Page 7 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Now I need a safe place.

Over the years, I’ve tortured myself, imagining how hard my disappearance actually hit Delilah. I often picture her running to her chicken coop, glowing from our amazing first time together the night prior, wondering what was taking me so long. Then she’s running to my house, pounding on my door, still smiling, wondering why no one’s answering. Then she’s calling my phone. No smile this time. The tears start. Then she’s texting me and writing frantic messages on social media, terrified, devastated, completely confused as to why the one person she trusted and loved above all others vanished without a trace.

I have no clue how accurate those nightmarish imaginings are, but I now have this to add to my mental torture bank: Men always treat me like shit.

Lennon gives my thigh a squeeze, like he knows I’m dying inside.

“Don’t you go taking all the blame,” the nice neighbor says more forcefully. “It takes two to tango, and I have a feeling he’s tipping the scales in his favor.” When Delilah doesn’t reply, she adds, “Just because you have that pretty ring on your finger doesn’t mean you have to marry this guy. Moving on is hard, but ending things later is harder.”

“Yeah, well.” A heavy silence. A rough intake of breath. “I’m used to losing people in my life. If it comes to that, I’ll deal.”

Remember the puke bag I tucked beside me? I grab the flimsy paper and make a big enough production of shoving my face in it that Orange Jeans Guy finally vacates my personal space. I don’t actually heave, but my insides torque so painfully I click off my seat belt and utter some weird sounds, insinuating I need out of our row stat. I avoid touching Delilah’s seat on my way, then practically run to the lavatories at the back of the plane, thrilled there’s no lineup.

See, Life? Was that so hard?

I try to yank the door shut behind me, but someone’s shoving at it. Lennon sticks his hand through and joins me in the coffin-size aluminum box.

“Dude,” he says, looking as bewildered as I feel. “That was intense.”

“How could someone treat her like that?”

“Because that someone is an idiot. I hate this for her. And for you. You two . . .” He leans against the door and sighs. “You two were the type of couple everyone envies. Except me, obviously. But everyone else. Life is so fucking unfair.”

I want to move, pace. Work off this frantic energy. I can barely blink without knocking into Lennon. “I have to tell her why I left.”

“Nope.” His spine snaps straight. “Bad idea.”

“But I’m the guy who bought you a ticket to New York to make you happy, and you agreed talking to her once is fine.”

“That was before.”

“I don’t care if it was during the Ice Age. She needs to know my disappearance wasn’t her fault. She clearly blames herself.”

As horrible as my years without her have been, I knew where she was and had a vague sense of what she was doing. Except for two blackout years of silence shortly after I left—otherwise known as utter hell, when she quit posting on social media—I’d search her name periodically and learned tidbits, like the fact that she opened a bakery in Windfall, the business she apparently plans to sell. I knew she was living a seemingly successful life.

All she knows about me is that I vanished. A FOR SALE sign went up on our property. Our handler, Agent Rao, told townsfolk we had to move for my father’s work, but no one would have bought that vague bullshit. We were simply gone, leaving Delilah with a pile of questions and inescapable, painful memories. And maybe a few precious ones?

My suppressed love for her rises so keenly I have to brace a hand on the sink and catch my breath. Honest to God. I still love her so much I actually grip the nasty-ass bathroom sink, unable to support the weight of this crushing emotion. Emotion so big and thick there’s no way I’ll be able to stuff it back down. Not again. Not this time.

“I have to speak to her. Tell her she shouldn’t settle for less than she deserves. I mean, she’s sitting right in front of me.”

When Lennon stays quiet, I shift jerkily and knock knees with him.

We trade glares, breathing hard in each other’s faces, then he sighs. “When I agreed before, you were wired, but you were calmer. Everything about you now reads ‘desperate.’ You’re too emotional. Talking to her will only hurt you more, and you’ll probably say things you shouldn’t.”

“I’m not desperate.” I gesture to my face, hating how fast my pulse is racing.

He cocks his head and stares at me.

Yep. I’m totally desperate.

Groaning, I bang the back of my head into the wall. When that doesn’t solve my problems, I jam my elbow into it too. Honestly. That asshole Life really has it in for me.

THREE

Back in my seat, my heart still performing more calisthenics than I did in seven years of phys ed class, I do the only thing I can think of. I pull out my phone and creep Delilah on social media.

I haven’t checked her status in over a year. She never used Facebook much and still has no personal information listed. There is, however, a recent post from her trip to New York. The photograph is of her with her fiancé on a typical New York street. Apparently, his name is Hugo. He’s a white guy of average height (shorter than me) and looks as preppy and horrible as you’d imagine. Delilah’s smiling in the picture, but it’s not her solar eclipse smile, the one that’s so bright it’s hard to look at. This is more of a smile-for-the-camera smile.