Page 53 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Plug my nose,” I tell her.

“What?”

“We need to transfer this toxic meat soup to your garbage, then take that bag to the metal bin behind your business. I’ll grab tongs to extract it, but I need you to plug my nose. You know how sensitive my gag reflex can be.” Hence the times I puked on Mom’s azaleas, but my true goal is laughter. Lighting Delilah’s faded spark with my antics.

She bites her lip, like she’s fighting one of her solar eclipse smiles. “Good plan.”

She grabs a pair of tongs from a drawer, hands them to me, then pulls out her garbage so it’s ready for the dumping. She plugs my nose. “Be quick.”

“The quickest.” Bending awkwardly so Delilah can maintain her grip, I use the tongs to lift the baggie out of the fondue pot and launch it into the garbage bag. We’re a synchronized SWAT team now. She grabs the plastic bin, while I tie off the bag and lift it, then both of us race for the door and run down the stairs, an excited Candy Cane hot on our tail as we rush outside to dispose of the offensive bag.

When the lid to the large bin slams shut, I face Delilah. “I can’t believe you pooped in a baggie and hid it.”

“It was the meat.”

“Right.” I wink. “The meat.”

“You’re such a pest.” She shoves me playfully, and we start laughing again, snorting and unleashing a slew of unattractive sounds. “God.” She wipes her eyes and catches her breath. “I haven’t laughed this hard since . . .”

We lock eyes, both grinning our faces off. “High school,” we say in tandem.

We stare at each other a beat, something deeper filling the moment. Then we make our way upstairs, joking and chatting and acting like ten long years didn’t tear us apart. That’s when I do the scariest thing I’ve done in ages. I dust off a smidgeon of the hope I buried under my Top Ten Best Days and imagine a real future with Delilah Moon.

SEVENTEEN

“I can’t believe it took me this long to watch this show.” Delilah’s kicked back on her couch, sprawled the way she sprawls, her hand mindlessly petting Candy Cane. “It’s so cute.”

Delilah’s the one who’s so cute, hanging out in sweatpants and a T-shirt, no makeup on. No pretense or primping. Just us being us, like we’ve been most nights this past week.

The day after the Eternity Incident and the Toxic-Meat-Bag Extraction, she welcomed me into Sugar and Sips with a solar eclipse smile, visited my outdoor table a few times, fussed over Candy Cane, and dished about the latest Windfall drama: much to the dismay of some residents, this year’s Scarecrow Scavenger Hunt planner asked to change the after-party music from classic country to—gasp—something modern.

Gotta love small-town drama. And a foot in the door.

The conversation led me to reminding Delilah how cute the show Gilmore Girls is with all its small-town turmoil. Then Sandra, who was spying on me as per usual, piped up to tell us the only small-town show worth watching was Schitt’s Creek. Neither of us had seen the sitcom, and we agreed to watch an episode together, which turned into two, which turned into seven. Aside from an evening I spent drinking beers and catching up with Avett, Delilah and I have had dinner together every night this week, followed by our cozy TV viewing.

“I would kill to have a coffee date with David Rose,” I say. I’m on the other side of Candy, who’s in a love sandwich between Delilah and me. My perfect doggo is much more relaxed these days, letting us both pet her. I occasionally let my hand brush Delilah’s, getting off on the rush of heat making me light headed. Even better? She never once pulls away.

“As fun as David would be,” she says, “I’m all Moira. Her theatrics are too good.”

“She reminds me of our English teacher—Mrs. Bozic? When she took that year off in England and came back with an accent?”

Delilah laughs. “Remember when Avett was caught imitating her? He got in so much trouble.”

“Those were good times,” I say, letting my fingers roam toward Delilah’s, brushing my thumb over her knuckles.

She watches our hands and moves hers slightly, still petting Candy, but also allowing our hands to flirt. Gentle bumps and soft touches. When she slides her thumb over mine, tracing the half moon of my nail, I experience a full-body shiver.

I stretch my fingers wider. “I’m insanely impressed, by the way.”

“With what?”

“With everything you’re doing—running your business, being a tough but fair boss, making time for fundraising.”

She sighs. “Feels like I’m playing catch-up most days, but Maggie’s grandmother died of cancer a while back, and the hospice team went above and beyond. They made Millie’s last days as comfortable as possible, while offering grief counseling for the family. I’d go weekly with Mags, to be there for her, and I loved her bubbe. Fundraising afterward made me feel like I was helping other families too.”

“Like I said, insanely impressive.”

“Thank you.” She blushes and adjusts on the couch.