Kittenfish: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  “Now, now,” my mother says as she bustles into the room carrying a tray of sandwiches and sweet teas as if we actually were still kids and had somehow time-traveled back to live in 1953.

  The fact that my mother was born during an already liberated time for women in history and was on the young side when she had me at twenty-three seems to have little bearing on how she turned out. She has stubbornly held on to her ultra-traditional nature. Her stated goal has always been to make her home a haven.

  Which it’s been for Tarek and Kya as well as me, her actual child.

  “Thanks for the sandwiches, Mrs. Ryan.” Tarek grabs two halves and my mother hands him a small plate to put them on.

  “Yes, thanks!” Kya echoes and loads her own plate.

  Without consulting each other, we each take our usual spots—the seats that, though we haven’t occupied them in ages, were exclusively ours growing up.

  “Looks like the gang’s all here.” My father pats Tarek on the back and receives a grin in return.

  “It’s been a while.” My mother smiles as she carries two sandwiches with the crusts cut off on a real china plate to my father. He grins and pinches her backside when she turns around. She giggles and blushes. She’s never stopped being a school girl with a crush.

  My parents are so embarrassing.

  “So how’s the investment world, Tarek?” My father likes to think he’s on top of current events and finance, though Tarek’s answer will not sway my father’s investments one way or the other. They’re mostly in his head, anyway. He doesn’t risk real money. Just thinks about what he could invest in. Or should have.

  “Good, sir, good,” Tarek tells him seriously. “It’s a favorable time for investing, especially long-term.” His eyes light on me, then quickly shift away.

  “Wonderful.” He nods and rubs his chin. “Tarek, I have some work in the barn I was wondering if you’d help me with today.”

  “Of course, sir. I’d be happy to help.”

  Because we do not live on a farm, our “barn” is basically a glorified two-story shed. It’s larger than most tool sheds, is made of wood, and is exactly the shape and color of a barn, hence the name. Okay, it’s a barn, but the only animals are an edge trimmer, an assortment of rusty rakes and shovels, and a riding lawn mower that gleams with over-polishing—and sits higher in Dad’s affections than I do.

  I take a bite of my chicken salad sandwich and close my eyes, wondering why I don’t make the effort to come home more. The food is worth the rest of it. “What do you have to do in the barn today, Dad?”

  “Termites got the east wall. I’m tearing out the chewed-up boards and replacing them. Then we’re gonna hit it with a new coat of paint.”

  “Aren’t you glad you chose today to visit?” I ask Tarek sweetly. He shoots a tight-lipped grin at me.

  After just a couple of bites, my father sets his second sandwich down. “We should get started.”

  That’s my dad. Once he decides to do something, he wants to do it right away, second sandwich be damned.

  Tarek takes a big last bite and sets his own sandwich down. “Yes, sir.”

  They stand to leave, but my mother intercepts. “Wait! There’s dessert.”

  My father grins and sits back down. “Well, then.”

  Tarek glances at my father and seems to decide dessert is an order. My mother returns a minute later with slices of cake she has already cut in the kitchen. She serves me last and finally sits down to a piece herself.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Lizzie,” my father says with his mouth full and another giant bite on his fork, prepared for takeoff.

  I sample a bite and almost choke on it. I drop my fork on the floor as a sickening feeling rises up my throat. “Mom! This is my wedding cake!”

  She looks down at the piece she’s eating and back up at me. “I froze it and thawed it out fresh today, Rissa. Besides, I cut it up so you can’t even tell.”

  “I can tell, Mom! It’s a relic from the most painful moment of my entire life. I can totally tell.”

  Tarek and Kya glance at each other and then stare at me. Kya looks concerned as if she will be called upon to pick me up off the floor again at any moment, and Tarek just looks evil like the evil bastard who made Liam leave me. Which he is.

  “We should get started.” My dad nods to Tarek and they head out back. My mother whisks their dishes into the kitchen before they reach the sliding glass door.

  “Why are you both here, Ky?” I ask her when everyone else has gone.

  Cross-legged on the floor, she shrugs. “When I talked to your mom on Wednesday, she invited us. Whatcha got in the bag?”

  I glance down at the camera case by my feet. I didn’t expect to have to explain my new hobby.

  “I got a new camera.” I pull it out and show it to her in all its technological glory. “I thought I’d practice taking some shots in the backyard.” The freshly painted barn and the rolling hills leading into the trees will make for a wonderful subject.

  She looks through the viewfinder and then fiddles with the buttons on the back screen. “Did Giselle get you interested in photography?”

  A pause stretches between us a moment before I answer. “Yes, she did. At first. I guess that’s why I was interested—all her success and everything.” She gives the camera back and I put it to my eye and check the focus. I snap a few shots of Kya. “But I’m getting into it.”

  Kya nods. “Cool. It will give you something to do besides obsess over Liam.”

  “Exactly.”

  I hadn’t planned to stay at my parents’ house all day—usually a couple of hours is plenty—but Kya and I end up chatting with my mom for a while. Afterward, I tromp around our yard and woods, taking pictures and experimenting with different filters and settings on my new camera.

  Not wanting to run into Tarek, I’d steered clear of the barn. Kya got tired of being in my pictures and waiting as I set up others. She returned to the house to see if she could help my mom bake a pie.

  I set up my tripod next to a fern bathed in light. On the frond closest to me a ladybug perches. I focus on the colorful insect and hold my breath as I push the button on the remote. Only after I’ve captured the image does the ladybug take flight. I smile at my timing.

  After collapsing my tripod and stowing my equipment, I trek back to the house, knowing I won’t top that last image today.

  When I reach the barn, I pause for a second to admire the replaced boards and coat of new paint that has the barn sparkling, hopeful in the sunny afternoon.

  Tarek and Dad are nowhere to be seen. They must have finished up and already returned to the house.

  I decide to do the barn photo shoot I’d skipped in my desire to avoid Tarek and set up the tripod again. Concentrating on getting my settings right, I don’t see Tarek until he’s right beside me.

  “Boo,” he says in my ear, and I jump.

  He laughs, and I pinch him.

  “Ow!” he yelps, though he’s smiling—too pleased with himself to let me think I’ve really hurt him.

  “Have you been working out, Duchess? That one almost stung.” He rubs his arm where I pinched it. “Almost. Those pointy little pinching fingers you’ve got are cute.”

  I shake my head but ignore him and instead work on my next shot.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t go away.

  He takes one of my lenses from my bag and weighs it in his hand. “So what made you take up photography?”

  “I guess I was inspired by Giselle.” I find it a little funny that underneath all my lies to him, right now I’m speaking the truth. She did inspire me. I mean, I created the person who inspired me, but still.

  He nods. “You don’t need to be jealous of her, you know.”

  I turn from the camera lens to gawk at him. “Jealous?” I burst into peals of laughter.

  “What?” He folds his arms and his forehead creases up to his hairline. Tarek doesn’t like being laughed at.

  I take a de
ep breath and steady myself. “I could never be jealous of Giselle. She does her thing. I do mine.” It’s not like you can be jealous of yourself. I shrug and take my camera off the tripod. “I don’t need to be jealous.”

  A glance at him reveals he’s unconvinced.

  “Giselle may have inspired me to buy a good camera”—I pause and fiddle with the strap—“but this is just a hobby. Everyone and their Yorkie are taking pictures now. There’s an excellent camera in every person’s pocket. The whole world is a lens.”

  Tarek nods. “True. Hard to make a living at it nowadays.”

  “Yeah.” My pulse picks up speed. Giselle’s job is unbelievable, isn’t it? I should’ve gone for something less glamorous but more realistic. Something like accounting or engineering.

  “I guess it’s good that Giselle’s so successful,” he says with an open smile. I search his face for sarcasm, but I don’t see any.

  I breathe deeply, willing myself to relax, and nod. “She’s the best.”

  When we get to the house, my mother is setting the table. “You two wash your hands for dinner.”

  Just inside the sliding glass door, I freeze. Tarek bumps into me from behind, and I stumble forward.

  “Move it, Duchess.”

  “Mom, it’s four forty-five!” I shake myself. “Why are you saying it’s dinner time? I never stay for dinner.”

  My mother straightens and puts her hands on her hips, her ruffled floral apron—that she made to match mine—giving credence to my theory that she has time-traveled from the fifties.

  “Marissa Jane, don’t you think I’ve noticed? That’s why I’ve moved up dinner. With Tarek and Kya here, we can all be together. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “No cake, though.” I give her a pointed look.

  Her expression is suitably chastened. “No cake.”

  Tarek pushes past me. “Thanks, Mrs. Ryan. Dinner smells terrific. I’ll go wash my hands.” He sends me a smug smile and tromps toward the bathroom.

  “Suck-up!” I yell after him.

  He waves a hand behind him but doesn’t turn around. He’s too happy to be here—too happy being an irritation in my life.

  I wash my hands in the kitchen and help my mom get dinner on the table—roast beef, rolls, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean soufflé—all before five o’clock. She even followed my no-cake edict and served that pie she’d made with Kya.

  “How are things going with Trina?” my mom asks Kya when she’s back from washing her hands.

  It’s always startling to me how involved my mom is in Kya’s and Tarek’s lives. Almost like they’re my adopted siblings. It’s nice, I guess—for them—but sometimes I wonder where my mother’s loyalties lie. Would they be with Tarek or with me in this secret war between us? I sweep the ungenerous thought away and tune back in to the conversation.

  “Trina’s great.” Kya pauses with a roll halfway to her mouth and beams. “I think we’re going to have a breakthrough any day now. I keep trying to get Marissa to go to the gym with me. But you know how she is.” She rolls her eyes. “She’d rather wallow.”

  Everyone stops to look at me—even Tarek and my dad who were not yet seated. Just because Liam had been obliquely referenced, did they expect me to break into tears?

  I shrug and go to my place at the table.

  The rest of them start moving again, but it’s my mom who ventures to speak.

  “Going to the gym would be good for you, Marissa. Endorphins are stress relievers. They’ll keep you from getting suicidal.”

  I’d be more startled at my mom throwing the word “suicidal” around except that I already know my mother. She always leaps to the worst-case scenario first—that way she’s pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t happen. It’s the pessimistic way to be an optimist.

  “And you’d be helping your best friend,” Mom continues as she helps scoop a much-too- large spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Tarek’s plate. “It’s a win-win.”

  I nod microscopically to appease her, but my mother seizes on it.

  “So you’ll go? This week?”

  Kya pleads with wide, hope-filled eyes. Tarek laughs but stifles it into a cough. He’s always triumphant at seeing me beaten.

  “Yes, I’ll go,” I tell the table at large.

  “Perfect!” Kya side-hugs me.

  My mother smiles her approval, I smile back because I’m going to wiggle out of going, and Tarek smiles his smugness. I kick his shin under the table. It’s just like old times.

  ∞∞∞

  When I get home that night, I thumb through the pictures I took at my parents’ house, zooming in on different shots, checking focus and composition. I get excited. There’s genuine improvement in my work. One image with the ladybug is crisp and the fern behind her fades into green. It’s just how I wanted it. I silently congratulate myself.

  But then another shot snags my attention.

  In it is the hill and flowers captured in ten similar shots, but there’s one that stands out. In the bottom right corner of the frame, Tarek stands looking at the camera. Or rather, staring at me through the camera.

  I zoom in on the image and scan over, then enlarge and crop till Tarek fills the frame. I run my thumb over the screen and snatch my hand away, startled.

  He’s looking at me, all right, but his expression is so strange. It’s not smug or superior or taunting. His eyes are steady and his mouth is soft.

  He looks nice.

  He doesn’t look like my enemy, and I hate him for it.

  ∞∞∞

  Tarek Oliver

  Hey, Giselle. Been thinking about you this morning—thinking about you and your very feminine ways. Thought you might be able to help me out with something.

  What’s a nice gesture a cool, modern man can make for a woman at our present time? Flowers and chocolate seem passé—also there are allergies and preoccupations with waistlines to consider. What would a girl like you like to get as a reminder that a guy like me exists and is thinking about you?

  When I read Tarek's latest message to Giselle, I do a happy dance—once the feeling of nausea passes. I squeal and run around the kitchen in my pajamas. I even slide around on my socks for a while, fake ice-skating.

  He likes her. Likes her likes her. He wants to buy her a present proving it. Something that will make her think well of him. And he’s asking her, herself, in a thinly veiled attempt at getting her something she wants and simultaneously making known everything he’s just said to her.

  This is a reason for giddiness right here. A reason to celebrate a palpable victory. After cavorting around the kitchen and into my living room, I settle back down to the computer to spin out more of the evolving Tarek/Giselle fairy tale.

  Giselle Bisset

  Hey! Great to hear from you. What a lovely question. I think every woman appreciates the gesture regardless of what the gift itself is. Flowers and chocolates are still thoughtful—and giving chocolates is actually saying that you don’t think the lady needs to worry about her waistline. The absolute best gift, though, is anything that’s so specific to her that it demonstrates how much you’re paying attention.

  I cast about for a gift for Giselle to suggest. If it were me, I’d want a new battery pack for my camera. Those are expensive. I debate for a moment whether I should suggest that or not. Anything Tarek gifts Giselle will make its way to me since Lexy thinks everything we handle are props. But I have a tiny bit of heartburn over benefitting monetarily from Tarek’s soon-to-be-ensuing heartbreak. On the other hand, it would take a mountain of battery packs to make up for the loss of Liam and blowing up my happily ever after. And my bruised backside. And my broken heart. On a list of checks and balances, Tarek should buy Giselle something I’d get to keep.

  But I don’t want anything from him, even indirectly from Giselle. If he shows up with flowers or chocolate for Giselle, Lexy can enjoy them.

  ∞∞∞

  Early Saturday morning, Lexy comes over to my house for our pr
e-fake-filming play practice.

  “What you have to remember about this scene, Lexy, is that this is an accidental run-in. You should be surprised to see him—he should act surprised to see you. And the interaction should be brief. You have other plans and other places to be. Understand?”

  “Yes. Where?” She blinks at me, her large blue eyes clear pools of innocence.

  “Where what?” I shift a couch pillow to cushion my back.

  “Where else do I have to be?”

  I bite my lip. “I don’t know. It’s just part of the scene. You’re a busy woman.” At her drawn-together eyebrows, I give in and make up more of her backstory. “You have a meeting with a magazine editor. About freelance work.”

  Lexy makes a note on her pages. She raises a finger. “Question.”

  “Yes?”

  “So you work with the male lead—the guy who plays Tarek—like you work with me, right?” She puts her pen to her pillowy lips and chews on the end.

  “Right.” I’m pretending to.

  She pulls her pen away and points it. “Well, I noticed he’s very attractive.”

  I huff out a breath. “And?”

  “And what?” She crosses her legs at the ankles.

  “And what was your question?”

  She looks up from her script. “Oh! Next time you see him off camera, could you give him my phone number?” At the expression on my face, she hustles to add, “After we’re finished with the film, of course. I remember you said no dating—”

  I push hair out of my face. “Or speaking!”

  “Or speaking off camera. That’s right. I’m sorry.” She scoots back on the couch.

  I breathe in, eyes closed, gathering my patience. “That’s okay. I’ll make sure you guys trade numbers once filming on this ends. But this is very experimental. For this project, we have to keep it fresh. No outside interaction.” At all.

  She nods. “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Moving on.”

  We run through the scene with me playing Tarek’s part. Because I know him so well, I find myself injecting his swagger into the role.