Page 92 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“I know.”

She scoffs. “Stop trying to reverse psychology me.”

“I’m not doing that.” Really, I’m not. I’m careening down Hope Road, but I’m not the one steering this car. This must be how the boy who cried wolf felt.

She huffs out a breath, hopefully getting comfortable on her couch. I don’t plan on hanging up anytime soon. “Where do you want me to start?” she asks, her voice hesitant.

As hard as this will be, I need it all. The guts of her pain. “You’ve talked about how worried you were after I disappeared, and then how angry you got, but not in detail. You must have been devastated and probably felt badly about yourself too. Tell me about that.”

She does. It’s not pretty. Nothing about our time apart is pretty. Those years are raw and ugly and painful, but this is when healing begins. She sounds stronger as she talks, less halting, her words coming quicker, like she’s creating her own emotion valve, letting the pressure slowly escape.

“It all just tore me down,” she says partway through, tears and sniffles stealing her words. “I never considered myself an angry person before that. Even when my dad died, I was devastated and hated watching how hard it was on my mom, but I didn’t rage at the world. Having my best friend and love of my life vanish without understanding why . . .” This sob is more violent. “I didn’t recognize who I was.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, let her grief wash over me. I don’t tell her I’m sorry. I don’t try to soothe her with soft words. Comforting her would serve my need to be consoling, not her need to unburden herself.

An hour later, I’m lying on my bed, one arm flung above my head, my hand fisted and jaw tight as she describes her slow road to recovery after her accident, the hours of physiotherapy, the hardest moments when she felt like giving up.

“I thought about you so much those days,” she whispers.

“Because you were furious at me for leaving?”

“That was part of it. Anger can be a good motivator, but I thought a lot about your nature and how deeply you feel and absorb other people’s pain. How I used to believe you were an empath.”

“I’m not an empath, Delilah. I’m just a really hot guy who has a killer six-pack and happens to be in touch with his emotions.”

Her muffled laugh warms my heart. She doesn’t joke back, but I take that as a win.

“After the accident,” she goes on, “I forced my friends away. I was so ashamed about what I did, so disgusted with myself for drinking and acting so reckless, but I eventually realized I needed them. If I wanted to recover, I needed positive people around me so they could absorb some of my pain before I suffocated on it. Which, I don’t know, sounds pretty selfish.”

The past couple of months, I witnessed Windfall band together, protecting Delilah from me. They put on a fully cast, top-notch production of Delilah’s Getting (Fake) Married. “I bet your friends were more than thrilled to be there for you. Except Maggie. She was for sure only there to poison you against me.”

“She was vicious when it came to you. Exploded if I ever brought you up.”

That news pleases me. I respect Maggie for taking care of Delilah when I couldn’t. “You were lucky to have those supports. I’d have been lost without my brothers, but I could’ve used friends some days. People not directly affected by my dad’s actions. There was nowhere I could be sad or angry without hurting the people I loved.”

“I felt like that too,” she says. “I always wanted kids of my own. I wanted to teach kids and have kids and be a mom. After the surgery, I was devastated, but I didn’t want to drag the people around me down. There was a lot of pretending.”

Both of us, two sides of the same rusted coin. “Is that why you didn’t go into teaching? Being around kids was too hard?”

She pauses. Maybe she’s squishing one of her pretty pillows against her stomach, or maybe she’s curled on her side of the bed, imagining I’m beside her. “It played a part. I also lost a year of my life, and the idea of being in school again was unappealing, mentally and physically. Sitting for long stretches was hard on my pelvis for a while, and I hated the idea of everyone there learning what happened to me. The whispers and looks I’d get. Staying in Windfall was easier for a lot of reasons.”

“I’m sorry.” For a million and one things. “You would’ve been a great teacher.”

“Maybe, but I have no regrets. I love my shop and what I do. Everything happens for a reason.”

I can’t imagine a good enough reason for us to have endured our suffering the past decade, but the fury that sometimes sneaks up on me doesn’t flare, needing to be beaten down with an aggressive run. I’ll never forgive and forget, but all this purging and talking has mellowed my anger.

Delilah yawns. I rub my eyes. We’re both exhausted, but I don’t want to hang up. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring—if she’ll answer her phone when I call. I can’t be sure this talk has been as important and therapeutic for her as I hoped.

“E.”

“Yeah?”

A rustle of sheets. Soft, delicate breaths. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

This pause lasts longer. “It’s just . . . I’m drained and sad, but I’m also kind of weightless, if that makes sense. Calmer than I’ve felt in ten years. Thank you for listening.”