Page 65 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“You cooked, so I’ll clean.” Slowly, she removes her hand from my thigh, killing me with the tingling drag.

I steady my breaths. “I’m the professional dishwasher here. I’ll do it myself.”

“Or we can do it together and finish in half the time.”

“Sure,” I say, liking the idea of Team Delilah and E working side by side. “Let’s do it together.”

We settle on my couch afterward, in our usual formation—Delilah at one end, me at the other, our lower legs overlapping. Partway through the episode, Delilah stretches out farther, and her foot nudges my ass. I adjust on the couch, grab her foot, and massage it the way I used to do when we’d watch TV in her basement. She moans, and I give her all I’ve got. I dig my thumbs into her arch, pushing outward, moving in smaller strokes, then longer drags.

Her face is blissful at first, a slight smile touching her lips. Then her eyelids droop, her breaths slowing. Before I know it, Delilah Moon is sleeping on my couch, her moon necklace resting over her heart, and I can’t do anything but stare, feeling incredibly lucky to have her so relaxed and trusting. There was a time I thought I’d never see her again.

Careful not to wake her, I shift my body and stand. I grab the gray blanket I bought to offset the flood of pink in this place and lay it over her, crouching as I tuck it up to her chin. I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, a slew of emotions gathering in my throat.

“I love you,” I whisper, my eyes burning along with my throat. “There couldn’t be other women when my heart’s been on Mars this whole time, stuck on you.”

TWENTY-ONE

Delilah and I pull up to the inn at Sheldrake Falls, and no word of a lie, the heavens shine down on us. It was a dreary drive getting here, cloudy the whole way, the last leaves of fall drifting into my truck bed as we drove. Inside the truck was nothing but sunshine. My Win Back Delilah list is locked in my keepsake box. I’ve stopped planning ways to woo her. We played I spy and sang along to my cheesy playlist, except when “Pillow Talk” came on and she punched my arm. (I wasn’t about to redo that mix from scratch.) We joked. We watched the passing farmland in companionable silence. Now we’re driving up to the definition of romance, and the clouds have broken.

“I forgot how pretty this place is.” Delilah leans forward, stretching her seat belt, gazing out the window.

Sunshine spills through the gap in the clouds, painting the whitewashed inn amber. “I bet they have chickens that lay golden eggs here,” I say.

She grins. “I bet they have a chocolate spa with chocolate water.”

“I bet the beds are stuffed with unicorn hair.”

“Oh, yeah.” Her face goes dreamy. “That.”

Delilah and I used to play “I bet” while walking home from school. Hands linked, birds chirping, grins so wide we were the envy of toothpaste ads everywhere, we’d one-up each other with ridiculous lines, like “I bet Mr. Vogel lives in a house built of little children’s teeth” and “I bet the old quarry hosts late-night rock concerts by Jimi Hendrix.”

We don’t hold hands while we walk up to the inn today. Mine are full of our bags, and Delilah’s too busy marveling at the pretty pumpkin garden and the vine-covered trellises.

Told you the air around here was filled with romance.

“E! As I live and breathe.” Ricky waves at us as he jogs over, leaving an older couple who look like his parents. “Can’t believe it’s actually you.”

I drop the bags. “In the flesh. And look at you, all mature and shit, getting married.”

When he reaches me, we don’t do an awkward are-we-friends shuffle. He grabs my extended hand and yanks me into a hug. “Missed you. Not sure why, but I did.”

“I’m the only one who laughed at your jokes.”

“Naw. I sucked at math and science, but you sucked worse. With you gone, I didn’t have anyone to make me feel smart.”

We laugh, pulling back, sizing each other up. Ricky still has reddish-blond hair and kind eyes, but he’s fitter than when he was a pot-smoking teen. “You’re a handsome devil now,” I say. “I dig the beard. Aaron’s a lucky guy.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, for someone who’s been in witness protection the past ten years.” He shakes his head, passing his hand over his mouth. “Still have trouble believing it.”

“It’s pretty unbelievable.”

As is seeing Ricky like this, not sprawled on his couch, stoned, strumming his guitar, creating lyrics to themes I suggest. My favorite was his impromptu “Watermelon Song,” after we gorged on watermelon:

The seeds are in my stomach

Growing into a tree

With leaves and fruit