Page 66 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

There’s a watermelon in me

Man, we were deep. “Excited to hear you play again.”

“The weekend will be a blast. There’s a casual welcome dinner tonight. Tunes, food, booze. Make sure you come.” Then he’s all over Delilah, hugging her, kissing her cheeks. “Sorry for the delay. It’s been a while with E.”

“Trust me, I get it. And you’ll die when you see the cake.” She gives an excited little shake, like a human Candy Cane wiggle. “Angel outdid herself.”

“Can’t wait.” He waves to someone behind us and moves toward them. “See you two tonight.”

I watch him for a minute and feel a twinge of jealousy. He looks so happy, glowing with this weekend’s celebration and love for his future husband. I so badly want to be openly in love again with the woman at my side. I want to glow with it, shout my feelings to the world, not pretend like she’s still engaged. Alas, patience is my lot in life.

Bags in my hands, we walk inside the magically romantic inn and run into another blast from my past: Kaitlyn Moore, the bass player from the Tweeds. While I hung around with the band plenty, we were never particularly close. She’s lounging in the inn’s reception area with the band’s drummer, perpetually stoned Shawn. When Shawn spots me, he elbows Kaitlyn. “Dude. Our roadie came.”

Kaitlyn is half-Filipino and half-white, with deep brown eyes that always seem sleepy. She gives an old-school fist pump in the air. “Glad to have you back, E. Crazy shit the past ten years.”

“The craziest.” I’m not sure how normal people feel about high school reunions. Seeing Ricky was a rush. Finding my feet with Avett has been tough and important and has given me the lift I needed. With my history blasted into cyberspace, seeing surface friends like Kaitlyn is akin to walking around naked.

“I can’t imagine how nuts it was,” she says, staring at me like I’ve grown a third arm. “Did you actually meet those—”

“Can’t wait to hear you guys play,” Delilah interrupts, dodging Kaitlyn’s incoming missile attack of questions like a souped-up submarine. She grabs her bag from my hand, sticking close to my side. “We’re on a schedule, though. Cake and wedding stuff. Catch up with you later?”

Not waiting for their reply, she steers us to the front desk and smiles at the attending agent. “We should have two rooms, one under Moon and one under Baker.”

First, she saves me from painful reunion questions. Now she’s uttering my fake name without hesitation, rescuing me from fumbling like when I adopted Candy. Except now I’m thinking about Candy Cane and worrying about my perfect girl.

I grab my phone and text Sandra, who agreed a tad too easily to watch my dog while I’m gone. She could have an ulterior motive.

E: How’s my girl?

Sandra: I’m fine.

E: I mean my dog. Does she miss me?

Sandra: She hasn’t mentioned anything.

Even when she’s on my side, Sandra lives to antagonize.

E: Don’t you dare make her do reconnaissance work.

Sandra: Have a nice wedding.

I squint at my phone, debating calling and threatening Sandra so she doesn’t get Candy tangled in any nefarious dealings, but Delilah says, “That can’t be right.”

Phone forgotten, my eyes do a pinball number, bouncing between the front desk agent’s apologetic expression and Delilah’s wide, fearful, the-killer’s-in-my-house eyes.

“What can’t be right?” I ask.

“We’ve somehow lost Ms. Moon’s reservation.” The agent clicks through her computer screen, frowning. “And we’re fully booked.”

“That can’t be right,” Delilah repeats, agitated. At the same time, I say brightly, “That’s no problem. She’ll just bunk with me.”

Here’s the thing. I didn’t plan this. Getting stuck in a shared room isn’t on any list I wrote, but I’m suddenly a staunch believer in the whole letting-go speech I gave Sathya. Finally, Life is giving me a break. Finally, luck is on my side, and you better believe I’m going with this flow.

I drop my head to catch Delilah’s eye. “I’ll sleep on the floor or wherever. It’s no different than us crashing on each other’s couches.” Except it is. Neither of our apartments has a roaring fireplace, a canopy bed, or a mattress made of unicorn hair.

Still, our recent sleepovers have been fantastic.

Three times in the past two weeks one of us has accidentally crashed while hanging out. Our evenings have remained platonic, comfortable nights of shared dinners and TV watching, plus a couple of late-night talks where she asked more about my life the past ten years and I asked about hers, neither of us broaching Hugo or revisiting my romantic history, just catching up. I’ve given up on analyzing every twitch she makes, planning my moves ten steps ahead, but waking up in Delilah’s apartment with her humming while drinking coffee and surfing the internet, a blanket over my stiff body as I realized where I was and who I was with . . . well. Utter perfection.