Kittenfish: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  “Hi.” Tarek already said that. “What are you doing?”

  That’s not personal. I swing my legs back under the table. “Eating dinner.”

  “What are you eating?”

  “Uh, chicken fried steak.” I pause and stick the phone between my cheek and shoulder so I can free up both hands to cut into it.

  “That sounds good.”

  “Mmhmm,” I say, even though I haven’t tasted it yet. “I’m sorry, was there something you wanted other than a restaurant review?” I peer over at Kya who’s watching me intently, but she shrugs and returns her attention to her own plate.

  “No.” His voice sits up straighter, becomes more put together. “Just hadn’t talked to you in a while.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah. I wondered if you’d gotten my call.”

  “Yeah. Yes, I did.” I take a break from trying to eat and put my elbows on the table. “Exactly why did you call?”

  “I don’t know, I—never mind. Gotta go.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hand the phone back to Kya with a lifting of my eyebrows intended to say, “Your brother’s weird.”

  Kya angles her head at me with an expression that says back, “Oh, I know there’s more going on here than anyone’s letting on.”

  I return my gaze to my comforting dinner in a gesture that clearly tells her curious gaze, “But I’m not talking about it.”

  ∞∞∞

  After our date we linger in the car, idling at the curb in front of Brandon’s place. I’m hoping we’ll kiss. I had a lot of fun with him tonight, my near-death experience notwithstanding.

  As if he’s read my mind, Brandon closes his eyes and leans across the gear shift between us.

  It’s a short, sweet kiss that doesn’t light any fires—not that I need them. I smile at him when we pull apart.

  “I’d invite you in, but, uh, I live with my mom,” he says in a rush. Aha. The secret to the mysterious unrevealed interior of his home. “That’s why I didn’t want you to see inside before.”

  “Oh,” I say. I’m a little disconcerted that he cares so much about what I think. “It’s okay. We can get together again. Sometime. And go to my place or something.”

  “I’d like that.” He smiles at me and gets out of the car, pausing for a wave before walking up the driveway of his mom’s house.

  I drive home and talk to myself like I’m my own therapist, which is healthy. It may be crazy to talk to yourself, but if you’re pretending to be a therapist while you’re doing it, you’re already halfway to a breakthrough.

  I had a great time with Brandon tonight. He was warm and wonderful and supportive even though my life was apparently never in danger. I should have no reason to dwell on the non-conversation I had with Tarek. To replay it in my mind, searching for hidden nuances of meaning. I should not wonder why he called and why he wanted to talk to me and whether he wants to see me and when. And what would happen if he did.

  No. I should tuck myself into my warm thoughts of Brandon. I should focus on developing deeper feelings for him. I tell my thoughts to grow up and be practical.

  As I turn the car into my parking lot, I wonder why my thoughts aren’t listening.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On Sunday morning I’m awakened far too early by the insistent ringing of my doorbell.

  “Coming,” I yell, stumbling for the door.

  I peer through the peephole. Of course it’s my mother. Who else thinks seven on a Sunday morning is a good time for a social call?

  I let her in, and she bustles into my apartment with her purse on her arm and her elbows out like she’s ready to go Black Friday shopping.

  “Were you still sleeping?” She eyes my shorts and T-shirt and multi-directional hair.

  I rub my face. “Yes. Most people are.”

  She folds her hands in front of her, and I wonder that she never took to wearing white gloves. “No, they’re not. You just like to sleep late.”

  “Yes, I like to. If people would let me.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I disturbed your lazy morning, but we have to talk. We’ve got decisions to make.”

  “After I go to the bathroom.”

  “Powder room,” my mother calls after me.

  When I return, she has seated herself on the living room couch, her pale peach pleated skirt arranged modestly around her. Her purse sits exactly in the center of the coffee table. She waves for me to take the chair across from her. Apparently we’re facing off.

  “Does this have something to do with the inspirational phone conversation you managed to have with Liam?” I yawn and cover my mouth.

  Her back is straight and there’s an attentiveness to her gaze that it’s much too early for. Her unease is revealed when she repositions her hands and clasps them again in her lap. Her nails are a serviceable length, but they’re perfectly shaped and have been buffed into shininess. “Now, Marissa, I don’t think you’ve given him a fair chance. He called me, broken-hearted, completely sick over leaving you. Don’t you think you can forgive him?”

  I slump in my chair. “No, Mom. I really can’t.”

  “Don’t slouch, dear. Remember your Grandma Lottie’s humpback.”

  I sit up and square my shoulders. “He left me for a stripper, Mom. The night before our wedding.”

  “But he came back—”

  I ignore her and continue, “And not even because he felt strongly about it. He didn’t have enough fire in him for that. He left me because someone told him to.”

  “Someone told him to leave you? Who? What are you talking about?” She takes a handkerchief from her purse and blots her face.

  “Tarek.”

  At his name, my mother’s eyes go wide and her hand freezes, handkerchief an inch from her cheek. She’s always loved Tarek. A little too much. “Tarek directed Liam to leave you?”

  “Yes. And Liam was weak-willed enough to listen to him.” I pull my legs up onto my chair and continue telling the whole truth, which, much like a bruise, is still tender to the touch. “And not in love with me enough to go through with the wedding.”

  Mom shakes her head and makes a dismissive hand gesture. “Who wants Liam, anyway? As you say, he’s a spineless crybaby if he can be swayed back and forth by others so easily. Just look how quickly I was able to talk him back into marrying you.”

  “Yeah. Thanks so much for that,” I say with sarcasm even my mother can’t miss.

  “I’m sorry,” she says with sincerity. “I merely thought I’d exhaust all the possibilities before giving up on recouping wedding costs, and if there were a chance—but no, I see now there’s no chance for you and Liam. Nor should there be.” She nods in affirmation, and I’m glad she’s finally given up on that marry-him-anyway scheme of hers.

  “I’m glad we agree,” I say.

  “Feet on the floor, sweetie, not on the furniture.”

  “This is my apartment, Mom.” I put my feet on the floor despite my words of protest.

  “I know, honey, but manners don’t cost anything, and really, at your age—”

  “What were you saying?” I fold my arms, knowing in a minute my mother will tell me to unfold them and be open-minded. She read an article on body language years ago that she references often.

  She smiles and gets a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Liam doesn’t matter at all. Especially now that Tarek is in the picture.”

  “What?” My mouth drops open. It’s ridiculous that every time I hear his name my belly stirs. I ignore it.

  “Close your mouth, dear. As I was saying, yes, why not marry Tarek?” She leans forward with genuine excitement, her smile wide, eyes gleaming.

  If I had a drink, I’d be spitting it out all over my carpet right now, bad-manners style. “Why would I marry Tarek? The man is a first-class player.”

  “Ridiculous.” She flutters her hands and shakes her head. Meryl Streep has nothing on my mother.

  “It’s true
.” I scoot to the edge of my seat without being told how to sit. “I’ve seen him in action. For years.”

  Mom frowns and waves my objections aside. “That’s just an act. He’s not really like that.”

  “Of course he is. That’s exactly how he is.”

  Which my mother will never realize because she’s living in the fifties where it’s okay for a man to act like that, even though she wasn’t born until the late sixties and went to college in the eighties. Ironically, she had to fight for her right to be a homemaker.

  “Marissa, do you even know that boy at all?”

  I do know him, rather more intimately than I used to, in fact. But I’m not telling my mother that. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think, Mom. You’ve always thought too highly of him.”

  “He’s a hard-working boy who never really had a mother and had very little interest taken in him by his father. But he got a good education, is setting the finance world on fire, and has always managed to take care of his sister. And watch out for you, too, I’d say.” She shakes her head and puts a hand to her chest. “His mother leaving hurt him deeply. Left deep scars. All that outward bluster is just for show. His heart is good. And it will be a lucky woman who wins it.” My mother shakes her head again, a faraway look turning her gaze past me.

  “Geez, Mom. Does Dad know?”

  My mother pinkens. “Oh, hush. You know what I mean.”

  I do, but she’s wrong. All this talk of Tarek is only raking up X-rated memories, and I don’t want to be in the same room as my mother when they’re playing across my mental movie screen.

  “Not sure what’s brought on the Tarek legal defense team, but I’m seeing someone.” I shoot her a self-satisfied smile across the distance between us.

  “Really?” My mother visibly perks up. “A man?”

  “Yes, Mom, a man!”

  “Well, I had to ask, because you didn’t say.”

  “He’s a man. Really. A real man.”

  “Well, I believe you, then. Who is he?”

  “Brandon. He’s—”

  “That boring Dog-boy everyone has been telling me about?”

  Dog-boy? Who’s been talking to my mother behind my back? “Seriously, Mom. Do you have to talk to all my friends?”

  She smooths her skirt over her knees, though it hasn’t moved. “I don’t have to, but I can’t turn them down when they call me and want to chat.”

  My mother is very sweet and easy to talk to, for anyone other than me. Being a stay-at-home mom all my life, she’s always had the time—and the accompanying brownies and milk—to listen to any of my friends who want to talk to her. It’s no surprise that Tarek and Kya have always gravitated to her as a substitute mom.

  In fact, I should be grateful Tarek hasn’t called her up and told her all about our recent flirtations and one-night stand.

  Or has he?

  My skin gets goose bumps, and I study my mom for a sign that she knows about us. I don’t see any. I shake the disturbing thought off. If he’d shared that little tidbit with her, she’d have brought it up first thing.

  “Brandon’s not boring. He’s very nice. He saved my life.”

  “What?” My mother’s hand flutters to her throat.

  I get up, stretching my arms behind my head. “I’ll tell you all about it. Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please. I wondered if you’d ever ask. You should offer a beverage first thing, Marissa. Remember your manners, sweetheart.”

  By the time Mom leaves, she’s full of three cups of Earl Grey and mostly convinced that dating Brandon is a good thing. I’ve also managed to impress upon her that no, we won’t be getting married in time to have the prepaid reception at Rockmount Hall.

  ∞∞∞

  Once Mom’s gone, I clean my apartment, shower, and change. I’m considering going to a movie by myself when there’s a knock on my door.

  My heart skids to a temporary stop when I see who’s on the other side of the peephole.

  Tarek.

  I rip the door open and pull him inside by his crisply ironed shirt, wrinkling the fabric in my hand, before anyone can see him in the hall.

  His eyes register surprise at this treatment, but his mouth starts the verbal defense for his presence anyway.

  “Hey, Duchess. I just want to talk—”

  I flatten him against the door and stuff my tongue down his throat until he’s incapable of speech.

  When I need to breathe, I pull back. “Hi.”

  He exhales and his wide shoulders relax. He runs his fingers down the side of my cheek. “Hi, there.”

  “Do you really need to talk?” I splay my hand on his chest and the silky fabric slides under my fingers.

  His expression is amazement, but his voice is steady. “No.”

  “Good.” I tear his shirt open, delighted with the sounds of skittering buttons. I hope I’ve ruined this expensive shirt for good. Even though he has others. I want to at least impact his wardrobe, if not his life. I want to have an effect on him, even though no woman ever has. He kisses me hard, and I wrap my arms around his neck, climbing until he’s put his arms around me and lifted me enough that I can wrap my legs around his waist.

  “Bedroom!” I demand as I kiss his neck. I drag my lips up the citrus-scented skin of his neck until I reach his earlobe and nip it lightly with my teeth. He moans.

  “You’re killing me,” he chokes out.

  “All part of the plan.”

  He nudges my bedroom door open with his foot and tosses me onto the bed. I scramble to get out of my clothes and am completely naked in the time that it takes him to remove his ruined shirt and undershirt.

  I kneel on the bed and unbutton his pants. He rubs my bare shoulders with both of his hands. “Slow down,” he says into my hair.

  “No.” I don’t know why I’m getting a bonus ride on the Tarek coaster, but the moment I saw him in the hallway, I knew I’d use my fast pass to ride it again.

  Afterward we lie in my bed, his arm around me hugging me to him, while I stare at the ceiling wondering what he’s still doing here.

  I turn over and snuggle into his side. His eyes peek open enough to look at me then drift closed again.

  “Nap.” He throws his arm over me and pulls me closer. “Isn’t that what Sunday afternoons are for?”

  “Yes.” I smile and rest my cheek on his chiseled chest. I run a finger over the ridges made by his ab muscles. He covers my hand with his.

  “You’re not sleeping.” He brings my palm to his mouth and kisses it. Flutters flit in my belly and spread to all the other parts of me. Is this the full-Tarek treatment? Why did I rate a repeat performance when no one else ever has? At least that I know about.

  “Do you think I’m only medium spicy?” I ask.

  He plays with a lock of my hair, bringing it to him and brushing it against his cheek. “You’re hot. So flaming hot, I have trouble keeping up with you.”

  His eyes close all the way this time, and I let him sleep. I rest my gaze on his beautiful face.

  I’m staring at the sweep of his dark lashes on his cheek when my heart prickles. What am I doing here?

  I’ve been stupid enough to have sex with Tarek.

  Twice.

  But what is he doing? Obviously filling up the time with any available female while Giselle’s gone. That available female being me. At least, that’s what I hope he’s doing.

  Should I feel guilty about that? I mean, I know Giselle doesn’t exist, but he doesn’t know that. I’m having sex with a man who’s interested in my friend. If it were real, it would be a giant conflict of interest. A betrayal. Tarek should think less of me. But really, how much of their back and forth does Tarek think Giselle has told me about? Enough that we went out as a group a few times, but since she left for Germany, nothing.

  Though, actually it’s fine, right? I mean, it’s not like Tarek and Giselle are exclusive.

  Even in my mind.

  But it’s no good.
He can’t keep up these physical encounters with me—or anyone else—when he should be enmeshing himself emotionally with Giselle. I’m just working against myself here. Oh my gosh. I’m my own other woman.

  A pang of guilt jabs me in the ribs. Am I really going to make Tarek fall in love with her, just to rip Giselle away? He’s been so nice to me lately, even if he hasn’t changed his slutty ways.

  My mom is right. He’s watched out for me over the years, just like he has for Kya. And if he doesn’t trust women because of his mom leaving, then what I’m doing—lying to him like I am and like I’m paying Giselle to do—is cruel. It will further erode his trust.

  And my butt bruise has healed. I don’t really have much to blame Tarek for anymore.

  Except for Liam.

  Tarek wrecked my happily ever after. He not only destroyed everything Liam and I were, but everything we would have been. Tarek derailed the safe and secure future I was meant to have with Liam. Just like he broke up my only high school relationship with his looming, interrupting, intimidating presence.

  My eyes remain dry, and my heart unsqueezes an inch. Losing Liam matters less to me than it used to. I feel it in the way I can breathe deeper now. Why? Where did my fury go? Maybe I don’t care as much because I was the one who let Liam go. Maybe it’s because I have Brandon now, and I’m picturing a future with him. A safe, predictable future. When I think about him. When I’m finished with this physical insanity with Tarek that has gripped me. Maybe it’s because I’ve gone far enough.

  Should I let Tarek off the hook?

  The idea makes me dizzy, and I can’t find a handrail. If I stop, if I leave Tarek alone and abandon my plan, then what am I? Some girl who lost her fiancé for no reason. Because somebody else told him to. That person should pay. That person should know the damage his thoughtless actions have wreaked. That person should feel the pain of losing someone they loved. I can’t let him off the hook. I shouldn’t give up on the plan just because I’m feeling sorry for his childhood and lack of maternal influence. He’s a grown-up. And he still treats women like they’re interchangeable. He has to be made to feel…something. Because it’s not just about what he did to me with Liam. He also looked me right in the crying, splotchy face and said love doesn’t exist. He’s wrong about that. He needs to know. He needs to feel.