Page 91 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Then it’s never too late. You fight for her, E, the way you fought for us just now. You’re the one who held us together today. You said what needed to be said and didn’t let us fall. Make her understand the pain’s worth it. Make her see how much better you are together.”

She’s asking me to push again, bulldoze over Delilah’s concerns and feelings like her ex-fiancé. Convince Delilah I’m worth the suffering. But I’m done with my Fifty Ways to Win Back Delilah ploys and turning relationships into checklists. I won’t go back down that road, but I was the one who held my family together today. I was the strongest I’ve ever been, not because I have Delilah. The harsh reality of her loss didn’t help me keep a level head. I helped my family through our latest setback because I’ve installed a release valve on my emotions. Or maybe my healing started years ago, when my family kept urging me to get outside, enter drawing exhibits, write my teenage Top Ten Bests in journals. A slow mending of my shattered innocence, years in the making.

The past months, I’ve pushed myself further, finally illustrating my story and sharing my burden with Delilah, but she’s never had the chance to share hers with me.

Not truly. Not in detail.

An idea forms. A long shot—one that would be tough for us both—but I’m used to the odds being stacked against me. And maybe, just maybe, our story could have a happy ending after all. Not cheesy and idealized. Real. Flawed. But we’d be together.

“I’ll call her,” I tell Mom, allowing a stirring of hope to rise. “Try to talk things out.”

First, I need Delilah to answer my call.

“That’s my fighter. And I have something for you.” She finds her purse and pulls out a small bundle. “Agent Rao dropped off our new-old identification. You’re officially Edgar Eugene Bower again.”

I open my passport, run my thumb across my shitty name, overwhelmed by the tiny book, as though it defines who I am. But it doesn’t. Rallying my family to find our brother defines me. Messing with Lennon’s head and gripping Jake’s arms defines me. Finding a way to help Delilah heal defines me. The rest is window dressing.

THIRTY-ONE

After our meeting, Lennon went out on a find-Desmond mission. I checked in with Sandra, who has Candy for the next couple of weeks. I hate not having my girl with me, but I’ll be running around too much while here, and she’s not a city dog. She thrives in the charm and quiet of Windfall. As do I.

Next up, I call Delilah. It clicks over to voice mail. I debate hanging up and trying again later, but I panic and say, “It’s me please call me back we need to talk even if you think we don’t we do so yeah just please call me okay bye.”

Can you say word vomit?

I glare at my phone, hating my ineloquence, willing it to ring. It does not.

Two hours later, after my unsuccessful find-Desmond mission visiting one of his urine-smelling haunts, I’m back in my beige apartment, on my couch with Lennon. I’ve filled him in on my breakup with Delilah and my word-vomit message, still avoiding discussing her accident. We’re now staring at the ceiling instead of watching TV.

“If there was a prize for most screwed up family,” he says, “I bet we’d win.”

“Hard call. There was that reality show where contestants had to be naked twenty-four-seven. They couldn’t have come from solid families.”

“Good point.” He rolls his head over the back of the couch and looks at me. “But you’d win Most Embarrassing Voice Message.”

“I panicked,” I say, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“I mean, it’s not like Delilah doesn’t know you’re a bumbling fool. But you need to be more prepared next time.”

I bounce my heel, nodding. “I’ll write down a preplanned message. Something to guarantee a callback. I should do it now, right? Call her again?”

“Definitely. I need some good family news this week.”

I grab the pad of paper and pen from the coffee table and shut myself in my room. Ten minutes later, I reread my planned message: Please don’t avoid me, Delilah. If our history means anything to you, call me.

Trust me. I know how good it is.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I call Delilah. The phone rings once, twice, three times. The line clicks over, but I don’t get her message. I get breathing.

Then I get Delilah. “What do you want, E?”

You, I almost blurt. But that’s too obvious, and I didn’t consider this option. I assumed she’d ignore me at least one more time. Now my planned message no longer applies.

Without any appropriate words prewritten, I go with the blunt truth. “I need to hear your story, Delilah. Like this, while I’m away. You won’t have to see how it breaks me. I won’t have to try and hide my pain or witness yours. I can’t move on until I know everything, and I think you need to share it.”

The moving-on part is a partial lie. My plan is to offer Delilah a safe space to exhume her worst moments, vent and cry and say what needs to be said. If Life’s truly on my side, if my instincts here are right, unloading her sadness will finally allow Delilah to see me without seeing all she’s lost. At the very least, she might feel less burdened.

She’s breathing heavy again. I debate making a phone-sex joke, but now’s not the time. I wait for her to break my heart or give me hope. Finally, she says, “Okay. But this doesn’t mean anything. We’re not getting back together.”