Page 95 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

One night passes with no word from her. Then two.

When not hunting for Des, I throw myself into revisions, burning every candle at every end as the new panels develop: Delilah, midflight on her beautiful wings, wasted on her misery, getting hit by a passing shuttle and flung through a cloud; Delilah with her abdomen slashed open, eyes wide, crying, as a doctor removes her ability to have kids; Delilah’s wings having shed their splendor, dragging on the ground, unable to lift her into the sky.

Each new panel wrecks me in ways I can’t describe, but pouring them into existence sands the edges of these new rocks in my heart. They’re there. Always there, but the pain is less acute. Maybe one day, the rocks will dwindle into soft beach pebbles, the kind that shift under your feet, reminding you they were once fierce cliffs that bowed to water’s persistence.

Or Delilah won’t call me again, and the rest of me will turn to stone.

On the third night my phone finally rings.

I trip over nothing on my bedroom floor, rushing to grab my cell. At the sight of her name, I blow out a rough breath. “Delilah, hey.”

She doesn’t say hi back or do that thing she did at the end of our last call, quietly breathing and not talking much. She immediately says, “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Even if I talk like a proper wanker?” I say in my horrible English accent, unable to contain my relief.

“Blimey. Your accent’s rubbish,” she says, using her congested Australian voice, laughter in her tone.

I fall happily onto my bed, unprepared for Joking Delilah.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” she says before I can ask how she is. “There was just so much stuff in my head. But I got together with Maggie and we talked until, like, three a.m., rehashing my accident and you and recovery and how angry and sad I was back then.”

She takes a huge breath, as though her mouth is having trouble keeping up with her thoughts. “Then I took a long walk with my mom last night, and we talked about my reckless choices before I got hurt. I hadn’t done that, I realized—apologized to her for my behavior. I think I’ve been living with a lot of guilt over my actions, among other things. And we talked about losing my dad, which we don’t really do, how losing you after was tied to those crushing emotions. Anyway, the whole thing was intense. We cried a lot, but we hugged and laughed about good times with my dad too. And I just feel so lucky to have a mother and friends who’ve been here for me when I needed them. And you,” she says as she takes another big breath, the air slowly leaking out. “You’ll always be my best friend, E.”

For the first time in a long time with Delilah, I’m too moved to speak.

“You still there?” she asks quietly.

“I’m always here for you, Delilah.”

Her contented sigh is a gift. “I saw Candy, by the way.”

The change in topic is jarring, but I can’t get enough of the lively lilt in her voice. “If she was walking on her own without Sandra, I’ll be reporting her to the dog police.”

“You should be thanking Sandra. They were in town square, and a guy playing Frisbee almost landed on Candy, but Sandra stepped in the way like a football lineman.”

This is why she’s my go-to dog sitter. “Sandra didn’t get hurt, did she?”

“The only thing that got hurt was the Frisbee player’s pride when she ripped him a new one for not looking where he was running.”

“I’ll have to send her a fruit basket. Or maybe a selection of perm haircare products.” I scratch my scruffy cheek, which hasn’t seen a razor since I left my heart in Windfall. “Or those microscopic listening devices she can plant around town.”

“Or you could just thank her.”

“Delilah, she saved my dog’s life.”

She snorts. “So dramatic.”

What I am is happy. Happy and thrilled we’re back to chatting and joking together, even with our traumatic history. “Tell me more about your past few days.”

She obliges, sharing more about Maggie and her mom and work, less emotional when hitting on sensitive subjects. She asks tons about me too. About Des and my family and my art, telling me again how amazing my work is, like we’re still teens and Delilah’s determined to boost my creative ego.

“Can we talk again tomorrow?” I ask eventually, my voice quiet in my dark room.

“I’d like that.”

“But we should only talk in English accents.”

“Aye, mate,” she says, butchering the intonation. “That’s a brilliant idea.”