Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  I choose a featured documentary about an octopus and hit ‘play.’

  Nudging closer, August rests his hand on my bare thigh, his fingertips tracing the inside of my leg. The show is a little less than exciting, but I was trying to choose something neutral, something we could both enjoy.

  “Trying to warm me up for round four?” I ask as he cups my cheek and steals a kiss.

  It’s three AM. We haven’t slept a wink. At this rate, we won’t be sleeping at all. And I’m supposed to be at work in nine hours …

  “Just getting as much of you as possible, while I can.” He takes me by the wrist and guides me into his lap. His palms skim my thighs before he grabs my ass. His hardness grows between my thighs, his hot flesh against mine. One careless move and he’d be inside me sans condom, and we’re not there yet.

  I’m not trying to have a Monreaux baby …

  “You’d think the world was ending, the way we’re going at it …” I brush a messy wave from his perfect face. Our eyes rest in some intimate, otherworldly place, but I convince myself I’m reading into nothing, and I break the gaze.

  I force myself to imagine him at Bexler this fall, which I hear is basically an all-you-can-eat buffet of beautiful co-eds. It’s said that “all the pretty girls go to Bexler.” I overheard someone in my French class saying that Bexler is the school where most women leave with a degree they’ll never use and a guaranteed future as a trophy wife.

  That’ll be August someday. He’ll marry a beautiful woman, provide her with endless orgasms and a lifetime of security—and I’m okay with that. Because I have to be.

  Even if it breaks my heart a little …

  August leans close, kissing my collarbone before working his way down my shoulder—until my stomach rumbles.

  He stops. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah, a little.” I’m starving.

  A second later he digs in a dresser drawer. “Here, wear this.”

  He hands me a t-shirt, which I tug over my head. And he changes into a pair of silk pajama bottoms.

  The hallway is pitch black, nothing but dimmed sconces on the walls every few feet. When we get to the top of the stairs, he takes my hand, and my heart does the tiniest flip.

  A minute later we’re in the kitchen.

  “Have a seat.” He points me to a bar stool as he rummages through the fridge.

  A turkey sandwich, some fresh pineapple, and a few Red Vines later, my stomach no longer rumbles. As we head back to his room, I taste remnants of licorice in my teeth, savoring the remaining sweetness. From this day forward, I’ll probably always associate red licorice with August.

  “August.”

  We’re halfway to the second level when a male voice cuts through the quiet darkness.

  I suck in a breath, clutching my chest.

  Standing at the base of the stairs is a man who resembles a slightly older, cleaner-cut, darker-haired, darker-eyed version of August. It definitely isn’t Soren. I’ve seen his image on enough billboards and watched him perform on enough late night talk shows to have it memorized.

  “I thought you were in Philly for work?” August says.

  “Who the hell is this?” The man ignores August’s comment, drinking me in from head to toe in a way that makes me squirm. Squinting, he studies my face, like he’s trying to place me. “You realize the minute you’re gone, there’ll be ten more in your place. Just like you.”

  “The fuck is wrong with you?” August takes a step toward him, wedging between the two of us.

  “Just in case she was feeling special for a second,” the man says to him. “Didn’t want to get her hopes up. You have a habit of doing that to people. Making promises you can’t keep.”

  “You really need to shut the fuck up right now.” August grinds his words between his teeth and takes another step closer to the man, but I hook my hand into his elbow and keep him from doing something crazy.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper.

  The two of them stay in a stare off for what feels like forever, before August turns and leads me upstairs, his hand clenching mine though I don’t think he realizes it.

  “He’s not fucking worth it,” he says under his breath. I don’t know if he’s speaking to me—or to himself.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Gannon.”

  “And does he always talk to you that way?” We’re seated on his bed now.

  “Our relationship has always been … special.” His shoulders rise and fall, muscles flexing with each breath. “But trust me, I give it to him twice as good.”

  Sitting on the bed behind him, I rub his shoulders. “He seems like a prick.”

  August chuffs. “Just forget what he said, all right? He was just making shit up to make you feel bad and to get to me. That’s what he does. The bastard gets off on that shit.”

  “I mean … it’s not like we’re dating. You’re allowed to be with other people. I don’t have any kind of claim to you …”

  He exhales. “Yeah.”

  We sit in profuse silence for a moment, an almost painful sort of quiet. For all I know he’s conjuring up all sorts of uncomfortable memories in that mysterious head of his. Recollections he keeps bottled inside because he’s got nowhere else to put them. I press my cheek against his back to let him know he’s not alone.

  The powerful strum of his heartbeat plays in my ear as I inhale his familiar scent.

  I’m going to miss this.

  “Have you ever pictured me with someone else?” he asks.

  I sit up. He turns, angling his body toward mine.

  “What do you mean?”

  His mouth presses flat. “If you imagine me with another woman, how does it make you feel?”

  Sinking back, I envision him with some pretty brunette with aspirations of nailing him down for life, and it doesn’t feel pleasant. But I can’t tell him that.

  What would be the point? To torture ourselves?

  We can’t be together.

  “When I think of you with another man,” he says, “it feels like a sucker punch. That’s the only way I can describe it. It knocks the wind out of me. I literally can’t breathe.”

  I digest his words for a second. This is happening so fast—and his confession is beyond unexpected. I’d entertained these thoughts on my own countless times, only to pass them off as reckless daydreams and nothing more.

  “What are you saying?”

  He drags in a long breath, rakes his messy hair back and exhales. “I don’t know. I don’t know what any of this shit means. I just … I just know it’s different. Being with you. And I can’t deny it. I don’t know what to do with it, so I’m putting it out there.”

  He’s rambling. And August never rambles.

  “I know this is sudden,” he continues. “But it’s the realest—”

  Lifting a finger to his lips, I quiet him.

  “I know what you’re trying to say,” I tell him. “And I know what you’re afraid to say—because I feel it too.” I study his features in the dark, though even if my eyes were closed I’d still know them by heart. “So what do we do now? What the hell do we do?”

  He answers me with a kiss, frenzied and wild, his fingers in my hair, but I suppose it’s because there is no other answer.

  Our futures were written for us long before the day we met.

  All we have is this moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  August

  * * *

  I have the unfortunate luck of running into Gannon Saturday morning after showing Sheridan out.

  “Mind telling me what the fuck you were doing with Rich Rose’s daughter last night?” he asks.

  “Who?” I grab an orange juice carton from the fridge and drink straight from the bottle, purely because I know it pisses him off.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. I saw her car. Had someone run the plates. It’s registered to Rich and Mary Beth Rose.”

  “No shit? That girl was a Rose?” I
play dumb as I take another swig. “Guess she left that out when I was asking her fifty million questions about her background before I fucked her.”

  “Does Dad know you’re fucking Rich’s daughter?”

  “He doesn’t. Would you mind filling him in next time you’re up his ass?”

  Gannon scoffs, hands on his khaki-covered hips. Who the fuck wears khakis on a Saturday morning anyway?

  “What, you think he’d be proud? Rich Rose is a liability. What if he tries to have his daughter say you raped her or something?” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I really think you have shit for brains.”

  “Yeah, probably why I didn’t get into Vanderbilt.” He and I both know I never got in because I never applied. With my perfect SAT score and myriad of recommendation letters and high school accolades, I’d have been a shoo-in.

  “I’m warning you, August. Stop messing around with that girl.” Gannon’s face is cherry-red, a surefire sign his gasket’s about to blow.

  Perhaps it was naïve of me to not consider the ways our little arrangement could get twisted by the wrong person. But Sheridan would never do that. She’s above that shit.

  “Or what? You’ll tattle on me?” I return the tainted OJ to the fridge, and when I close the door, I’m met with Gannon’s face in mine. “The fuck—”

  “Good morning, boys.” Clarice shuffles into the kitchen, broom in hand, impeccable timing as always.

  When we were younger and Clarice was here full-time, she was constantly breaking up fights. Only one time it got physical and she wound up in the middle of it with a broken nose.

  We vowed never to fight around her again—the only thing we ever agreed on.

  “Morning, Clarice.” I head for the stairs, only to be followed by the dipshit.

  “I’m serious. Stay away from that family,” Gannon says under his breath as he trails behind me.

  I stop, turning back. “For once in your life, do yourself a favor and mind your own damned business.”

  “Her dad’s a murderer.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. He was exonerated,” I say. I can’t believe I’m defending Rich right now, but if it gets Gannon off my nut sac I’ll do it.

  “Oh now that you’re fucking that bastard’s daughter, you’re willing to look the other way?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Does Rich Rose know about you two?” He squints, his mouth formed into a devilish kink.

  I can’t tell him yes or no. I can’t give him ammunition. While my original plan was to defile Sheridan out of spite, I actually give a shit about her now. I couldn’t live with myself if I made things worse for her at home—or if Gannon stirs shit up just to get his own rocks off.

  “It’s really none of your business,” I warn him. “And if you’ve got an ounce of intelligence, you’ll leave it the fuck alone.”

  “Or what?” He laughs.

  “I’ll tell Dad you’re fucking Cassandra,” I say without missing a beat.

  It’s amazing how quickly the smugness evaporates from his face. I’m bluffing. I don’t know that they’re fucking, but I’ve seen them flirt when our father isn’t looking and it always does a number on my gag reflex. But the expression on his face is enough to make me think that perhaps there’s some truth to my little accusation. Or at the very least, wishful thinking.

  Gross.

  “You’re a diabolical prick,” he says.

  I shrug. “Takes one to know one.”

  I wave Gannon off. And the asshole leaves, but not without shooting me a death look first. One that suggests he isn’t through with me.

  But he doesn’t scare me.

  The thought of losing Sheridan though? Downright fucking terrifying.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sheridan

  * * *

  “Hi, Mona, come on in.” I greet our new nurse Monday morning. “I’m Sheridan.”

  Mona wears pale yellow scrubs and carries an olive green duffel bag with a medical cross on one side and the nursing company’s logo on the other. A stack of booklets and paperwork rests under one arm.

  “Lovely to meet you, Sheridan.” Mona offers a handshake, which is warm and soft, and she scrunches her shoulders when she smiles. Her chestnut hair is streaked with silver and she smells faintly of fabric softener and brown sugar.

  I love her already.

  “Mama’s in the living room,” I say.

  She steps out of her blue Crocs and follows me to the living room, where Mama is set up in the easy chair. “You can have a seat anywhere you’d like.”

  Not that we’ve got many options. We have a sofa and a chair. And the chair’s already taken.

  For the hour that follows, I tell her all about Mama’s needs. How they fluctuate depending on the day. Some days she doesn’t need nor want help with anything, other days she can hardly get out of bed on her own. When we’re done, I give her a quick tour of the house, finishing in the kitchen by the medicine cabinet.

  “This is Mama’s medicine schedule.” I point to the list on the fridge. “I gave it to the person at your agency when we spoke on the phone the other day, but it’s always here for easy reference.”

  “Wonderful,” she says, rifling through the paperwork in her arms. “I actually have a few things for you as well. This is a magnet with our on-call and emergency information. Here’s my card and a few spares in case you want to give them to friends, neighbors, or family members. Oh, and I have some paperwork that needs to be signed.”

  “I thought I already signed everything? A couple days ago? With the administrator?”

  “Oh, this is for billing. Apparently the guarantor is a non-family member, so they wanted to have this special form on file. It’s a formality.” She places the sheet on the counter and hands me a pen, and I pray that Mama heard none of what she just said.

  I go over the paperwork, signing on the lines and verifying that August Monreaux is responsible for any and all payments but that my family has authorized services. But when I get to the bottom, the date next to his name seems … off.

  Some quick mental math, and I realize the date shown would’ve been two days before we first had sex.

  “What does this date mean?” I point to the bottom of the paper.

  She turns it toward herself. “Oh. That’s the date the contract was initiated.”

  “Is this correct?”

  Mona’s lips spread into a tender smile. “I’m quite certain, but I’m happy to double check for you.”

  I’m about to tell her it isn’t necessary when I’m distracted by the other date—the end-of-services date.

  “Does that … does that say four years from now?” I ask.

  “It sure does. It looks like your guarantor has pre-paid for forty-eight months of services.”

  I take a seat at the table, attempting to wrap my head around this. Forty-eight months would cover all of Mama’s needs until I’m able to graduate with my bachelor’s in nursing.

  Not to mention he dropped well over a hundred grand on this—before I’d even slept with him.

  Why didn’t he tell me this?

  Warmth and fullness floods my chest, filling it to an invisible brim—only to be replaced with a dark, sinking sensation that anchors me into place and steals all the beauty from this moment.

  He was falling for me long before I realized it.

  Maybe even before he realized it, too.

  “Everything okay?” Mona places her hand over mine. “You seem a bit dazed. I know this can be a little overwhelming at first. It’s a big change.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I force a smile. “I was just lost in thought.”

  “If you want to look everything over, I’ll go check on your mother. If you have any questions, you just let me know, okay?”

  “Perfect. And if you don’t mind, please don’t mention any billing matters to Mama. It wouldn’t do any good for her to worry about it.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Mona heads to the livin
g room, and a second later, their voices trail into the kitchen as they make small talk. Sliding my phone from my pocket, I snap a picture of the contract and text it to August.

  ME: You’re truly amazing. Just thought you should know that.

  ENEMY DEAREST: So before I was crazy and insane … but now I’m amazing? Which is it, Rose girl?

  ME: You’re kind of … everything … all rolled into one.

  ENEMY DEAREST: A good thing, I hope.

  If only it weren’t—it would make it a million times easier to walk away before this explodes in our faces … because it’s only a matter of time.

  Good things never last, especially when they weren’t supposed to happen in the first place.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  August

  * * *

  Sheridan nudges my shoulder with hers as we walk to my car. “This feels so risky … being out in public together.”

  We’re in the next suburb over, a touristy antique town called Springdale. No one our age ever sets foot here and most Meredith Hills locals prefer shiny new shopping malls to mom-and-pop vintage fronts, so it seemed like the safest choice for a day together.

  We found a seafood restaurant and walked around Main Street window shopping like an old married couple, something I’d never have been caught dead doing before I met this woman. We took pictures by a mermaid fountain—pictures that will never see the light of day outside of our phones—and she danced for me outside a little café that was piping Frank Sinatra from an outdoor speaker. I couldn’t begin to remember what song it was either. I was too absorbed by her lightness, her contagious smile, and how the rest of the world melts away whenever we’re together.

  Pinning my gorgeous girl against the passenger door, I cradle her sweet face and replace the smile on her lips with a kiss.

  I’m officially that guy.

  The lust-struck asshole with the girlfriend he can’t get enough of—only she’s not my girlfriend. Technically, this isn’t even a date. Despite establishing that we’re both catching feelings, we’ve yet to tack on labels or make promises we can’t keep.