Subscribing to the Enemy: An Enemies to Lovers YA Sweet Romance

by Jen Brady

  If I was weird and weird people were her jam, did that mean I was her jam? My eyes wandered to her bottom lip again. She wasn’t biting it anymore, but I still wanted to know more about it than I should.

  I turned back to my computer, clearing my suddenly dry throat. “We should get to work.”

  “Sounds good. Could you do me a favor first, though?”

  I dared looking back at her but purposely avoided her lips. “Yeah?”

  Her gaze drifted upward as she grinned. “Take off that ridiculous hat. I can’t take you seriously with that thing on.”

  “What hat?”

  Then I remembered, and my hand flew to my head to rip off the stupid newspaper hat Luz had made for me. My scalp pricked as one of the bobby-pins I’d attached it with stuck. Normally, I’m not a bobby-pin-using sort of guy, but Luz got so disappointed every time it fell off, so I’d finally stooped to swiping a couple of my mom’s hairpins out of the bathroom cabinet.

  I’d completely forgotten about the hat. What was it about this girl that made me do dumb things around her?

  I felt my face flush as she laughed. I held the newspaper hat out and tried to explain. “Luz . . .” But there really was no explanation for an adult male bobby-pinning a dumb newspaper hat to his head.

  “I’m impressed it stayed on so long,” Joanna said, still laughing. “Did she glue it to your hair?”

  I decided to go with the joke. “Yep. That’s the only way I’d voluntarily wear a crappily-folded newspaper hat.”

  “You two are cute together,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, but don’t let it go to your head. You need a four-year-old attached to you to achieve cute status.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, like I was dismissing her joke, but my mind reeled at her statement.

  Did she really only find me attractive when Luz was around? But that meant she did think I was good-looking, at least today, right?

  Not that I had a lot of experience with girls, but Joanna seemed more confusing than most.

  17

  JOANNA

  I HEARD THE DOORBELL and knew it would be Rick, but I was deep into editing our latest YouTube video, so I let someone else answer it. I needed to upload the video today before the weekend ended and I got busy with school. With the contest a long-shot now, Ted and I had to be extra vigilant about building up our subscribers organically. I couldn’t afford inconsistency. Fan bases loved knowing exactly when they’d get their next video.

  A minute later, I heard footsteps on the stairs and Rick appeared in the attic, proudly holding up two brown paper bags. When he twisted them, I spotted the Panera logo on one.

  “I brought lunch.”

  My stomach growled at the thought, and I tried to remember whether or not I’d skipped breakfast. “Thanks, I love Panera.”

  He had a smug grin on his face, as if he’d been aware of that piece of Joanna Trivia, even though there was no way he could have known. It had to have been a lucky guess. He held one of the bags out to me. I took it and peeked in. My mouth started watering and my taste buds leaped at the prospect of the bread bowl that was nestled under napkins and a plastic container of soup.

  “It’s tomato,” Rick said.

  “Christopher Columbus, Rick!”

  “Hernán Cortés, Joanna,” he shot back. Apparently, this was going to be a thing we did now.

  “Ha ha.” But that had been a good one. “You guessed my favorite.”

  “Also . . .” He reached into the other bag, smiled, and pulled something out triumphantly.

  I laughed at the apple he held up. “How did you know my usual side?”

  “I took a chance.”

  He set it down on my desk and shrugged off his flannel. As usual, it was warm in the attic, even though the snow swirled around out the window.

  “This is a great workspace.” He turned in a circle, examining the entire attic. “I see why you like it so much.”

  I sat at the desk in front of my laptop. He sat in the empty chair next to me. He’d finally agreed (after many, many texts pleading him to spare me from having to work in his clutter) to upload his work-in-progress to my Wrap Up Pro account. It just made sense.

  As we went through the footage, I snuck peeks at Rick. Somehow, he made inhaling a bacon turkey sandwich and two grilled cheeses look cute. Maybe it was the week-old scruff on his chin and cheeks. Or maybe it was the small blob of cheese that stuck to his cheek. I had this urge to reach over and wipe it off with my finger, but that felt way too intimate, so I let him keep eating and talking about the movie until he finally wiped his face with a napkin and the cheese drip disappeared.

  I was a goner over this guy. I’d never felt this way about anybody before. I’d had crushes on famous actors, of course, but I’d never felt all giddy around someone I actually knew and spent time with.

  It would be my YouTube nemesis I’d end up crushing on. That was the way my life was going lately. At least he was a safe guy to have butterfly feelings for. He’d never want to date a high school girl who had a YouTube channel full of drivel, so I could have all these ridiculous jittery feelings over him and never have to do a thing about it or compromise my no-boyfriends-in-high-school vow.

  Maybe that was where this unexplainable attraction came from. He was older and more mature than the guys I went to school with. I hung out with silly, master procrastinator Ted every day, so it was no wonder I’d mistaken Rick’s maturity for stuffiness and arrogance at first.

  Our rocky relationship had developed into an actual partnership (whether he wanted to admit it or not), so I decided to finally make a suggestion that had been simmering since the first time I saw his movie.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “Yeah? What?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it and forced myself to pull my thoughts together before blurting something out. I didn’t want my suggestion to come off as a criticism of his movie, but I really believed my idea could strengthen it.

  “I was wondering if you’d mind if I played with the opening montage a bit.”

  He frowned and took his time answering, like he was choosing his words carefully, too. “What do you mean play with the montage?” He sounded reluctant.

  “Nothing big. I just think it could benefit from being sped up a little . . . and maybe trying a different piece of music.”

  He started to shake his head. “I like what I—”

  “How about I make a copy of the clip and play with that. Just something real quick. If you hate it, I won’t even finish it. I won’t touch the original file.”

  He chewed on his cheek while he thought about it for a while. “Okay. You can play a little. But make sure you do it on a copy.”

  I grabbed my laptop off the desk and sank into my favorite couch spot.

  “Mind if I use Wrap Up Pro?”

  “Just for the montage?”

  “Yes. I promise I won’t mess with anything but the montage, although I don’t know why you don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said quickly. “I don’t trust the program.”

  That was obvious baloney since I’d explained countless times how Mya had been responsible for the deleted files, but calling him on it wouldn’t do any good, so I ignored his lame excuse.

  I uploaded the files from his flash drive to my Wrap Up Pro account and started playing with transitions, speed, filters, and music. After a few minutes, I got into a rhythm and started to lose myself in my creation. Hitting the familiar editing buttons felt good. I’d missed working on a movie like this. It was different than editing a funny YouTube video.

  Rick cleared his throat, breaking my creative trance. I looked up at him over the top of the screen. “Do you mind if I put on a playlist or something?”

  “Go ahead.” It was probably boring sitting there in silence as I worked. “And you can watch what I’m doing.” I patted the couch cushion next to me.

  “Really?”
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  “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

  “But you’re not done.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  He hesitantly got up and approached me. When he sat down next to me, he stayed on the edge of the seat, as if he wanted to be ready to jump up at any moment.

  “I don’t like when someone watches me work,” he admitted.

  I paused. “Really?”

  “Yeah. It makes me feel self-conscious. I can’t work with someone sitting next to me watching. It gets in my head, and I shut down.”

  “But I watch you work every time we get together.”

  He laughed awkwardly. “You have no idea how difficult that’s been.”

  “You should have said something. We could have figured out a different way to work.”

  He shrugged and sat back a little so his back almost grazed the couch. “It’s okay. I’m getting used to it. But just with you. I don’t think I could handle anybody else looking over my shoulder as I worked.”

  I snorted and went back to what I was doing on the computer. “Working without being mouth-breathed on isn’t an option in this house.”

  I snuck a quick glance at him while the computer buffered my latest save.

  He looked confused. “I’m sorry . . . what?”

  “I rarely get to work by myself. Ted’s usually here. And my obnoxious sister.”

  He nodded. “Right. I couldn’t handle a permanent partner. I’ve been thinking about what you said about it being weird that I love watching fiction but make documentaries. I’m pretty sure it’s because I can make documentaries by myself, but fictional stories would require working with other people.”

  I must have proven to him that I was fine with having an audience as I worked because he finally allowed himself to relax and settled in next to me. His arm brushed mine. The places where his skin touched mine tingled.

  “Do you not play well with others?” I teased before I could think too much about how close we were sitting.

  “It’s not that. It’s the whole feeling awkward while someone’s watching me work thing. I can’t be creative around other people.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess I’m afraid they’re going to judge me. My dad sure does.”

  The last part came out with bitter undertones. I was dying to know the story, but I refrained from bugging him to spill and kept working as his music played.

  He hummed along to most of the songs. I didn’t know many well enough to join him. They were all alternative/grunge, which wasn’t a genre of music a household of women living in this decade played too often. I could see why he liked it, though. The lyrics were artsy and poignant.

  “That transition’s going to be way too fast,” he said at one point. “It’s a documentary about the mall, not a music video.”

  “Just trust me, okay? If you hate it, you don’t have to use it, remember?”

  He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then crossed his arms over his chest and kept watching me work.

  I was almost finished when a very different measure of music sounded. It started with flutes. Then a harp plucked out a slow melody. I stopped working to pay attention to the music. A woman’s beautiful voice began to sing. I had no idea what she was saying because it was in a different language, but it was haunting and magical.

  “What is this?”

  “What’s what?”

  “This song. What are they saying? Is it in German?”

  “Uh . . .” Rick closed his eyes as the lyrics continued. “It’s something about ‘the oleander bites, but the stars will whisper to us, and the wind will softly blow and the rivers flow together.’” A second voice joined the first, harmonizing. “And this part has more oleander and stars, but I’m not sure exactly what it says.”

  It was perfect. The exact sound I’d been searching for since June to put at the end of my movie.

  “I love this.”

  “It’s the song my parents danced to at their wedding. This cover is done by the band my uncle used to be in. He sent it to them for Christmas one year.”

  “It’s beautiful. Can I get a copy of it?”

  “Sure, if you want.” The look he gave me conveyed that he thought it was a strange request.

  I suppose most seventeen-year-old girls aren’t interested in foreign music with lyrics they don’t even understand. I needed to explain so he didn’t think I was a total weirdo.

  “It’s for my—” And then reality rushed back. The music had been so perfect it had made me forget I’d lost my movie. “Oh. Never mind.”

  “What?”

  I thought about brushing it off and telling him to forget it, but he was the one person who might understand.

  “I hadn’t found a piece of music to play over the ending credits. This song would have been perfect.”

  The deep sense of loss I thought I’d buried rose up in my chest. Tears pricked my eyes, and I willed myself not to cry. Not in front of him. I stared at my hands as they fiddled with my laptop’s track pad so I didn’t have to look at him. I took deep breaths and tried to think of something—anything—else.

  Suddenly, his hand covered mine. It was bigger and warmer than mine, and his touch sent tingles up my arm, somehow exciting but calming me at the same time.

  “I’m sorry about your movie.”

  I lifted my head to look into his eyes. I saw complete and utter understanding. He got how I felt, even more than Ted somehow.

  Rick was a filmmaker, too. Not just the guy who stood behind the camera and bought stuff. He put his entire heart and soul into his work. It had never been Ted’s heart and soul. To Ted, it was just goofing around and having fun. That’s why, even though he’d been angry at first, he’d been able to forgive Mya so easily. She hadn’t thrown his heart and soul into the river. Just several hours of work.

  Rick understood because he felt the same way. He had as much riding on this competition as I had.

  I couldn’t hold my tears back any longer. It was as if finding someone who actually understood the devastation of what I’d lost had opened the floodgates. I felt my face scrunch up into my typical ugly cry. I closed my eyes and let the trough of tears flow down my cheeks.

  Suddenly embarrassed, I shoved the laptop at Rick and stood up, turning so he couldn’t witness my grief.

  “Joanna . . .” he started, his voice concerned and a bit wavering even, but as my tears kept coming, faster and harder now, I felt him stand.

  He slowly tugged at me, turning me back to him, guiding my hands to his chest, then letting go of them and wrapping his arms around me, gathering me to him. He was only about an inch taller than me, so my chin ended up on his shoulder, our cheeks pressed together. I sniffled and got a whiff of his woodsy cinnamon scent. The combination of the scent and his arms around me were soothing, and I melted against him.

  Being wrapped in his arms felt amazing. It was a good thing nothing romantic would ever come of our deepening friendship because I could see myself falling hard for him, and that was something I couldn’t do. I’d never live it down—not with my family, not with my friends, not with my viewers—not after I’d claimed up and down for so long that I was happily single and didn’t need a guy in my life.

  “You could redo it,” Rick said softly, the stubble at the corner of his mouth tickling my ear and making my knees feel like jelly. Yep, I could definitely fall for him if this was more than two desperate filmmakers being forced to work together.

  I shook my head and tried to focus on my loss. It was easier than contemplating the butterflies scrambling around in my stomach and what they meant. “Not enough time.”

  I pulled away enough to look at him. He kept his arms around me, looser but still circling my waist. My forearms rested against his broad chest, which was surprisingly hard under his shirt, like he worked out. I guess I’d pictured him doing crossword puzzles and reading history books in his spare time, not lifting weights or running. I hadn’t expected this much definition in his
biceps and pecs.

  “I mean for next year,” he went on, “assuming it becomes an annual thing. If you enter next year, there’d still be enough time to build your channel up and start making some serious money for film school.”

  I’d considered that. But the thought of recreating everything we’d already done was both daunting and exhausting. I couldn’t sit through Mya’s terrible fainting takes more than I already had. So while I appreciated his suggestion and the kind, gentle way in which he made it, it wasn’t a practical solution.

  “No. Not really. We have the script and the costumes and our notes and everything. But . . .” I searched for a way to describe why remaking it wasn’t an appealing idea. “It wouldn’t come out the same as it did the first time. We nailed it. We . . . .” I swallowed. I couldn’t finish the sentence without completely breaking down.

  His arms tensed around me in a comforting mini-hug. “Yeah, I get that.” His voice was low and almost gravelly. The reminder that his arms still circled my waist made my heart skip a beat. I wanted him to draw me in closer again so I could smell the cinnamon that lingered on his neck.

  What was wrong with me? He wasn’t my boyfriend. He was barely even my friend. He was a rival filmmaker I had a shaky truce with because we needed to work together so we could both get something out of the partnership.

  I pulled away and pretended to adjust my ponytail. His hands rested on my hips for a second, then dropped from my waist entirely.

  “Ted wanted an Asher Wyatt song.”

  “What?” Rick looked at me quizzically, and I realized I’d gone back to the music thing without context.

  “For the credits. Asher Wyatt. Can you believe that? I mean, nothing against Asher Wyatt, but it’s a medieval fantasy. Country rock doesn’t really fit.” I sighed. “Not that it matters now.”

  Rick reached out and took my hand, gave it a squeeze, then dropped it way too quickly.

  “I really am sorry.” Then his lips quirked up in a small smile. “I’m sure you would have been a worthy adversary.”

  “Worthy adversary?” That was a laugh! “My movie would have kicked your movie’s butt!”