Page 93 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

My heart stutters. Tingling spreads across my scalp.

I push up to sitting as tonight’s biggest realization wallops me.

If I were still a list guy, this evening would have crashed its way onto my Top Ten Bests, shoving in front of my first time meeting Delilah, my first kiss, my first time having sex, my utter fascination when she yelled at me to get off her land. Always my, my, my, the same way I pursued Delilah doggedly because I missed her in my life. But this emotional moment has zoomed to number one because I’ve helped Delilah heal, regardless of how it affects me.

Jesus. I check my chest hair, wondering if I’ve sprouted more with this influx of maturity.

Nope. Still sparse.

Tomorrow I plan to work on my novel, begin the rewrite of the panels to reflect Delilah’s truth. My safe place to be honest and feel what I need to feel. Remind myself that I’m not like my father. I can make good choices and put other people first.

Tonight is about her.

She’s still breathing softly in my ear. My heart hurts from her admissions and how far away she is, but I’m honored she’s trusting me with her pain. “I’ll always love you to Mars and back, Delilah Moon. After all we’ve been through, I hope we can still be friends.”

She doesn’t reply. For a second I think she’s fallen asleep or I’ve gone too far and upset her into silence. Then she whispers, “You can call me tomorrow, if you want.”

We’ll assume that’s a rhetorical suggestion.

THIRTY-TWO

The next evening, I visit two seedy bars. At the first, a three-sheets-to-the-wind woman offers to hook up in the nasty bathroom. At the other, I step in something sticky I’m pretty sure isn’t spilled beer. Not only is Desmond nowhere to be found, but he’s doing an impressive job of never answering my calls or texts. I suspect he changed his number, which is frustrating and deflating.

At my wit’s end, I pull out the big guns and text Sandra for assistance.

E: From your experience, what’s the best way to track a guy who doesn’t want to be found?

Sandra: I’m not a tracker.

E: But if you were a tracker and really needed to find a guy, what would you do?

Sandra: Nothing.

E: You’re being very unhelpful.

Sandra: You’re not listening.

This is the level of attitude I deal with from Sandra.

Although today’s a wash, I hurry home, feeling a buzz of adrenaline. Delilah said I could call her if I want. And I want. I want to hear her voice. I want to be there for her again, and always.

Lennon’s not home when I get back, and I don’t bother scrounging for food. I dial Delilah’s number before my keys hit the counter, my heart beating in my throat. She could have changed her mind since last night. Our talk might have reinfected her old wounds. She might have realized cutting me out is the only way forward.

The phone rings once, twice. On the third ring, my adrenaline starts to crash, everything in me turning heavy.

“E, hi. Hey.” She sounds out of breath.

My tension uncoils. “Delilah.” I sigh and flop on my bed, ridiculously relieved she picked up. When it comes to her, I’ll always be 199 percent pathetic.

“Sorry it took so long to answer. My hands were covered in batter.”

“You’re still at work?”

“No. I’m home.” The sounds of a pot clanking, then running water carry through. “Baking helps when I’m feeling . . . off.”

Because I pushed her to open her healed wounds. “Did our talk last night make things worse?” I ask tentatively.

“It’s not that. I mean, yeah, talking about that time is always hard. I just also . . .” She trails off, her voice getting softer. Vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”