” Lennon grumbles and pokes my chest again. “Not a word of this to the family. If they learn what’s going down, they’ll string us both up by our balls.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.” I punch his shoulder, pulse thrumming. “I’ll just stand near her until boarding is called. Without being seen,” I add.

He huffs.

I spin and head for our gate. People pass me, oblivious to my swirling nerves. My limbs are twitchy and hot, my steps clipped. Delilah is on my flight for a reason. I feel it. A deep knowing in my bones. Once I speak to her in Charlotte, I’ll somehow get the love of my life back.

I spot her easily, all that wild, curly hair impossible to miss. She’s still on her phone. My heart attempts to make a break for it and race toward her. Swallowing hard, I stay put and soak in the gorgeous view, wondering how she’ll react when she finally sees me. If she’ll feel as lovestruck and overwhelmed as I do. Or just furious. She laughs at something, then lowers her phone and pulls up her purse. Her hand catches the light.

I squint and lean forward.

A slight glow flickers.

A flash on her left hand. A ring on her fourth finger.

A sparkling round diamond that means only one fucking thing.

TWO

Life has a deviously twisted sense of humor. Not only do I have to fly on the same plane as Engaged Delilah Moon Who Loves Someone Else—I have to sit behind her on the flight. I don’t mean the general vicinity of behind her, like some random seat in this tin can that will defy gravity and propel me through the air at three hundred miles per hour. I mean directly behind her, on flight 3432 to Charlotte, aisle thirteen, middle seat D. Swear to God.

I often wonder what I did to offend Life so thoroughly. Granted, I wasn’t the perfect cherub of a child. I broke curfew on a whim, sneaking home after a night of stargazing with Delilah or after losing track of time while sketching or messing around with my best friend, Avett Lewis, in the old quarry. I bribed my brother Desmond to buy me vodka once, got wasted with Avett, and puked on Mom’s azaleas. Actually, that happened twice. But if an elderly person gets on my bus or train, I give up my seat. Several times, I’ve paid for a person’s groceries when they’ve been flustered and upset and couldn’t manage the cash. I never litter and always hold the door open for others. I refuse to kill spiders, for fuck’s sake.

Now I’m staring at the seat in front of me, aware of my every breath and twitch. I’m also wedged between Orange Jeans Guy, who doesn’t understand the meaning of personal space, and Lennon, who’s staring intently at the ceiling like doing so will eject us out of here.

He’s had that same tense expression since I trudged back and told him Delilah’s engaged. He flattened his lips while we rushed to get in line before her, ducking our heads to avoid recognition. He scowled while we shoved magazines in front of our faces as she neared our row . . . and then slid into the seat in front of us.

Now neither of us are talking, for fear Delilah will recognize our voices.