“I’d rather have heard it from you than read it in a faded newspaper article.”
His jaw sets. “I would’ve told you eventually.”
Guess we’ll never know.
“Now that I’ve told you everything you need to know, Sheridan, you need to tell me what really happened with Vince’s son. Tell me why he’s paying for your mother’s nurse.”
I can’t tell him everything.
I just can’t.
But I can tell him the abbreviated version.
“We met this summer.” I pick at a loose thread in the carpet. “And we hit it off. I mentioned I was worried about Mama, that she might need some help while I’m gone … he offered.”
Dad runs his palms along his thighs, unsettled, unable to look in my direction. He isn’t stupid. I’m sure he sees through my story. Nothing in this life ever comes for free.
“We really like each other,” I add, keeping my head held high and my voice crystal clear. “He’s a good person. He’s not like his father. Maybe if you met him, you—”
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand as he rises. “I’ve heard enough.”
“What?”
“I will never meet him and you’re never to associate with him,” he speaks through clenched teeth. “Do you understand?”
I want to tell him it isn’t right that they’re still using Mona. That he doesn’t get to hate August and take advantage of him at the same time. But I’m sure he’d refuse to hear me out. And in the end, Mama would suffer the most.
I rise as well. “No, Dad. I don’t understand you. If you could just—”
“—this isn’t up for debate.” He walks to my door. “We don’t associate with Monreauxs. That’s just how it is. How it’ll always be.” He pauses. “The worst thing you could do is accept money from one. Once they have you in their pocket, you’ll owe them for life.”
I fold my arms. “It’s not like that with August.”
“That’s what you think now.” He heads to the door. “End it. Immediately. And never speak of him again. Do you understand?”
His words slice through the room with an icy chill, and the man speaking them resembles nothing of the father who raised me.
My mouth runs dry, and I force a swallow, keeping my head held high. “Already did.”
“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long couple of days. I’m going to go check on your mother. And you should get some rest. You’ve got a drive in the morning.”
He closes the door, and I collapse on my bed, lying on my stomach and burying my cheek against my flat pillow as I stare at the wall.
My phone dings from my nightstand, I stretch to reach it.
ENEMY DEAREST: Please call me, Sher. I leave tomorrow. I need to see you.
August’s been texting for days, saying he has to tell me something big and he wants to tell me in person, but I’ve been ignoring him because I know how it’ll go. He’ll reel me back in and it’ll make everything ten times harder than it already is. I’ve already told him what I needed to tell him. And I’ve already said goodbye. The sooner he accepts our fate, the sooner we can both try to move on—whatever that’ll look like.
ENEMY DEAREST: I miss you.
With tears in my eyes, I write him back.
This will be the last time.
ME: I miss you too. But I can’t.
Chapter Thirty-Five
August
* * *
Class starts in four minutes.
I take a seat in the back corner of the lecture hall that smells like white board markers and overzealous body spray and crack my laptop open. It’s strange, actually attending class. Taking notes. Doing real homework. But it’s a much-needed distraction because if I don’t busy myself with school, I obsess over Sheridan.
It’s been two weeks since I saw her … kissed her … told her I loved her.
Two weeks since she said goodbye.
Every night, I check her social media accounts in hopes she posts something, anything. But it’s still the same old pictures from last year. It kills me not knowing what she’s up to. How she’s adjusting to dorm life. If she’s gone to any parties … or if she’s talking to any guys.
I wish I could tell her that I changed my major—from business to software architecture—because of her. For the first time in my life, I actually want to do something worth a damn. I don’t want to learn how to make rich corporations richer—I want to make a difference in people’s lives. I’ve got an idea for a software program that would make running safer for runners, specifically an app that senses if the user has been hit or taken a fall. It’d immediately send out a call to 9-1-1 as well as ping their exact location.
I thought about telling her via text anyway, in an attempt to get the conversation going. But the last thing she sent me was, “I miss you too. But I can’t.”
Every text I’ve sent to her since has gone unanswered.
My professor takes the podium below, connecting his laptop to the giant screen. A girl with wavy blonde hair and full lips slips through the door just as the lights go out. My stomach flips for a second … but it isn’t her.
It wouldn’t be.
Couldn’t be.
My mind has always played cruel tricks, but lately it’s been fucking brutal.
The girl finds the last empty seat next to me, and within seconds I’m engulfed in a cloud of raspberry body spray.
Digging around in her bag, she accidentally elbows me.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she leans in, whispering. “I can’t find a freaking pen.”
Reaching down, I grab a spare out of my bag and hand it to her, keeping my attention focused on the lecture. Forty minutes later, the lights come on and everyone’s packing up.
“Here you go.” The blonde hands me my pen back—along with a slip of paper.
I unfold the note—her name and number.
When I look up, she’s already gone.
Heading out, I crumple the sheet and toss it in the trash.
Not interested.
I’m not the man I used to be, not even close.
All I am … is hers.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sheridan
* * *
“I’m so sorry—I can’t go tonight.” I wipe the cherry-red lipstick from my face and sweep my hair into a low ponytail, staring at my reflection in the mirror, only to find the saddest girl in the world staring back.
“What? How come?” My friend, Stacia, says from the other end of my phone. “I’m literally on my way to pick you up right now.”
I don’t know what I was thinking when I said I’d go with her to a party at Bexler.
Actually, I’m lying. I know exactly what I was thinking: that somewhere on a campus, amongst fifteen thousand students, I might catch a glimpse of August. The scenario I’d imagined went something like this … I’d spot him from across the streety maybe. He wouldn’t notice me because he wouldn’t looking for me. Maybe he’d be on his phone, making plans for the weekend. Or maybe he’d be sitting on a bus stop bench, finishing a quick homework assignment, lost in his own world.
I only wanted to see that he was okay. That he was moving on. Doing well for himself.
But as I started getting ready tonight, I thought about a different scenario: bumping into him at a party with another girl. The two of us locking eyes from across the room as he kisses some beautiful brunette in a Bexler sweatshirt.
I want August to be happy. He deserves that much.
But I won’t be able to stomach the sight of it. Not yet. Not while everything’s still raw. Not while I still miss him so much it physically hurts in the form of stomachaches, dreams so intense I wake up crying, and a heaviness in my chest that steals my breath when I least expect it.
For three weeks after I told him goodbye, he texted me every day.
I miss you …
I need to talk to you …
When can I see you again?
I love y
ou, Rose girl …
Then one day the messages just … stopped. And I knew they would. He had to have been tired of beating his head against the wall and getting nowhere.
Or maybe he met someone …
Time and time again, I caught myself typing something, only to delete it all and power off my phone to avoid further temptation. Engaging with him is playing with fire, a guaranteed way to get burned, and I’m still healing from the last time.
“Sher, please?” Stacia puts me on speaker, and a couple other girls chime in. We’re all in the same basic anatomy class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, all of us from different parts of Missouri, and we’ve all become close. “Please, please, please?”
I’ve never been a clique sort of person, but these girls have been my saving grace so far this semester. I’m never without plans on the weekends, and a good distraction is only a phone call or text away any time I need it.
I want to go.
But it’s a bad idea.
No good can come of it.
Only a hangover and heartbreak.
“I’m not really feeling well, guys.” It’s true. My stomach has worked itself into knots all night at the mere thought of running into August. Add some cheap beer into that equation and I’ll be sicker than a dog all night.
“I told you not to eat food service sushi,” Stacia says. “Should’ve listened.”
I laugh. “Yeah. It must’ve been the sushi …”
“Are you sure you can’t come with?” She tries one last time.
“I’ll let you ride shotgun and pick all the songs,” Hadley chimes in.
“Tempting, but I’m still going to pass.” I pluck a makeup wipe from its container. “You guys have fun without me, okay?”
I’m met with a symphony of groans and whining, and Stacia promises to call me tomorrow and tell me all about it.
For a split second, I contemplate changing my mind, because what are the odds I’ll run into him? One in fifteen thousand?
I end the call, peel out of my jeans and tank top, and change into pajamas—pajamas that happen to be the very ones I wore the night August snuck into my room.
Plopping on my dorm bed, I grab my laptop and pull up my Netflix. Clicking on the octopus documentary, I settle against my pillow … and grab a Red Vine from the bag in my nightstand drawer.
Maybe I’m just as crazy as he is.
It’s a tragedy, how perfect we were for each other.
And it’s heartbreaking that all that’s left are memories of a star-crossed summer and Red Vines.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
August
* * *
I shove my hands in my jacket and barrel down the campus town sidewalks until I spot my car in the overflow parking lot.
I have to get out of here.
I need air. I need a change of scenery. If I stay in this fucking Sheridan-less bubble another minute, I’ll die.
Ten minutes later, I’m taking the exit toward Briardale Community College. It’s an hour drive from Bexler, and I have no intentions of seeking her out. I just want to be in the same stratosphere as her, breathing the same oxygen, taking in the same views … anything to feel closer to her.
Led Zeppelin plays from my speakers—the same song she sang along to months ago, in the very seat that sits empty beside me. I crank the volume, settling in for the drive, knuckles white against the steering wheel.
This hopeless, helpless sensation is foreign to me, and I’ve never been one to feel sorry for myself, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
My life—without Sheridan—is an endless void.
A hamster wheel of college classes, beer binges, and meaningless monotony.
Resting my head back, I conjure up a mental conversation with her, imagining what we’d be talking about in this moment. School maybe. Weekend plans. How much we miss one another. It helps, sometimes, to pretend we never went our separate ways. And maybe in some parallel universe, we’re still together. We made it work. Growing deeper and harder in love with each passing day.
I’m diving headfirst into another fantasy conversation when the radio cuts out and Soren’s name flashes across the display. I clear my throat, sit up straight, and tap the green button.
“Hey,” I say.
“Happy birthday …” It’s loud where he is. I can barely hear him over all the commotion in the background. Someone’s yelling.
Exhaling, I manage a quick, “Thanks.”
I completely forgot today was my birthday.
“You out celebrating?” he asks, yelling over the noise.
I scan the empty highway and chuff. “In my own way.”
“I’ll do a shot in your honor tonight,” he says with a chuckle. We don’t have traditions, but if we did, this might be the closest thing to it. “One of these days I’ll be there in person and we can do one together.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
He covers the phone, his voice muffled for a second as he speaks to someone else.
“Sorry about that.” He’s back. “Was going to see if you had any plans for Thanksgiving. We’re doing our eastern leg of the tour that week … playing Madison Square Garden and working our way down. I could fly you out if you want to hang with us for the week?”
I’ve toured with his band once a couple of years ago, and honestly, once was enough. Their parties make mine look like a kiddie parade with clowns and balloon animals. It took me two solid weeks just to recover. And I’ll be damned if I go within a football field’s distance of Everclear ever again.
“Thanks but I’m good,” I say.
He’s wordless for a second. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just seem … I don’t know … sad or something,” he says. “It’s, what, nine o’clock where you are? On a Friday? And you’re alone? I call bullshit. It’s some chick, isn’t it?”
Sheridan is hardly some chick.
But Soren wouldn’t understand.
And I don’t have the energy to explain any of it.
“Just tired,” I say. And it’s not a complete lie. I am tired. Tired of merely existing while everyone around me moves on with their life and I’m treading water. If I could snap my fingers and get myself out of this trance-like state of despair, I would.
But I can’t—I’m stuck on her.
“What’s her name?” he asks, seeing through me. “This chick.”
“It’s no one you’d know.”
“Obviously,” he says. “Is this the same one you were going to bring to my show last summer?”
I told him she was sick. A lame, uncreative excuse in retrospect.
Sighing, I say, “Yeah. Same girl.”
“Well, shit,” Soren says with an exhale. “I have to get out there for soundcheck, but my offer still stands. Come hang out with us if you want to get away for a bit. And if not, I mean, I understand. I get it. I’ve been there. I still think of mine sometimes. And hell, every song on my last three albums was about her in one way or another. Biggest fear is I’ll marry someone else but see her face on my wedding day. They stick with you, man. Those first loves. It’s heaven and it’s hell.”
A sign ahead tells me Briardale’s exit is seventeen miles away.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I say, half-chuckling. Awkwardness of this “bonding” moment aside, it’s good to know I’m not alone.
“All right, well, I have to go. You take care. Have a drink or something tonight, okay? Take the edge off. And I’m always here if you need me,” he says. “And August? I hope you get the girl. Honestly, knowing you … you will.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sheridan
* * *
“Stacia.” I grip her arm under the table at a local sushi place. “You didn’t tell me this was a double date.”
“Obvi.” She smirks as her boyfriend and his friend make their way from the front door to our booth. “Or you wouldn’t have come …”
&nbs
p; “So messed up.”
She climbs out of her seat and wraps her arms around her boyfriend, Bryan. They’ve been dating a few weeks now and they’re already exclusive, inseparable, and in love. I’m thrilled for her, truly, but every time I see them together, my heart breaks a little.
It could’ve been us …
“Sheridan, this is my roommate, Dillon,” Bryan says.
Dillon extends his hand, and flashes a megawatt smile accented with two perfect dimples. His hair is freshly cut, slicked back with brilliantine, and he’s dressed like he’s going to a job interview.
A lifetime ago, he would’ve been my type … clean cut, preppy.
Stacia and the guys slide into the booth, and I brace myself for a night of small talk and awkward conversation.
“So you’re a nursing major?” Dillon asks. “Like Stacia?”
I nod, sipping my ice water. “That’s how we met.”
“Awesome,” he says with a little too much enthusiasm. “I’m studying accounting. Hope to be a corporate accountant someday. Got my sights set on a Fortune 500 company.”
I stifle a yawn.
I should’ve stayed in my pajamas and called it an early night, but Stacia spent an hour blowing up my phone and begging me to get sushi. We were halfway here when she told me Bryan was joining us, which would’ve been fine had they not been setting me up for a surprise, blind double date …
And I get it.
It’s fun when friends date their boyfriend’s friends.
And Dillon is cute—but he’s no August.
“You have any brothers or sisters?” Dillon asks. I cringe on the inside.
“Only child.” I flip open my menu. “You?”
“Five sisters,” he answers with a wide grin.
“Sorry, man. Sounds awful.” Bryan elbows him, teasing. “And I thought having one sister was bad enough.”
“You’re from Meredith Hills, right?” Dillon asks.
Enemy Dearest Page 17
