Kittenfish: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  “What can I do for you?”

  He holds out a scrap of our print edition. It’s a classified ad that reads, “Missing God. My god went missing Monday night. Loves his leash. Answers to the name of Ridiculous Poopoo. Call the number below, and I will listen to you talk about your day.”

  I look up from the copy. This prank smacks of Blaire. No wonder she’s not in her seat, awaiting the fallout. “Is any of this accurate?”

  He switches the empty leash from one hand to the other and massages his neck with his free hand. “My phone number? That’s what the problem is. People keep calling me to chat and I…I just don’t have the time.”

  “What was your original ad? Do you have a copy of it with you?”

  He produces the order confirmation from the submission he’d done online. “It said ‘dog’ obviously,” he tells me, “and my dog’s real name is Lady Kensington…which I guess is pretty ridiculous. My little sister named him, though. When I first got him. She was younger then—” he trails off.

  Was Blaire trying to get fired? Why was she messing with this guy?

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll fix the ad immediately. The corrected version will run in the paper—print and online—an additional two weeks at no extra charge.”

  He takes a deep breath, and his shoulders relax. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Do you have attachment issues?” I nod toward his hand holding the leash.

  He laughs. “Somebody called and said they’d found my dog and would leave him here at the paper. You haven’t seen a dog around here, have you?”

  I shake my head. “No, sorry.”

  He nods. “Yeah, the girl at the front desk said she hadn’t seen a dog either. It makes sense. A lot of people have been punking me because of the ad.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, well, well. What are you kids up to?” Blaire says as she bursts into my cubicle, startling my dog-lacking visitor.

  “Hell-o there,” she purrs when she gets a proper look at him.

  “Hello,” he says.

  She glances between us and lifts her eyebrows at me when he’s not looking. Then she points and hops when I swivel and try to ignore her.

  “This is Blaire Elliott. She’s in charge of classifieds,” I tell him. I turn to Blaire and widen my eyes while giving a side-nod to the guy. “Blaire, this gentleman’s classified ad had some serious errors in it. I’ve offered him a corrected ad to run for two additional weeks at no charge.”

  “Oh.” Blaire nods her head, not taking her eyes off our visitor.

  He pulls at his collar. “Hi. Brandon Raphael.”

  “Oooh! So nice to meet you, Mr. Raphael.” She grabs his hand, shakes it a little too aggressively, and then hangs on. His face reddens. Is she looking for Troy’s replacement? Or is she hoping to make Troy jealous? I scan the room, but Troy’s nowhere in sight. Blaire’s on the prowl.

  She pulls Brandon by the hand she hasn’t let go of deeper into my cubicle. “Do you like sushi, Mr. Raphael?”

  Uh-oh. She’s after him for me. Blaire hates sushi, but I love it.

  “I guess so,” he stammers. I don’t blame him. Blaire is terrifying.

  “What a coincidence! Marissa here loves sushi too. You two should go have sushi together. Maybe dinner this week?”

  Blaire’s question hangs in the air, and I want to crawl under my desk and pull my chair in behind me, even if that means he’d see my seat ring. She’d get the point eventually. I think.

  “Blaire, I’m sure Mr. Raphael has other things—”

  “I’d love to,” he interrupts, soft eyes twinkling.

  A smile tugs at my lips. “You would?”

  He bobs his head several times and then produces a gleaming smile. “I’d really like that. I can’t do this week, but maybe next Friday night? We wouldn’t necessarily need to eat sushi…” He glances at Blaire as he trails off, as if making sure he has permission to change the game plan.

  She smiles and nods encouragingly like a good coach.

  “I’d love to.” I realize I don’t hate the idea. Brandon is attractive. And he seems like a nice guy who loves his dog. Someone who is used to caring and nurturing something rather than wrecking it. It feels like a positive change for me.

  Blaire backs away until she’s standing behind Brandon. She gives me a thumbs-up over his shoulder and claps her hands almost soundlessly while sporting a giant grin. He turns to see what she’s doing, and she reins it back in, nods at him, and leaves.

  He angles his head toward her retreating back. Blaire’s antics are never as covert as she thinks they are. “She’s in the wrong job, isn’t she?”

  “She really is.”

  Chapter Eight

  Are you even ready to date?” Kya asks me. I’m on the phone with her after work, trying to find a position on my couch that doesn’t aggravate the bruise on my butt. I finally settle on lying down completely. I still think being vertical is overrated.

  “I’m not. Blaire pushed me into it.”

  “Ahh,” Kya says like I solved the mystery for her. Blaire is Blaire. After a second’s pause she continues. “Tarek said you were in really rough shape when he went over to your place last week.”

  I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “I’m in worse shape after seeing him.” I think of my bruised backside and gaping heart hole where my love for Liam used to be.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m just kidding.”

  I don’t want to tell Kya about the fight I had with Tarek. For one thing, I’m afraid she’ll defend him, and not having her on my side would tear me apart right now. And then she’d say something stupid and straightforwardly real like Tarek wasn’t the one who left me for a stripper, Liam did. She’d defend Tarek like she always does and miss the main point, which is that Liam and I were perfectly happy, perfectly in love, and everything we were supposed to be until Tarek came in with his corrupting influence and ruined my love life like he always does.

  “How’s the new crush?” I ask in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

  “Good. Great,” she gushes. I can almost see her shining face. “She’s definitely showing interest. And my calves are rock hard.”

  Kya works from home doing web design, so she has to make the leap of leaving her house to meet new people. At the moment she has a thing for one of the trainers at the gym. Kya has been working out a lot in the effort to get her attention. She won’t sign up to be her client, though, even though that would give them a dedicated chunk of time to be together. Besides the conflict of interest, Kya doesn’t want the woman to know how much she weighs.

  “Your calves were already rock hard.”

  “Well, they’re harder now. And rockier.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You should come with me next time. I haven’t seen you at the gym since the split with Liam.”

  “Too many bad memories.” That was true, but there was also my laziness to consider.

  “Come make new memories. It’ll be good for you. You need to stay in shape. Don’t let Liam wreck you on the outside too.”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  She accepts her victory with grace and changes the subject. “So where is Dog-boy taking you on your date?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She pauses. I can tell she’s working up to something. “Hey, you know your friend on Facebook, Giselle?”

  My heart rate speeds up, and I hold my breath so I don’t miss a word by breathing too loudly. “Yeah.”

  “Why have I never heard of her before?”

  There’s a thread of hurt in Kya’s voice, and I kick myself for not thinking about her feelings earlier. My stomach twists as I think about a whole lot of feelings Kya might have about certain plans in the works that I should have considered earlier. But I can’t think about that now. Tarek deserves all this and more. And I can only solve one problem at a time. “Oh, Ky, she’s just an old friend from California before I moved he
re.”

  “Yeah. I guess Tarek’s been talking to her on Facebook.”

  Ha. Yes. He’s been trying, anyway. I mentally pat myself on the back.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. I think he’s really into her. For the moment.” I can hear the eye roll in her voice. “You know how he is.”

  Yes. Yes, I do.

  “Tarek said she was your best friend in California. Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”

  “I don’t know.” I rack my brain. I really don’t know why I would do that, even in my imagination. “I guess I wanted to leave my past behind and be open to making friends at my new home.”

  I hold my breath again, wondering if she’ll buy it. She waits a second to respond and I think I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen before she answers, but she finally does.

  “That was really mature of you.”

  I blow out the breath I was holding and take a gulp of fresh air. “Thanks.”

  “No, really. It was. Who knew you had it in you?” she teases. “So what’s the deal with Giselle? Tarek’s really taken with her.”

  “Oh? How so?” I remind myself to keep breathing. What Tarek thinks about Giselle is not worth passing out over.

  “Oh, he just keeps asking me questions about her. I finally said I’d call you and find out. Is she single?”

  I feel the smug smile on my face. “Not really. She has a boyfriend. They’re long distance right now, but I believe they’re deeply committed.” The pain on my bottom is building. I turn over onto my side, and the pressure is relieved. Oh, Tarek. That bruise on my butt is you. “She didn’t tell him?” My tone is innocent.

  “She did. I think he wants me to double-check her story.”

  “Ahh.” Untrustworthy people are so untrusting.

  “I’m glad your friend is kinda off the market. I’d feel terrible if Tarek broke her heart just when she was moving back here and reconnecting with you and everything. And his track record being what it is—a broken heart is the most she can expect.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Ky, but I wouldn’t worry about Giselle. Like you said, she’s taken, and even if she weren’t, there’s no chance Tarek would break her heart. She’s a tough one.”

  “Ohhkay.” She draws the word out. She doesn’t believe me. Does hero worship of her brother extend so far as to think he’s completely irresistible? To every woman?

  “Seriously. She’s good.”

  “Okay, great. I’m glad. And I hope I get to meet her soon,” she throws out generously.

  “Sure, yeah. Getting us all together would be really fun.” And nearly impossible.

  We chat another minute, and then I get off the phone and onto Facebook where a message from Tarek is waiting.

  Tarek Oliver

  The sunset tonight reminded me of you.

  That’s all he’s written, but below he’s attached a stunning picture of what I’d guess was last night’s sunset. Streaks of orange, purple, pink, and red paint the sky in flames. I can tell he took the picture from his home office. I recognize part of his windowsill in the bottom right of the frame. I stare at it a long time, wondering why he’d say the colors of the sunset remind him of Giselle. She isn’t a redhead. And she doesn’t dress colorfully. In her profile pictures she’s wearing a white blouse.

  I click through the travel photos I’d posted on Giselle’s Facebook wall and sit back.

  Huh. There’s a sunset in every single one of them.

  Funny how I hadn’t noticed I’d chosen all sunset pictures when I had her posting “her” pictures of the pyramids at Giza, the Eiffel Tower, and the Roman Colosseum. Weird that Tarek had.

  Startled into responding, I shoot him back a smiley face emoji and shut down my laptop for the night.

  ∞∞∞

  Tarek calls me at work the next day.

  “Hey, Duchess. Just checking on you.”

  The hell he is. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I lean back in my desk chair and play with the phone cord. “So if I have a problem or need help with something, I should call you?”

  He laughs nervously. “Sure thing. Why not? Hey, speaking of favors, you know your friend, Giselle?”

  My pulse kicks up, and I catch my reflection in the blackness of the screen saver on my monitor. Oh, yeah, I’m smiling. “Yes?” My tone is all innocence. I pluck a pencil out of my cup o’ pens and hold it in my hand just so I have something to squeeze.

  “Well, she and I have struck up a friendship on Facebook.”

  “Really?” My voice is astonished. I am not.

  He clears his throat. “Yes, I do have friends.” His tone is wry.

  “Not women friends.”

  He pauses. Got him there. “Touché,” he says, and I wonder if he’s expanding on the things he thinks he’s an expert at by watching French movies.

  I don’t say anything and wait for him. I don’t have to wait long. The man simply cannot be cowed.

  “So would you like to get together sometime? Maybe a group date or something with Giselle and me, Kya and whoever, and you and that new dog-boy Kya was telling me about?”

  Instead of nice-guy Brandon I picture a giant dog walking on his hind legs, opening the door of the restaurant for me with a paw on my lower back and a black bowtie around his neck. “Giselle’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Yes, thank you, I know that, Marissa.” His words are clipped and I want to giggle at the irritation in his voice. “This is in the name of friendship and helping someone out.”

  I pull a carrot stick from the plastic bag of them in my top desk drawer and crunch it loudly in his ear. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t want to sacrifice any of my friends—new or old—to your rampant sex drive.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry, Tarek, I’ve gotta go.” I hang up the phone and finish my carrot stick with a smile on my face. Playing hard to get works on men like Tarek.

  And he has no idea just how hard Giselle will be to get.

  Chapter Nine

  On my way home from work, I stop by the library and check out several books on photography. I know I could probably find most of the same information on the internet—and more quickly—but whenever I take on a new project, I think it best to be surrounded by heaps of books on the subject. There’s something inspiring about having tangible examples of the thing I’m pursuing. I plan on researching online as well, but as I sit on the floor with half a dozen of the latest photography, art, and design textbooks in front of me, I’m glad I’ve made the effort.

  Large, glossy pictures ripe as fruit fill my senses until I’m absorbing one work of art after another. Much like paintings, some are still lifes, some are landscapes, some are portraits, but some are pure photography—moments in time captured at the exact millisecond the remarkable happened. I breathe in deeply until I can feel my lungs expand and stretch.

  I’m excited about this.

  I’m surprising myself. I thought that I should know a little something about the career I’ve chosen for Giselle so she can write and speak knowledgeably about it when the topic comes up, but I didn’t expect to get so swept up in it myself.

  So swept up, in fact, that I jump online and order myself a mid-range professional camera with an adjustable zoom lens. I rationalize the expense by telling myself that I’m not going on a honeymoon, I don’t need any spending money—or even grocery money for the next three months since I wouldn’t be cooking fancy meals for Liam—and retail therapy is therapy and therefore good for me, right?

  After I push enter to “Complete Your Order” and I get the “Purchase Confirmation” email a second later, I wait for the guilt of my purchase to rush in, but it doesn’t. I must believe the lies I’m telling myself, because I don’t feel guilty and can’t wait to get my new camera.

  But suddenly I don’t want to wait for my camera to arrive to start my new endeavor. I close the photog books and stack them on the coffee table and then stretch a
nd rub my back, sore from the campout on the floor. How long was I down there anyway? I check the clock. It’s past midnight—I’ve been playing for hours. I touch my bruised bottom gingerly, which has been aggravated by the hard floor. But it’s healing. Like me.

  It’s late, but I’m energized. I grab my cell phone, which has an excellent digital camera, and head into the night to practice composition and my new real obsession for my new fake persona.

  ∞∞∞

  “Wake up!”

  Someone slaps the desk in front of me, and I jerk awake. It’s Blaire, thank goodness. I’m mortified that I’ve fallen asleep at work, but I’ve seen her do worse. Much worse.

  She laughs when I look up at her. “You’d better be glad I’m the one who caught you and not goose-face Ronnie.”

  “What are you saying about goose-face Ronnie?” Ronnie says from behind Blaire. Blaire visibly gulps. She’s not wrong, though. With Ronnie’s jutting lines of gray and black eye shadow, she does bear a striking resemblance to a goose.

  Blaire turns to our boss and offers an impish grin. “Oh, I wish you hadn’t heard! I was telling Marissa you were going to be goose-faced with all the vodka I was going to give you for Christmas.”

  I can’t help but be at least a little impressed with Blaire’s ability to lie. I wait to see if Ronnie buys it. I can see her turning the phrase over in her mind, perhaps weighing calling Blaire out on her lie versus how much top-shelf vodka Blaire will have to fork over to make it true.

  Decision made, Ronnie slaps a file into Blaire’s hands. “I can’t wait to see how many bottles of Grey Goose vodka you buy me. It’ll take me a lot to get goose-faced. A lot.” She turns on her Ferragamo heel and leaves us

  As soon as Ronnie is out of earshot, Blaire says, “Well, that’s gonna cost me.”

  “Yes, it is. And what good did it do you? None.” I lean back in my chair. Sometimes Blaire has the impulse control of a naked mole rat. They’re a thing. I’ve seen them in their habitat at Zoo Atlanta. Very impulsive. Very naked.