Page 85 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

I’ll say it for the both of us until she’s ready.

Once outside, the early-November air is cool but not too cool, the freshness mixing with the sweet decaying scents of fallen leaves.

Mrs. Jackson sees me from across the street and waves. “The girls made a quilt to send to your mother.”

“She’ll love that.” My hot-air balloon grows larger, filling with so much goodness. “Drop it at Sugar and Sips. I’ll pick it up next time I’m there and make sure she gets it.”

When I pass the hardware store, Dave Tanaka pokes his head out. “Got those antislip mats you were after. Came in this morning.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Without them, when Candy Cane runs full speed and lands on Delilah’s area rugs, she becomes a dog torpedo. “I’ll grab them in the morning.”

“See you then.” He salutes me and slips back inside.

Two women with strollers smile at me as I pass. I smile back. I get another wave, this time from an old pal of Callahan’s. I’m so content I can’t control the bounce in my step. Windfall really is feeling like home again. Welcoming. A place where I can plant roots and grow.

I’m strutting toward the butcher shop, humming “Call Me Maybe,” when Sandra pops out of nowhere, blocking my path. “A woman’s in town looking for you.”

Honestly. Having Sandra on my side is a game changer. Not only does she dog sit for me as needed, but she’s a veritable Sherlock Holmes. Just last week, she came up to my table at Sugar and Sips and told me my shoelace was undone. Nothing gets by her. “Is this woman from Windfall?”

“I didn’t recognize her. She asked Angel if she knew you. Angel said no.”

Maybe Angel should get employee of the month. “From what you observed, can you estimate the woman’s approximate age? Height? Any physical descriptions you recall?”

“Early thirties, Caucasian female, my height.” A.k.a. vertically challenged. “Blonde hair, definitely not her natural color.”

“Was she holding a candlestick by any chance? Or a wrench? Did you see any ID that indicates her name is Patricia Peacock?” I’m incredibly curious who’s looking for me, but playing Clue with Sandra’s too fun to act serious.

She purses her thin lips in contemplation. “She didn’t say her name, but her purse was exceptionally large. Any number of things could be hidden in there.”

I place my hand solemnly on Sandra’s shoulder. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. And if you see her again, tell her to leave her contact information. We’ll do recon before I contact her.”

Sandra nods. The move does zilch to dent the perm haloing her head.

This time, when I continue on, I’m not humming. I examine the pedestrians, wondering who’s asking around about me. US Marshals would have shown their ID. Most blasts from my past have either gawked at me already or have come to say hello.

The town’s taking down the sewn scarecrows from the lampposts, readying to swap them for holiday-centric decor. I smile, remembering my icing kiss with Delilah, the dancing and laughing, and us running around town following clues. That balloon in my chest puffs up again, filled with too much contentment to be safe.

Then I falter.

There’s a kid staring into the bookstore’s window. He’s lean and lanky, looks about nine or ten. I only catch his profile, but there’s something so familiar about him unease pokes a hole in my hot-air balloon. Air hisses out. Fast. My lungs struggle to inflate. I focus harder, sure I’m making things up, seeing the impossible, when I hear, “E. Is that you?”

I turn and freeze. “Sadie?”

Desmond’s lost love, the heart he lost ten years ago, stands before me. She holds her big purse close and bites her lip as memories crash over me: Sadie eating dinner at our family table, teasing Desmond for slurping his soup—a joke that would’ve earned me a cuff on the back of my head; Sadie shoving straw down his shirt at the annual tractor race, shrieking as he ran after her; Desmond picking a sleeping Sadie up into his arms after she’d fallen asleep on our couch, kissing her forehead softly. Fun moments. Simple moments. A hoard of memories that plagues Desmond daily, and I find my gaze returning to the young boy at the bookstore window, roaming over his familiar features—piercing eyes, thick eyelashes, wide mouth.

“Is that . . .” My voice cracks. I can’t get the words out. Is that Desmond’s son?

Sadie nods, tears gathering and spilling over. Jesus fuck.

I grab her. Or she grabs me. We grab each other and hug like our lives depend on it. It probably does. Sadie must have been pregnant when we left. Desmond not only lost the love of his life, but he lost a child, nine years of that kid’s life as his son learned to talk, to walk, first smiles, first laughs, first cries, first and second and third and fourth triumphs and failures. He missed every single thing while he drank and wasted his life, and my father did this. He ruined my brother so thoroughly he’ll never recover.

Her body shakes. I shake, unsure how to process what this means.

The boy—my nephew—comes up to Sadie and tugs on her jeans. “Mom. What’s wrong?”

Sadie presses her fingers to the inside corners of her eyes, stretches her jaw, then bends down and faces him. “Just adult stuff, honey. Nothing for you to worry about.” She smooths the front of his striped shirt and juts her chin toward me. “This is E. He’s an old friend.” She locks eyes with me, an imploring look I take to mean she doesn’t want him to know who I am. “E,” she says softly. “This is Max.”

Max is a good name. A strong name. And I feel myself cracking. My body’s begging me to move. Run. Sprint so fast from this reality it can’t catch me—the knowledge of what was lost and how hard it will hit Desmond, my brother who’s already a shadow of the man he was. But I can’t run. I promised Delilah I wouldn’t disappear again. I owe Sadie answers. I need to be strong for Desmond, who can’t be strong for himself.