Page 77 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Avett drops his head back, cracking up. “I dared him to do that.”

“And I never back down from a dare. I’ve heard the same about you, Margaret.”

“You . . . what?” Maggie’s wearing a healthy dose of makeup. Even under that bright blush, there’s no missing how her face pales.

“Dares,” I say, unsure what has her ruffled. “Like the time Delilah dared you to drink a thirty-two-ounce bottle of Gatorade at Desmond’s college football game and you peed your pants on the drive home.” But I suddenly recall that Lennon loved playing truth or dare as a kid. Was actually kind of obsessed with it. His crowning moment was when he dared lactose-intolerant Desmond to eat a brick of cheddar during my toilet-cleaning punishment, on top of Desmond’s regular grilled cheeses. Good times had by all.

Maybe Lennon and Maggie played their own version of truth or dare, some kind of game that has them both acting odd. I could ask her outright, but tormenting her is more fun.

She laughs haltingly at the Gatorade-peeing incident, like she’s relieved I didn’t mention anything more embarrassing but worried I know her secrets. She latches harder on to her date’s arm. “It was a fun day. Delilah was imitating Edgar’s awful acting in Oliver! and I was laughing too hard to ask him to pull over.”

Thomas chuckles with the group, but he’s eyeing me curiously.

I’m getting used to the attention. Mostly. But this close and intense isn’t as easy to brush off. “Do we know each other from somewhere?” I ask him. It’s possible. I don’t have the best memory for faces other than Delilah’s.

He looks at Maggie, who shrugs a shoulder, as though giving him some kind of permission. He beams. “I’m a Gates of Ember fan. Mags told me you’re the illustrator. Your work’s awesome.”

“Wow, thanks.” And because compliments make me uncomfortable, I deflect to Maggie. “I had no clue you were a closet fan too.”

She crinkles her freckled nose. “I don’t read comic books.”

“Graphic novels.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re working on a prequel, right?” her date says. “I’m dying to read it.”

“I am, but things are . . .” I wave my hand vaguely instead of finishing the sentence.

Cancellation of the prequel isn’t public knowledge yet. I’m waiting to finish my current project before I broach the subject of publishing it with Delilah and my family. Sathya and I still have to talk out our options, but the more I think about selling my story, the less I hate the idea. Helping Sathya’s family in a time of crisis is a factor, but there’s a revenge component I can’t deny. Father Dearest is publishing his version of our life. I have no doubt it will be overflowing with his expert subterfuge as he panders to his ego, building himself up as the martyr.

My story has our hard truths wrapped in fantasy: Delilah turning her back on her princess heritage, fighting through her pain when I disappear, then working her land on Earth in disguise, sowing, tilling, feeding people the food she grows until they recognize the princess behind the cloaked shawl. I’m on Mars during this time, slaving for our captors, finding solace drawing murals of my lost love, spending hours upon hours trying to hatch a plan, escape back to Earth, with my family’s suffering woven in.

I don’t know yet how the novel ends. The urge to live out my deepest desires through my art is strong. Revenge writing. The torture and suffering of my father when his greed invariably brings him down. Or I’ll write a fairy-tale ending with Delilah and me running to each other in the attack hug of hugs, the two of us finally on the same planet, my father forgotten because he doesn’t deserve to be remembered. Or it’ll be a film-noir-style novel, where nothing changes, the bad guys win, and we go on with our lives in relative peace, knowing justice wasn’t served, having tasted freedom, only for Delilah’s secret to tear us apart again.

The last possibility has me frowning.

A violin carries in from the patio outside, where the ceremony is to be held. Everyone moves toward the sound, but Delilah holds me back. “What’s going on with the prequel?”

While I won’t share that information with Maggie’s random date, I have no problem trusting her. “Remember that call from my agent the night your dishwasher quit?” She nods. I go on, “Sathya told our agent she can’t finish the prequel. She doesn’t want to write it for several reasons, which means we’re in breach of contract, unless one of us produces something else quickly, and Sathya’s mother is sick. She can’t focus right now, which leaves me.”

“E, you should’ve said something. I’d never have let you wash dishes if I knew you needed to work.”

I thread our fingers together, pulling her closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make decisions for me. I did what I wanted to do, and I’ve been fitting work in.” Earlier mornings after I walk Candy Cane. Free minutes between dishwashing and spending my nights with Delilah. I lift her hand and kiss her pulse point, the direct line to her heart. “Let me put you first for a change.”

She softens against me. “Fine, but not always. I want to support you too. Can I still be your first reader when your novel’s done?”

“I’m counting on it.” When I know the shape of our story and how it ends. Then I’ll give it to Delilah and my family and let them decide if it gets published or not.

“Also . . .” Her voice drops shyly. “Will you be my date to the Scarecrow Scavenger Hunt this year?”

“Didn’t you used to plan that as a girl’s day with Maggie?”

“I did, but I’d love to be there with you this year. And I worry about how much you’re working. This would be a fun way for you to get a break.”