Page 40 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

She gives me her adorable squinty face, then crosses her arms, resuming her role of Exasperated Delilah. “I’m not going in there with you, so don’t take long. I need to get back.”

My earlier question obviously hit a tender spot with her, as did my knee-jerk reaction playing our song. Two steps forward with Delilah, ten steps back. I could drive her home, apologize for the slight deceit, but I changed number thirty-four on my list to “Lift Delilah’s spirits by playing with adorable dogs” for a reason. Delilah loves dogs. With all she’s going through, I want her to have some fun.

I rub the scar on my upper lip, debating the best way to convince her to join me. Pleading? Unleashing my puppy dog eyes? I settle on my childhood tried-and-true method of persuasion. “You’re right. It was wrong of me to mislead you. I won’t be long. I’ll play with all the cute dogs without you. Let them lick my face and climb all over me. It’ll be awful. You definitely shouldn’t come in.”

She mutters something as I leave. I don’t pause and break character. I’ve learned a ton from our improv sessions.

Embodying my role as Reverse Psychology Champion, I march for the entrance like I don’t care if Delilah joins me or not. Once inside, I don’t see any dogs, but yipping and yapping carries from somewhere in the back. I feel a little thrill. One of those lonely pups won’t be lonely for long. One adorable girl or boy will soon have a forever home, and I’ll have a forever friend. Another portion of my life will be less beige: new blue truck, a dog I choose because I want a dog.

There’s no one at the reception desk, but I spot a bell on the counter. Before I step toward it, I hear the front door open and close.

Delilah walks in and stands beside me. “I’m not here because you want me here.”

“Of course not.”

“And I won’t play with the dogs.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do something so horrible.”

“And just so we’re clear, this isn’t fun for me.”

She’s really sticking to her guns on this one, but I play along. “Petting dogs is a hardship, and I thank you for your support. Nothing at all cute will happen in this building.”

She gives me her famous headshake. “You’re too much.”

Or just enough. Only time will tell.

I walk to the counter and ding the bell. Delilah’s all sharp angles—shoulders pointed toward her ears, elbows edged out, her stiff hands shoved into her jeans pockets. An older woman I recognize as Andrew Chan’s mother hurries out and smiles at us.

At the sight of her, I tense.

“Delilah, hey!” Mrs. Chan beams. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Chan. Great to see you too.”

For those of you with less Delilah-fixated memories than mine, Andrew Chan accompanied Delilah on her return to social media, signaling their relationship status with his arm latched around her waist.

Mrs. Chan doesn’t seem to recognize me. I don’t sense any stewing resentment or the stirrings of pity. She also has no clue the photo of her son was responsible for my crying-in-the-shower episode I’ll never discuss with Delilah. She simply shifts her pleasant smile to me and says, “Are you dropping off or adopting today?”

“We’re adopting,” I say.

“He’s adopting,” Delilah says, firm.

Righto.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Chan shuffles through some papers. “There are forms to fill out. Let me know when they’re done, and we’ll visit our sweet dogs.” She slides me a clipboard and pen, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like filling out a dog adoption form doesn’t turn me into a human stress bomb.

“I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Chan walks around the corner.

I take the clipboard, pen poised at the first question—a simple line any dog-adopting adult can fill out in two seconds.

NAME:

I have to write my name at the top, and I don’t know which name to use. Technically, I’m not Edgar. I don’t have any ID confirming that identity. My driver’s license says Brian Baker, as does my truck’s new registration. Filling out the dealership paperwork didn’t pull the ground from under me the way it’s teetering now. Delilah wasn’t standing beside me that day. I didn’t feel like I was straddling a fault line, two halves of myself separating, with my legs about to do a very awkward, very uncomfortable split.

Delilah presses her hand to my back. “The only ID you have is with Brian, right?”

I clear my throat, hating that the pen’s shaking. “Yeah.”