Page 59 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Good thing I bought in bulk.”

Laughing, she walks to my door, pausing before she leaves—a familiar move these days. She launches a wistful glance over her shoulder, like she’s in a perfume ad of her own, a new Calvin Klein scent meant to conjure sexual tension and desire and the stirrings of rekindled love. I’d call the signature scent Longing.

When she’s gone, I lie on my bed next to Candy and call Mom.

She answers swiftly. “Hey, honey. How you holding up?”

“Me?” My mom may be a subpar quilter and an unimaginative cook, but she always puts her kids first, even when she shouldn’t. “Don’t worry about me. How are you?”

“I’ve had better days.” Her voice has an edge to it, the sound of exhaustion and defeat turning it hard.

“He’s such a fucking asshole.”

“He really fucking is.”

We both laugh—the tired kind of laugh that makes you sigh. I rub Candy’s side, letting her softness mellow me. “Jake said Agent Rao called and we’re clear of danger. As far as you know, are there any lingering threats?”

“Any Becerra family members who held a grudge are gone. The marshals just wanted to make sure the associated families wouldn’t step in and keep old feuds alive. From what I know, those involved shifted allegiances. They have bigger concerns than a dead man’s vengeance. Your father apparently found out before us. That’s why he went public with the memoir when he did.”

How smashingly kind of him. Still, relief finally hits me, a bone-deep heaviness that has me sagging deeper into the bed. The official end of any threats. No more backlash that could hurt the people I love. I stroke Candy’s velvet ears. She licks mine.

“I’m in Windfall, Ma. Been here over two weeks.”

It feels more like two months, every minute with Delilah stretching into endless moments I hoard and replay in my evening montages. Tonight’s will be titled “Delilah and Me and Longing.”

“I know you’re there, E.”

I glare at my pink ceiling. “Did that traitor Lennon tell you?”

“Lennon didn’t say a word. I know you and know how much you cared for Delilah. I knew you wouldn’t wait.”

A mother always knows. “Why didn’t you yell at me?”

“You’re twenty-seven, and you’ve spent your adult years on a leash—told what you can and can’t say, where you can and can’t live. Seeing what these years have done to you boys has devastated me, and I won’t stand in the way of your free will any longer. If Delilah and Windfall are what you want, then you better do whatever you can to fight for her.”

If she saw my list of fifty ways to win her back, she’d know I’m not giving up easily. “Have you thought any more about coming back? Mrs. Jackson and the quilting girls miss you.”

She pauses. I pet Candy, hating myself for taking off on my sweet dog like I did. Living the past ten years in relative isolation has done me no favors, like Mom worries, but maybe in different ways than she expects. I’m not used to caring for others, putting their needs before my own.

“I’m thrilled you’re there,” Mom finally says, “but there’s so much negativity associated with that place for me. Your brothers are a different story. They all say they won’t go back permanently, but I think they want to. They’re just nervous. They’ve all left a lot of unfinished business in that town.” All of it packed in their these-memories-hurt-me-the-most keepsake boxes. “I hope they find their way there, but they’re not as strong and determined as you.”

A strong man wouldn’t tear off for the morning and leave his girl and dog without a word. A strong man wouldn’t fall apart at some shitty news he should have come to expect. He should make sure the woman he loves knows she’s supported at all costs. I better start carrying my weight around here.

NINETEEN

Washing dishes is familiar work to me. It’s a head-down job where chefs and waiters often ignore you, dumping dishes in the sink with a messy clatter, while they bustle around with their more important work. Delilah’s café has a more pleasant vibe and manageable speed, but everyone’s acting weird.

Delilah’s pierced baker, Angel, carefully puts a mixing bowl in the sink, like she’s worried any quick movements will have me hitting the floor, on the lookout for stray bullets. She then pats my shoulder the way I petted Candy Cane those first few days, tentative and gentle.

“You’re doing a great job,” she tells me.

Of course I’m doing a great job. I have four years’ experience under this apron. “I’m aiming for employee of the month.”

“You’ll be a shoo-in.”

Two shoulder pats later and a few pitying looks from the working baristas who pass, I have the distinct impression everyone thinks being in WITSEC means I’m made of glass. I mean, I get it. If I was on the outside looking in, I’d be fascinated, studying me like I’m a science experiment, one wrong ingredient from blowing up or shattering. I’m just not used to everyone knowing my business. For ten years, I’ve been a version of Lennon’s Invisible Man poster.

With another session of dishes tackled, I grab the bus bin and push out the swinging doors to clear tables. The front door jingles. By the time I round the service counter, Mrs. Jackson’s standing in front of me, holding her purse close to her stomach. “Edgar, I had no idea. What your mother—what your whole family must have gone through.” She pats my arm. “Just horrible.”