Page 62 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Yeah, I kind of deserve that. Sathya’s the closest thing I had to a friend the past ten years, and she never knew my real name. “It’s a long story.”

“I cannot believe my writing partner has been in witness protection this whole time, hiding from a drug cartel. And your father? Screwing you over like that? Brian, this is insane.”

She hit the proverbial nail on the proverbial head. A few select news stations have glommed on to Dad’s story, focusing on the money laundering and cartel connections. They talked about his evidence that sent the notorious Victor Becerra’s son to jail, a known hit man and drug lord, where he was found one afternoon, stabbed seven times, lying in a pool of his own blood. They’re praising my father, holding him up as a martyr who sacrificed his former life to help bring down a monster, like he was an undercover spy working for the FBI that whole time.

The only monster I know is the man who lied to his family for years, putting them in jeopardy, all because he had an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

Agitated, I yank at the back of my hair. “I’d love to catch up and chat about my absurd life over cocktails one night. Right now, I’d love to know where you are and why you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I feel awful for disappearing,” she says, stealing my line, but her tone is sad. “I’ve been trying to write. I swear I have. I thought if I dropped off the grid, like I have in the past, got rid of the pressure to produce, I’d get motivated and feel inspired, but . . .” She’s so quiet I press the phone harder to my ear. “My mom’s sick.”

I slump and rub my eyes. I only met Sathya’s mother once, but she welcomed me into her home, fussed over me and made sure I tried all her homemade food. She boasted about Sathya with pride, shared stories about her family in Bangalore, and gave me her amazing recipe afterward. She’s a bright light and a kind woman, and I hate that she’s unwell.

“I’m so sorry,” I say gently. “Is it serious?”

“Breast cancer, but we caught it early and her prognosis is great. I’ve just been helping my parents out more at home, and when I do write, I can’t focus. Everything I’ve gotten down is garbage. The harder I try, the worse it gets. Like I’m trying to force a world that doesn’t want to exist, because my world’s too overwhelming. And, if I’m honest, I never wanted to do the prequel. It doesn’t feel natural for the series.”

Her frustration makes me think of how hard I’ve been pushing Delilah, showing up in her life daily, adding pressure, whispering about food disguised as sex. Forcing a world that maybe shouldn’t exist when her world was so recently unsettled. Except she’s been happier since we’ve been hanging out. There’s no hiding her easier smiles and the blush on her cheeks. If Delilah didn’t want me in her life, she’d have told me by now.

“You need to take care of yourself and your family,” I say, focusing on Sathya and her mother. “And if you don’t want to write the prequel, that’s an issue in and of itself.”

“I think I need to tell Margot, talk it out with her. Her messages have gotten intense. I hate leaving you both in the lurch like this.”

I sink into my dining room chair and lean back, legs sprawled, grappling for the right thing to say. I want Sathya to write this script, for both our sakes, but creativity doesn’t thrive under threats and coercion or family stress. I’d know. I haven’t produced a story of my own for ten years. I’d also never dictate how someone else lives their life. Nothing good comes of that.

“Talk it all out with Margot. If you need to cancel this contract, I’ll deal with the fallout. Find the money to pay back my portion of the advance.”

“I feel stupid,” she says, her voice shrinking. “It’s just words on a page. I should be able to put words on a page, even with all this stress.”

I don’t like hearing Sathya, creator of a fantastical graphic novel, sounding anything but strong. “You’re smart and talented and are the reason I’ve had success the past five years. I owe you more than my support.”

“I still feel like I’ve failed you and Margot and the publisher.”

“The worst person you can disappoint is yourself.” Unless you’re my father. Then the disappointment pool is quite large. “You’ve tried to write, Sathya. I know you and know you wouldn’t walk away from this project unless you simply couldn’t produce. Give yourself a break. Be there for your family. Take a breath and quit trying so hard. You’ll either realize the trying was what was thwarting you, or you’ll feel free.”

Assuming the latter is where we end up, I’ll have to shore my defenses. Find more firm ways to tell Margot I can’t sell my story. I’ll have to earn cash another way.

“Thanks, Brian. Shoot. Sorry. I mean Edgar.”

“Call me whatever you want, as long as you call me. No more of this avoidance nonsense.” A knock sounds from my door. Instantly, the heaviness in my chest lifts. My sweet Delilah. “Talk soon. And give your mother my best.”

After we hang up, I stand and shake off my melancholy, a full-body bounce that has Candy dancing around my legs. Ready to focus on the love of my life, I strut to my door and reach for the knob, but I pause. I replay my advice to Sathya. Quit trying so hard. You’ll either realize the trying was what was thwarting you, or you’ll feel free. I’m about to cross off number forty-seven on my Win Back Delilah list—make Delilah my orgasmic lamb curry—but maybe the list is part of the reason she’s holding back. Maybe I need to chill out and let us evolve naturally.

I mean, I’m me. I’ll always be an obnoxious flirt who shamelessly shows Delilah she brings me to my knees, but relationships aren’t checklists you can tick off. Love isn’t something you win. It’s something you earn. My desperate need to rekindle my relationship with Delilah has been so focused on me and my aching need for her I haven’t given her space to take the lead too. Allowed us to build new moments together, letting us unfold organically.

If I want us to have a chance, I need to quit my Top Ten Bests and Fifty Ways to Win. Free us from old expectations and confining lists. Turn this relationship into a two-way street.

Rolling out my shoulders, I open the door and smile at Delilah, who’s still wearing my moon necklace. “You look lovely.”

Already, I’m super suave. Mr. Act Natural. You could churn ice cream on my level of cool.

She lifts a brown bag. “I brought us dessert.”

I openly peruse her hot-as-sin body, caressed by her worn jeans and another of her threadbare T-shirts. “You certainly did.”

“Glad to see you’re as blatant as ever. Even though I’m engaged.”

Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. She’s like a pit bull who won’t release her favorite toy, but I digress. I’m now chillaxed E, letting our relationship blossom naturally. “Some things never change, except the fact that I’ve become an exceptional cook.”