Page 12 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Whatever Stan Lee did or didn’t do,” she said, “you still need to graduate.” She knocked her shoulder into mine. “If you flunk the paper, you could flunk the class.”

If I knew then what I know now, I’d have shrugged and said who cares. (I also might have kidnapped and caged my criminal father before he ruined our lives, but prison food wouldn’t agree with me.) Art has carried me far in life. Sketching clears my mind, smooths the rocks that catch in my heart, and I earn a great living bringing my writing partner’s graphic novels to life.

Back then I didn’t have a crystal ball.

“I’ll work through lunch,” I said.

“I can help, if you want. I’m free at lunch.”

“You’re not free.”

“Pretty sure I know my own schedule.”

I swung our hands like we were a couple of grade schoolers. Swear to God, we were that cute. “You’ll be busy daydreaming about our perfect night under the stars. There’s no way you’ll be able to concentrate on my history paper.”

“You mean you won’t be able to focus.”

Delilah could always see right through me.

Already, I was mentally listing everything I’d need: sleeping bag, pillows, flashlight, hat, gloves, scarf, a thermos of Delilah’s favorite blueberry tea. Halfway through math class, I caught myself smiling—seriously, smiling in math—fantasizing about holding Delilah all night, her big hair stuck in my face, our bodies tucked tight in my single-person sleeping bag.

By the time we’d lied to our parents and I had Delilah all to myself on the cliff overlooking Bear Lake, I was so full of anticipation I forgot how to breathe. Goddamn lungs trying to hold too much air, too much Delilah.

We’d fooled around plenty before that night. She’d had her hands down my pants, and I’d had mine down hers. We were both relaxed around each other, happy to experiment and test our boundaries. Sex wasn’t on my mind, per se. I mean, I was a sixteen-year-old boy. Sex was always on my mind. But that night, while we lay in the sleeping bag like an overstuffed burrito, not talking, just staring up at the stars, the vastness overwhelmed me. Billions upon billions of tiny lights splashed across the blue-black night. Each time I took a breath, Delilah’s body shifted against me, and it felt like I was inhaling those stars. Zillions of bright spots filling me up. Shooting stars in my arms. Exploding stars in my chest. A galaxy of stars glowing in my stomach, so endless and bright that I turned to Delilah, flush against her, her huge hair in my face, and whispered, “I love you.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and turned her body toward mine. “I . . .” She swallowed, slow and hard, her Sonic the Hedgehog eyes more midnight in the dimness—full-moon midnight, reflecting the heat of my words back at me. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “God, I love you so much.”

We kissed under the limitless sky, laughing haltingly, smiling against each other’s lips, the galaxy inside me exploding like fireworks, as our bodies rubbed together in our cozy burrito.

We didn’t take off our clothes. It was too cold, and we were too in the moment. We kissed and rubbed, whispering I and love and you between our panting breaths. She straddled me, rode my hips until she tensed. I held her down, grinding her harder on my erection, hitting her in that perfect spot, watching as her body shook and her eyelids fluttered. I wasn’t far behind, shooting off in my pants.

I didn’t care that I’d have to wake up like that and walk home with dried cum on my boxers. I didn’t care that my feelings for Delilah were so vast they could consume me. I didn’t care about anything except that I loved Delilah Moon and she loved me.

Surely her triple-axel lies mean she just needs time. Once the shock of seeing me wears off, those old feelings will resurface, and we’ll finally get our second chance. Surely, this is another beginning, not another end.

Just as quickly, I deflate.

I’m doing it again. Fantasizing about the impossible notion of a rekindled romance. It doesn’t matter if Delilah harbors feelings for me. She’s still engaged to that idiot, and I’m still not allowed to be in her life. I have to quit letting my imagination and desires get the best of me. Stop reliving my Top Ten Bests. This flash of time will only ever be a new memory shoved under all those other suffocating moments I can’t escape. Once again, I have to figure out how to live without Delilah Moon.

FIVE

Fuck you, Life.

SIX

No, seriously. Fuck you. As hard as my early WITSEC days were, I thought I was past the worst of it. Head down, jaw squared, I got on with living my life, building a career, functioning like a moderately well adjusted adult. This week, I’ve reverted to a state of morose paralysis.

When I say week, I mean that as literal time. 7 days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. Figuratively, it feels more like 9,372 years. I’m not sure if it’s my insomnia or lack of appetite, but I’ve been walking around in a fog, not drawing, barely going outside, my body molding to my couch as I commune with late-night infomercials. (Yes, I bought the kitchen knife that can cut through metal.)

Even in the middle of the afternoon, I’m so zoned out I don’t notice Lennon’s in the room until he picks up an orange and beans me in the head with it.

Wincing, I rub my forehead. “What the hell?”

“I would say I told you so, that talking to Delilah was a bad call, but I don’t have the heart. You have to find a way to put her out of your head and move on. You’ve been inside so long you’re nearing scurvy levels.”

I peel the orange and flick strips of rind at him. “Guess I better eat this orange, then.”

He plops onto the couch beside me. “What can I do to help, brother of mine?”