Page 84 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Delilah stands slowly and—embodying a drag star supermodel—sashays over to me and straddles my lap. She kisses me hard, rubbing herself all over my thickening cock.

“You mean like that?” she says against my lips.

I palm her ass. “Your body still makes me angry.”

“Your six-pack makes me furious.” She reaches between us and squeezes my dick. “As does this.”

I’m done working. Done thinking. We’re making out and grinding on each other like we’ve been told a nuclear missile is headed for this apartment and we’re allowed to do one thing before we’re incinerated. My choice will always be to do Delilah.

But my stupid alarm blares.

She squints toward the kitchen area. “Is your phone playing Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’?”

“Playing it around Maggie pisses her off.” Because of the time I used it to pretend Lennon was calling. “But back to the part about my six-pack making you furious. Stripping needs to happen.”

Laughing, we strip and kiss and grope our way to the bedroom, ignoring the alarm, getting tangled in each other. Then I’m all over her, tasting, savoring, using my tongue until she falls apart. The second I’m inside her, she knocks her head back. I grunt like the savage man I am. I hike her legs over my shoulders, dragging through all that wet heat, hitting her just where she likes. She hits me in the heart like always, deeper every time, those eyes locked on me as I thrust and murmur dirty words to get her off. Afterward, when I pull out, I kiss her deeply, then move down her body and kiss her scar, wondering if today is the day when she opens up. As usual, she runs her fingers through my hair and stays quiet.

A quick shower later, we’re satiated (for now), hurrying to get dressed. Delilah tosses me my shirt. “I still don’t get the ‘Call Me Maybe’ thing. Why do you and Maggie hate each other so much?”

“We don’t hate each other.” I drag my shirt over my head, making a mess of my damp hair. “Maggie and I are jealous of each other for having a piece of your heart.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

I shrug. It’s true. As a teenager I hated when Delilah had her girls’ nights or scavenger hunt days with Maggie, leaving me to miss her. Maggie resented the amount of time Delilah and I spent together. Nights, weekends, and days siphoned from their friendship. As adults, we simply like to rile each other up.

“Maggie’s also protective of you,” I say.

Delilah’s mood dips. The change is so sudden that I almost ask what’s wrong, but she turns away from me and walks into the kitchen. “Maggie excels at micromanaging.”

“And antagonizing me. But the feeling’s mutual.” I follow Delilah, taming my hair as I go. “Do you have any idea what happened with her and Lennon?”

“Lennon?” She pauses midreach for the sunflowers she brought in. “They weren’t even friends.”

Exactly what I thought. “Something definitely happened with them. They’re both secretly obsessed with each other.”

We stroll down that memory lane, Delilah back to bright and happy as we talk about how cliquey high school was, factions separated by style and music choices, hobbies and wealth. She fills a vase with water. I pull out the place mats for later, loving getting the apartment ready, dividing tasks. I’m even looking forward to the cleaning we’ll do afterward. Simple domesticity I wasn’t sure I’d ever have.

I grab my wallet and phone. “Don’t worry about the table. I’ll clear my stuff and set it when I’m back. Oh, and we want dog meat for the fondue, right?”

I mouth, Just kidding, to Candy Cane.

Delilah throws a dish towel at me.

I walk to the door and can’t help but imitate Delilah’s famous move, glancing over my shoulder. I watch her wipe down the counter, her moon necklace dangling as she works. She pulls out glasses and fusses with the flowers she brought, seeming as content as me to create a fun night for us and our friends. I’m starring in my own cologne commercial this time, for a new Calvin Klein scent meant to remind men of comfort and joy, with notes of angry lust added to warn them of the moments they lost. The times they screwed up.

A cologne called Second Chances.

I watch my favorite person, and that telltale push against my ribs returns, like my heart’s a hot-air balloon again—too big, too full, so pure and bright it will carry me to Mars. I suddenly know. I have to speak before I leave here. Confess my deepest truth before this balloon pops.

“I love you, Delilah,” I say roughly.

She whips around, her mouth dropping open. Something flares in her eyes. Fear? Shock? A hint of overwhelming joy? I can’t be sure, and it doesn’t matter.

“Don’t say it back,” I tell her.

My pulse is racing, my hands shaking slightly with the relief and happiness of finally speaking the words while she’s awake, but she’s not ready. If she was, she’d have shared her secret with me, and I didn’t say it to hear it back. I said it because I had to.

She hasn’t moved an inch. I smile at her and leave before she overthinks this to death. I’ll tell her I love her again when I return. I’ll whisper it in her ear while we’re making love later. I’ll croak out the words in the morning when I paw at her body and convince her to cuddle longer.