Page 69 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“I missed your wedding,” I say. “The least I owe Naomi is a special gift.”

Naomi covers Avett’s face with her hand. “Go on, E.”

“As I was saying, Avett was as naked as the day he was born, and the older guys were coming in next. He didn’t want to be ridiculed, so he pulled the fire alarm, ran out, and hid in the closet.”

Naomi’s dark eyes widen. “He did not.”

“Oh, it gets better.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Avett’s sulking now.

I’m in my element. “Being the crafty guy he was, he found a pen and paper and slid a note out for someone to find. It read, ‘Tell Edgar Delilah’s in the closet waiting for him.’”

Naomi knocks her husband’s chest. “Good thinking.”

“The best way to E was always through Delilah,” he mutters.

It still is. “Unfortunately, Maggie was the one who found the note, and she knew Delilah was in our Oliver! practice, so she was the one who opened the closet door to find Avett buckass naked, with a mop held in front of his penis.”

Naomi smacks the table and cracks up. “How did I not know this?”

Avett slants a bitter look at the far end of the table. “I bribed Maggie to keep quiet by doing her English homework for a month, but she told Delilah, and Delilah obviously told E.”

Because back then Delilah and I didn’t keep secrets from each other.

If my Spidey senses are correct, Delilah’s sharing a secret with her best friend right now, the two of them whispering, heads bent close. Delilah’s as fidgety as when she came off that elevator, shooting occasional glances at me. I wish I had Sandra’s surveillance equipment. Or I could’ve brought Candy Cane, hooked a microphone to her collar, and sent her on a mission, instead of sitting here like a shmuck who’s hopelessly aware two girls are whispering about him. This is grade school all over again, but instead of discussing if I have cooties, they’re probably dissecting the odds of me walking around Delilah’s hotel room naked. The answer is high.

They glance at me again. I grin and wave. Delilah ducks her head, like I might not see her. Then they’re off to the races again, whispering furtively.

That’s pretty much how my night goes. Delilah avoids me. Maggie has a date I don’t know. She spends half her time dancing with him and half of it dancing with Delilah and some other girls, all drinking and laughing and having a good time. Instead of intruding, I catch up with Avett and Naomi and make them show me all their pictures of their little girl, Simone. She’s beyond adorable.

“Thank God she looks like Naomi,” I tell them.

“Amen to that.” Avett pulls his wife in for a kiss.

I melt into the crowd, giving them alone time, but when I’m unoccupied, I’m more aware of the fact that people I don’t know keep staring at me, pointing, whispering. Birding. I’m the endangered great potoo again, caged, studied. I don’t like it. The one person I do want staring at me is rehearsing for her forthcoming role in the for-sure-to-be-Academy-nominated Edgar Eugene Bower Doesn’t Exist.

When groom-to-be Aaron has a free moment, I slide in and congratulate him. Other people vie for his attention, so I don’t linger. I try to camouflage myself along the outskirts of the room, feeling out of sorts and alone, when for the first time in ten years the people around me know my real name and my secrets.

Shockingly, stoned Shawn sees me through my attempted camouflage. The weed must give him laser-sharp vision. We shoot the shit, and I swear to God, the guy’s apparently an accountant. Didn’t see that one coming. Kaitlyn joins us, the two of them joking about a concert I never got to see. I morph into my teenage pre-Delilah self, awkward and insecure. A square peg in a round hole. With one last look at the back of Delilah’s head, I leave the festivities for the quiet of our room.

But I can’t sleep.

The lights are out, and I’m under the sheets on the couch, which is surprisingly comfortable. Must be the unicorn hair. Still, my mind is on fire. I keep replaying tonight, trying to understand why my mood felt so weighted, why I couldn’t relax and have a good time. My best guess: I may have my old name back, but I’m not the same E from high school. My experiences changed me, robbed me of the shared memories everyone else enjoys with smiles and laughs. Events like tonight’s are designed for quick catch-ups and bromance back pounds. There’s no quick catching up about US Marshal Safesites and WITSEC. There’s no surface conversation that can coast over my life in a couple of minutes before someone calls, “Let’s do a round of shots!”

I thought returning to Windfall would finally give me the sense of home I’ve missed. But I’m realizing Windfall’s not my home. Delilah in my kitchen is my home. Delilah on my couch is my home. Delilah rolling her eyes at me is my home.

The door snicks open, and I hold my breath. I don’t know what time it is, but Delilah’s quiet as she moves around. Drawers open. The sound of a zipper lowering has me biting my cheek and flexing my thighs. Her dress hits the floor in a soft whoosh.

I stay facing the couch back, force my body to stay put.

Her feet pad toward me and stop. Her breaths are heavy, growing deeper as the seconds pass. Then her fingers land in my hair, stroking so tenderly shivers slip across my neck. Her nose follows, a deep inhale that spreads the tingling down my spine. The light kiss she places on my temple nearly breaks me. Not as much as her whispered “I love you.”

My body freezes, but my heart doesn’t. The love-starved organ’s pounding so hard I’m sure they hear it on Mars. She’s gone in an instant, doing her evening routine, brushing her teeth, removing her makeup, applying her night creams.

Killing me softly with her whispered admission.

I could jump up, tell her I love her so much I’m sick with it, but she’s been drinking—and sometimes confessions are meant for the confessor, not the listener. Still, resolve hits me.