Page 45 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“But I’d buy them all pink collars. They’d match my apartment perfectly.”

“Sure, but I know you won’t adopt them all. I already know which dog you’re choosing.”

“You can’t possibly know.” But I suspect her all-seeing-wizard self does know. A development that works in my favor. Delilah loves nothing more than proving I’m wrong. I love nothing more than upping the ante.

“I definitely know,” she repeats.

“You definitely don’t.”

“Let’s each write down a dog’s name,” she says. “Then we’ll show each other and prove you’re wrong.”

Bingo. Now it’s my turn. “Okay. I’m in. But there has to be a wager.”

She drums her fingers on her knee. “What do you have in mind? And if you say anything in relation to your cologne or that song you played in your truck or your supposed six-pack, you can count me out.”

“Why are you always stealing my thunder?”

She purses her lips.

I sigh in defeat—there’s my stellar acting again—and say, “Fine. If you win, I’ll clean your place of residence for a week. If I win, you’ll clean mine.”

I can’t lose this bet. Both outcomes end with me spending one-on-one time with Delilah.

She strikes a thinking pose, fingers propped under chin. “Does this include all aspects of the residence or just the visible areas?”

“All aspects?”

“Then you have yourself a deal.” She looks like she just planned a coup to overthrow the government, and I have a sinking feeling I’ve walked into something less enjoyable than tidying Delilah’s underwear drawer. She procures a pen from her purse, scans the room, then snags a dog magazine from a shelf against the wall. She opens it and rips out a page.

I mock gasp. “That’s vandalism.”

“Says the guy who tortured and tied a woodchuck to a goalpost.”

“A stuffed woodchuck.”

“You also graffitied my chicken coop.”

“That was art.” Created after our truce, but before we were a couple. One Delilah-obsessed night, I spray-painted a picture of a fox-woman with Sonic blue eyes and full lips . . . and big boobs because I was fourteen and boobs were everything back then.

She scribbles on her torn page, rips the paper in half, and hands it to me with the pen. I write Candy Cane in looping letters on my section, excited to drive that girl home and give her more love than she can handle.

“Ready?” Delilah says.

To clean her house and hold her hand when she’s sad and tell her selfish pricks are always gonna be selfish pricks? “I was born ready.”

We swap. She whoops. “Told you I knew. And the timing couldn’t be better. Something died in the vicinity of my sink. You get to locate the dead critter before I asphyxiate on its rotting-carcass fumes.”

I’d curl my scarred lip at the prospect, but I’ll happily suffer through dead critters if it means I get to hang out with Delilah. “The pleasure will be mine. And I’ll bring Candy Cane, since I can’t leave my fur baby alone. Gotta be a stand-up dad.” Unlike mine.

An odd look passes over Delilah’s face. She returns the vandalized magazine to its original spot, probably regretting her choice to deface it.

“Sorry I took a while. Those phones don’t answer themselves.” Mrs. Chan returns and clasps her hands. “Have you made a decision?”

“I have,” I say, but my phone rings. The flash of Lennon’s name has me darting my eyes around, worried he’s calling because my brothers heard I’m in Windfall, where I shouldn’t be, with Delilah, who shouldn’t know I still exist. I swear to God, if that narc Sandra traced my alias and ratted me out, I will hire a real hacker to infect her computer so it displays nothing but cute animal videos.

I give Delilah my best I’m-cool-as-a-cucumber smile, but I’m pretty sure I look like I just bit into a habanero pepper. I clearly need more acting classes. “Delilah can let you know my choice. I need to take this.”

Delilah frowns as I jump up and hurry into the hall. Once outside, I strike a pseudocasual pose, like my family can see me. “Hey, big bro.”