Page 6 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

So I continue my impression of a fossilized Edgar Eugene Bower, with Orange Jeans Guy in my space, my bladder nagging at me, my calves nearing spasm, when Delilah says, “Oh my God.”

As mentioned, I know a lot about Delilah Moon, including her gross booger habit. I also know the various levels of oh my Gods she uses.

There’s her this-is-the-best-thing-ever oh my God.

There’s her you’re-an-idiot-E oh my God.

There’s her this-can’t-be-happening oh my God.

Finally, there’s her I’m-about-to-punch-you-in-the-dick oh my God.

The latter never happened to me, but Delilah dick-punched Freddie Lorimer (after saying oh my God) because he fooled around with her best friend, Maggie, then told everyone he slept with her, except all the moron did was cop a feel. Not that the lie mattered as much as the loud-mouthing, according to Delilah. No one messes with her friends.

Unsure which oh my God she just used, I perch on the edge of my seat, ears attempting to lengthen and twist, like they’re periscopes able to inch closer to Delilah.

She says, “Oh my God” again, angrier this time, and it’s no contest. That was definitely one of her dick-punching oh my Gods.

Lennon narrows his eyes at her seat. I’m ready to tear off my shirt like the Hulk and defend her honor.

“Is everything okay?” the woman beside Delilah asks. I can’t see her face, but the concern in her voice has me liking her already.

“I’m definitely not okay.”

I try to stand. My seat belt strains, keeping my stupid ass exactly where it should stay: away from Delilah. Whatever’s going on with her, it’s not my problem. She’s no longer mine to defend or annoy or make laugh. I don’t get to tease that intoxicating moan from her throat when I press my fingers just right.

Swallowing my groan, I shove the heels of my palms into my eyes, debating using the bathroom after all. I’m behind Delilah. She won’t notice me if I stand.

My phone buzzes. With shaky hands, I check Lennon’s message: Do not speak to her.

Me: Do I look like I’m opening my mouth?

Him: You look like you want to vault over the seat and fly her to a secret island.

Jaw clamped shut, I do not reply.

“We have another hour together,” Delilah’s neighbor says. “And I’m a good listener. Let me know if—”

“Apparently,” Delilah says, “my fiancé took a job offer after we spent the past few days discussing it and deciding together it would be a disaster for us personally. Like, he’ll be traveling a ton for this new consulting position when he likes his current job and makes a great living. But, according to his email just now, he simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

Her seatmate makes a derisive sound. “That’s not cool.”

“Not cool is the fact that we’ve been in a long-distance relationship, and we agreed that I should sell my business and move my life to New York so we can finally be together, which I was excited for. Now he’ll barely be home. I mean, does he think I’m the only one who needs to make compromises for our relationship to work? Did he just placate me by discussing the job offer, then decide to do whatever he wanted? Does he even care what I want?” She whispers the last part, livid.

Orange Jeans Guy stares at Delilah’s seat, smirking, like her pain amuses him. I’ve morphed into a Malaysian exploding ant that can burst its own body at will to kill a rival. Only a selfish narcissist would disrespect Delilah so flippantly. My phone buzzes again, but I refuse to look at it or Lennon.

“Is this something he does often?” Delilah’s neighbor asks. The calm to her fury. “Steamroll over your opinions to serve himself?”

“I don’t know.” There’s defeat in her voice now. Resignation. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind relationship. Maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought.”

The kind neighbor’s hand moves across the gap, reaching for Delilah. I’m so thankful someone nice is sitting next to her at a time like this. “From my experience, tigers show their stripes when they’re secure and confident. They slink around and hide while stalking their prey, then drop the act when the kill’s in the bag.”

“That’s a disturbing analogy,” Delilah says, her tone inching from defeated to alarmed.

“I’m in the middle of a nasty divorce. But take it from me—make sure you know who you’re marrying before you tie that knot.”

Delilah sighs. I touch the back of her seat, wishing I could reach through, stroke her hair, hold her the way I did when her dad died. Let her tears seep onto my skin, her pain seep into my heart, a safe place for her to feel whatever it is she needs to feel.

Then she says, “Maybe it’s me. Men always treat me like shit.”