Kittenfish: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  “I’ll figure it out.” She was playing it off, but it was bothering her more than she was letting on. She was probably worrying she’d have to spend half a paycheck on vodka.

  “Oh, I sent a friend request to that old French friend of yours on Facebook.”

  I sat up and my chair snapped upright. “Giselle?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “She’s not French.” At least I don’t think she is. I hadn’t made up my mind about all of her personal history yet. I knew she was in California for second and third grade for me and lived in Germany last. I didn’t want her to have an accent because they’re tricky to pull off, and I didn’t think Lexy could produce one accurately, over and over again, without even a retake. All of her performances would be done live. But Giselle could always be French by birth. Except I’d just said she wasn’t.

  “I mean, she might be,” I correct, “but she doesn’t have an accent or anything. Why are you friending her?” I should have been keeping better tabs on Giselle’s Facebook account instead of falling asleep at my desk this morning. I won’t have to worry about Blaire getting fired since if I keep going like this, I will be.

  Blaire rolls her eyes and collapses into the only other chair in my cubicle. “She’s the hot new thing, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Kya called me last night and asked me what I know about her.”

  “She did?” Kya called Blaire? I’m their friend in common. They don’t usually talk to each other without me. Is Kya seriously pimping for Tarek?

  “Was Kya trying to get you to get Tarek a date with Giselle?”

  Blaire narrows her eyes at me. “No. Why would she?”

  I frown. “I don’t know.”

  Blaire shakes her head and leans back. “No. It was strange. She asked questions about Giselle like how long you’d known her, and if you’d ever mentioned her before.”

  My stomach twists into a knot. So my best friend is so suspicious and distrusting of me that she calls my other best friend to investigate me? “That’s weird.”

  “I think she’s being immature.” Blaire sounds self-satisfied in this pronouncement. She has cause to be—she’s the one Kya is always pointing to as being immature. Because she is.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I think she’s jealous of her or something. For being your former best friend.”

  “But she’s not jealous of you.”

  “She wouldn’t be, would she?”

  “Why not?”

  She crosses her legs and swings the top one back and forth, pointing the sharp toe of her fancy shoe. “Because I’m your best work friend. Work friends don’t count as much. Everyone knows at work you’re a captive audience. Friends you make outside work count more.”

  I think about that. “So that means you don’t like me as much as your other friends?”

  She shrugs. “You can’t go by me. I don’t have any other friends. Oops! There goes Troy. Gotta go.”

  Blaire trots off in her beribboned high heels, and I quickly get onto Giselle’s Facebook account.

  Tarek hadn’t written to Giselle since he’d sent that picture of the sunset. Even though it was contrary to my plan for him, it made me respect him a little bit more. A very little bit more. How Kya could have a brother who is such a pig is beyond my imagination. And I have quite a good imagination. Whatever evil villain toxic sauce had gotten into Tarek’s bottle, I was glad it had spared Kya.

  But maybe Giselle had let Tarek stew in desire long enough, and it was time she threw him a bone. So to speak.

  Giselle Bisset

  Thank you for the picture of the sunset. You have a good eye. Do you enjoy photography?

  Tarek Oliver

  Thanks for the compliment to my eyes. The rest of me isn’t bad either.

  I groan aloud. Seriously, Tarek? I continue reading.

  Just kidding. I do enjoy photography, though I’m not an award-winning expert like you are.

  Kiss-ass.

  Maybe you could give me a photography lesson sometime.

  And there it is. Sure. That’s what Giselle should do. Because that’s what award-winning photographers like to do on their day off—teach photography to amateurs who are really just trying to get them into bed.

  I write him back immediately.

  Giselle Bisset

  No, I’m not a good teacher. I lack the patience. But you should take a class if you’re interested, or do some reading and practice. With the technology on the market now, it’s easier than ever.

  But maybe we can meet for coffee.

  Less than a minute goes by before he answers.

  Tarek Oliver

  Sure. When?

  Giselle Bisset

  I’ll talk to Marissa.

  Tarek Oliver

  ???

  Giselle Bisset

  See when she’s available too.

  Tarek Oliver

  ?

  Giselle Bisset

  Friends getting coffee, right?

  Shutting my laptop, I find my hands are shaking. I chew on my thumbnail and think about when I’ll be available. It will take a couple of days to write a script and workshop with Lexy Pygmalion-style. I’ll need to call Brandon and see if he’s up for getting coffee with a bunch of crazy people—some of whom won’t even be playing themselves—before he and I go to dinner together next Friday night.

  It’s going to be one eventful week.

  Chapter Ten

  I don’t think this is healthy,” Kya says, but she hands me the giant LED flashlight anyway. Dressed all in black, she certainly looks the part of enabling best friend.

  I, too, am dressed all in black. I tuck the flashlight in my backpack and usher us out of my apartment, locking the door.

  “How did Blaire find out about Liam?” she asks.

  Blaire called me last night to relate the reappearance of Liam and the stripper, and, after crying a lot, I called Kya with a plan.

  “She said she ran into him—and the stripper—at the bar. You know, the one with the huge coconut margaritas?”

  Kya nods. She knows places by the alcohol they serve. “Oh, yeah.”

  “She said they looked like a regular couple.”

  Kya hesitates before pushing the elevator call button. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s exactly what I would like to know.” We step onto the empty elevator car, and I’m suddenly glad none of my neighbors are there to see me in my breaking and entering outfit.

  “So why didn’t Blaire confront them? It’s not like her to walk away from a challenge.”

  I roll my eyes. “She was with Troy. She couldn’t go crazy with him around.”

  We step off the elevator and walk through the lobby, Kya dragging her feet. “Makes sense. And I’m helping you tonight because…?”

  “Because you’re more sane than Blaire. I’m pretty sure she’d land me in jail.”

  Her feet pick up the pace. “Valid point.”

  We take my car, and I drive us up to Liam’s place, but I park two houses past his so we don’t draw attention.

  Sneaking up to his house, Kya giggles, and I’m reminded of ten-year-old us and our very first adventure together. My mom was driving us to Heather Lassiter’s slumber party, and Tarek told us if we soaked someone’s hand in a bowl of water overnight, it’d make her pee in her sleep. Kya and I snuck into Heather’s kitchen, filled a bowl with warm water, and Kya giggled the whole way. We were more in danger of peeing ourselves with laughter than Heather was from the prank. When we got the bowl to Heather and managed to dip her hand into it, Kya was giggling so hard she woke up Heather. Heather was so mad she dumped the bowl of water on us, and Kya and I stayed up most of the night shivering.

  Now I tell Kya to shush. I don’t want Liam catching us before we even see anything.

  And what exactly am I expecting to see? Maybe some sexual Olympics that would blow the likes of medium spicy out of the wate
r. I want to see hyperextended legs in the air, knees bent backward, riding crops whipping up delicious rapture, something horrifying and shocking to justify the pain that rips through me with every post-Liam breath.

  We creep up to Liam’s front window. Kya’s giggles have faded, and she has her serious face on. We position ourselves below the windowsill and look at each other, count to three, then pop up enough to see into the living room.

  The living room’s blinds are open, but the lights are off. No one’s in there.

  I make some Navy Seal-like tactical hand motions to indicate we should circle to the side of the house. Kya shrugs and follows me. I head to Liam’s bedroom to the left, but it, too, is dark and unoccupied. I lead Kya to the back of the house. As we tromp through the wet, clinging grass and round the corner, light hits us, all ablaze on this side, practically lighting up the entire backyard. Kya and I stalk closer to the house so we won’t be visible if anyone looks out the window.

  Under the window to the kitchen, just past the back door, I signal to Kya, and we pause, silently count to three, and peer into the kitchen.

  What I see takes my breath away.

  It’s not that Liam is here and unrestrained and unharmed. It’s not that he’s obviously in perfect health and freedom and could’ve contacted me at any time in the last three weeks to offer me some kind of explanation for leaving me like he did. It’s not that he filled my life with warmth and love and the strange conviction in my core that I was worth loving. No. It’s that what I see is so ordinary that it leeches the passion from my still-dying heart.

  Liam and the random stripper are cooking. He’s chopping vegetables on a cutting board while she’s got a pan sizzling on the stove. They sway to music I can’t hear. They’re smiling. Their cheeks shine with rosy-apple glow. As if by mutual consent, they pause their chopping and turn to smile at each other. Liam holds his arms out, and she glides into them. He takes her hands, twirls her around, and then dips her, supporting her back with his arm.

  A wave of nausea rolls over me. In that frozen moment I see the life we never had together. Had Liam ever looked that happy with me? Not that I can recall. Or even imagine.

  I sink back below the window. Kya commiserates with a look, flattening her lips into a straight line of grim acceptance. I nod and move away from the window. This is what Tarek took from me. This is what Liam and I could have had. This is how it could’ve been for us. But not now.

  There’s no room for me in this kitchen, no empty space for me to fill. Their joy stretches to the corners and squeezes out any hope that I could be there with him ever again.

  I motion to Kya that we’re leaving. There’s nothing for me here.

  ∞∞∞

  It’s Friday night date night. Lexy and I have been workshopping all week her characterization of Giselle and the script for tonight, and now we’re walking from our cars to the coffee shop. We park side-by-side. I even have her follow me from my house so we arrive at the same time. I’m so nervous I can feel my knees knocking together above my stylish Italian leather boots.

  “Now, remember,” I tell Lexy, who looks about as green as I think I must, “You won’t be able to see any of the cameras, but they’ll be on you at all times.”

  She nods, her head bobbing up and down quickly while her eyeballs swivel in an attempt to glimpse the invisible cameras.

  “There are no second takes and no cuts. We’ll keep rolling no matter what. The first take is all you get. Just like life.” Really just like life. I stop on the sidewalk and face her. “And what are your two most important objectives in this scene?”

  She takes in a breath and recites, “Always leave him wanting more.”

  “And?”

  She puts a hand up and shuts her eyes as if seeing images of the words themselves. “Under no circumstances do I talk to him after the scene has ended. Don’t even walk in the same direction.”

  “Beautiful! That’s just great.” Though I hope she’ll keep her eyes open for the scene.

  I give her an encouraging smile. She looks lovely. I’ve dressed her in a conservative pantsuit with an elegant silk blouse. Much classier than the looks sported by the bimbos du jour Tarek usually goes for, but we’re not looking for lust. We’re inspiring, invoking, conjuring love so Tarek will know what it is before I rip it away from his still-bleeding heart and laugh as he wallows in the molten liquid of despair and self-doubt. If I can also manage to bruise his butt, that would be a real bonus.

  In prepping for this scene, I was more concerned about Lexy’s wardrobe than my own, but I’m looking forward to seeing Brandon. He was only too happy to meet for coffee with my friends—I use that term loosely—before our date and I decided Dog-boy (Thanks, Kya, I have to stop calling him that) deserved some effort to look nice on my part. So I’m wearing a form-fitting red dress that sets my figure off to advantage—especially considering it actually fits when it didn’t the last time I tried it on. It turns out misery is good for the waistline. Despite the intermittent bouts of ice cream, my tenure on the floor left me slimmer than I’d been, probably because I hadn’t been eating anything else but wine. So Dog-boy is getting lucky tonight. Well, not that kind of lucky. He hasn’t qualified yet for any level of spicy.

  “Are you ready?” I take a deep breath and smile to cover my nerves.

  “Ready.” Lexy gives me a thumbs-up and a big, goofy smile.

  Oh my. “All right. Action!”

  I hold the door to the coffee shop open and follow her inside.

  Brandon and Tarek are both standing by the door, holding bouquets of flowers. They aren’t looking at each other. I wonder if they’ve spoken beyond an eyebrow raise in recognition that they’re both men waiting to give someone a bouquet. Tarek looks at me, but I turn to Brandon first.

  “For me?” I raise my eyes to his soft brown ones.

  He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle attractively. I take the bouquet from him which is larger and lusher than the one Tarek has brought for “Giselle.” I hold the blooms to my nose and then laugh when they tickle. Brandon looks pleased, and I pull him in for a hug.

  “Thank you.” His cheeks are pink as I pull away.

  “Ahem,” Tarek fake-coughs, drawing everyone’s attention. “I didn’t know you were bringing a date, Marissa.” Yes he did. We talked about it, and he even mentioned Dog-boy himself. The man is insufferable. He glances at Brandon with no hint of his trademark charm. Typical Tarek, wanting all of the female attention for himself.

  “Well, we’re just stopping in for coffee before heading off to bigger and better things, right, Brandon?”

  He nods and colors a bit more. Have I accidentally picked up a shy one? That just won’t do. I’m not thinking about myself and what I want in a man. For this scene, as I’m really beginning to think of it, I need a male character who can hold his own against Tarek’s neon-bright personality.

  I link arms with Brandon, drawing him closer to the other couple and don’t look to see if he’s pinkening further.

  “Tarek, this is my old friend, Giselle. Giselle, this is…Tarek.”

  Tarek presents his small bouquet to Giselle/Lexy with a flourish. Whereas normal Lexy would probably giggle, Giselle/Lexy offers a small, world-weary smile and says, “Thank you,” in a low, sultry voice.

  Good job, Lexy. So far I’m happy with the performance I’m paying her for.

  “Giselle and Tarek, this is Brandon.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Giselle says.

  Tarek raises an eyebrow at him. “And how do you know Marissa?”

  “Um, I, um—” Brandon starts, but I interrupt.

  “We met at work.” I don’t understand Tarek’s latent unfriendliness toward Brandon. Is he afraid he’ll be competition for Giselle? But that’s unlikely. I’ve never known Tarek to be intimidated by any man. How could he? He has such an inflated opinion of himself.

  “Reporter?” Tarek presses Brandon.

  “Ad placer,” Brandon supplies,
and I smile.

  “Are you expecting to die soon?” Tarek raises an eyebrow.

  “What?” Brandon looks to me for help.

  “Ha ha, Tarek.” I glance at Giselle and Brandon, not sure how much I should expect either of them to remember about my backstory. “In addition to lowest-level reporting, I also handle obituaries,” I explain. “My friend Blaire works in classifieds, and I was helping her out with Brandon here.”

  “I lost my dog,” Brandon tells them in a slow, sad voice. It really is sweet how devoted to his canine companion Brandon is.

  “Oh, yes. Dog-boy.” Tarek nods as if only now remembering. “Tell me. Was it an emotional support animal?” His expression is neutral, but I want to kick him. Why is he picking on Brandon? He doesn’t even know him.

  “What?” Brandon stares at Tarek as if he will explain.

  “Nothing.” Tarek shakes his head and smirks. Bully.

  “Should we get our coffee?” I smile like I mean it and lead the way to the counter.

  After jostling to put in our order and then debating over who’s paying—Tarek and Brandon both win—we seat ourselves at a table for four.

  “So what do you do, Brandon? Besides look for your dog, that is. And have you found it?” Tarek takes the lid off his coffee and stirs in some sugar before focusing on Brandon with raised eyebrows.

  “No, I haven’t found my dog yet. And I work in insurance. Data analysis.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing.” Tarek snaps the lid back on his coffee.

  “Really?” Brandon asks with a side-glance at me.

  “No.” Tarek turns in his seat toward Giselle. His expression softens and my pulse accelerates. Lexy is stepping onstage. I lean forward.