Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  “Sheridan?” Mom calls when I don’t answer right away.

  I was hoping to slip past them, sunglasses over my tired eyes, and duck into the shower to wash the scent of party and cigarette smoke from my hair, alas...

  “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” I call back. Hurrying to my room, I change out of my clothes and spritz body spray through my messy locks before tying them in a high bun.

  When I get to the kitchen a few minutes later, my mom has already fixed my plate. They’ll never view me as an adult. Forever their baby. Their only baby.

  “You didn’t have to do this …” I tell her, especially because it takes all the energy she has just to make her own plate these days. She’s already breathless. She should’ve known better. “But thank you.”

  “I won’t get to do this much longer,” she says, sipping her coffee with a shaky grip on her mug. “Let me enjoy these last few weekends we have like this.”

  “You act like I’m going away forever.” I tease. “I’ll literally be two hours away. I’ll come home all the time, I promise.”

  “That’s what you say now, kiddo.” Dad winks from behind his wiry glasses, his gray-streaked hair still damp from his morning shower.

  Kiddo.

  I bury my reaction with a bite of eggs, pushing away thoughts of what it would do to them if they knew where I went last night, what I did, who I spent time with …

  “I thought maybe we could go shopping next weekend?” Mom says. “Your dad’s been putting in so much overtime lately … We should be able to get you some more things for your dorm room. A fridge? Extra linens? And you’ll need slippers for the shower. You know how dirty those things can get …”

  I wince at the thought of bringing some strange disease or fungus home to Mama. Her immune system is going haywire this year, attacking itself and weakening her ability to fight off things like ordinary colds.

  She sips her coffee, rattling away about all the college necessities we’ve yet to buy. Her medical expenses have grown lately, making our budget tighter than usual. At least that’s what I’ve overheard them saying over the past few months. I picked up a few extra shifts at Priority Cellular for that reason—so I wouldn’t be a burden on their wallet. Lord knows they could use one less thing to worry about.

  “You don’t have to do that. I still have all my graduation money.” All three hundred dollars of it. “And I’ve been saving my checks.”

  I have a few grand in my bank account, enough to ration out over the school year since I won’t be working. It should cover gas and groceries and a few necessities. It isn’t much, but it’s enough.

  I get up to grab a glass of OJ. It’s almost translucent when I pour it into the glass, as if someone diluted it to make it last longer.

  “Oh, sweetheart. We insist. This is practically a rite of passage for parents.” Mom tries to make light of it.

  I shoot my father a look and he nods. Anything to keep the love of his life happy.

  “Maybe we can make a whole day of it? And we can eat at that restaurant you like with the sweet butter rolls.” Mom raises her brows and grins.

  “Magnolia Lake?” I haven’t been there in ages …

  “That’s the one,” she says, eyes lit.

  We went there more often when I was younger. Junior high, to be specific. That was before Dad lost his assistant night manager job at the meat locker—and before Mom’s condition took a turn for the worse.

  “Are you off next Saturday?” Dad asks.

  “No,” I say. “But I’m pretty sure I can get Adriana to cover for me.”

  After all, she owes me …

  “Perfect.” Dad reaches across the table, his hand covering Mom’s.

  I’ve been so wrapped up in my own world lately with all the excitement on the horizon, that I haven’t stopped to think about how much of their world will be flipped inside out once I leave. They’ll do fine with me gone. But it’ll be an adjustment.

  I’m their whole world.

  Always have been. I always will be.

  When I was about eight or nine, I overheard Mama crying to someone on the phone one day after school. Being nosy, I pressed my ear up to the door and listened. I’m not sure who she was talking to, but I heard her saying something about “the baby had no heartbeat this time.” And later that day, I remember seeing tears in my father’s eyes after dinner. It took me years to put it all together—that they’d lost a baby. Though they never came clean about it to me. Guess it wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in ordinary conversations.

  I’ve always wondered if things would’ve been different had I not been an only child. And when I was a small child, I’d often ask for a baby brother or sister for Christmas. But they always told me I was enough, that I was everything they ever wanted and then some.

  It’s a lot of pressure to put on one person.

  But I’ve never known any other way.

  “So, kiddo,” Dad says. “What’s on the docket for today?”

  I’m about to respond when my phone buzzes in my lap. Swirling a quick sip of watery juice, I steal a glance—and nearly choke.

  ENEMY DEAREST—Morning, sunshine. Let me know when I can pick up my shirt.

  “Sweetheart, are you okay?” Mom leans to pat my back.

  How did he get my number? He programmed his info into my phone last night … but I never gave him mine.

  “Yeah.” I cough. “Just swallowed wrong.”

  They study me. I pray they buy it and let it go.

  I take another sip. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

  Their attention lingers for another endless minute until my father finally changes the subject to yard work and catching up on his To Do List. Finishing my breakfast in record time, I excuse myself to my room and read his text again.

  I pace the small space beside my bed before mustering up the courage to respond.

  ME — How’d you get my number?

  ENEMY DEAREST—I have ways, Rose girl …

  ME— Tbh, I’m a little creeped out right now.

  ENEMY DEAREST—I appreciate your honesty.

  ME—Anyway, I told you I’d get your shirt back to you as soon as I could. I haven’t even been home for thirty minutes …

  ENEMY DEAREST—Patience has never been my virtue.

  ME—I’ll text you when it’s ready.

  Three bubbles fill the screen before vanishing, only to be replaced by a new message two minutes later.

  ENEMY DEAREST—What are you doing next weekend?

  ME—Coming on a little strong, aren’t we?

  ENEMY DEAREST—As opposed to coming on weak?

  ME—I’m busy.

  ENEMY DEAREST—Liar.

  ME—I don’t lie.

  ENEMY DEAREST—Safe to assume your parents know where you were last night then?

  ME—Are you bored right now? Is that what this is? Because this doesn’t feel like it’s about a shirt to me anymore.

  ENEMY DEAREST—I want to see you again.

  A lump forms in my throat. I stop pacing.

  ME—You’ve literally met me three times. Are you always this thirsty?

  ENEMY DEAREST—Not thirsty, Rose girl. Curious. Big difference.

  ME—Curious about what?

  ENEMY DEAREST—Wonder if all the things I’ve heard about you are true.

  Exhaling hard, I wrack my mind trying to think of the types of rumors that could possibly swirl around this town about me. I’ve always kept my head down. Walked the straightest of lines. I’ve held various part-time jobs since the day I turned fourteen, earned a full-scholarship to nursing school, and graduated top ten in my high school class. The number of “boyfriends” I’ve had, I can count on one hand. And the worst thing I’ve ever done is not hold the door open for someone behind me—which was an accident because I was texting on my phone and not paying attention.

  I’m practically a modern-day saint by some people’s standards. Virginity and all.

  ME—You’re bluffing.
Nice try.

  ENEMY DEAREST—You dated Brett Rathburn last year.

  ME—Yeah, me and, like, half the school. Your point?

  ENEMY DEAREST—I’m just saying, people talk.

  ME—So?

  ENEMY DEAREST—I want to know if what they say is true.

  I tug out my hair tie, pace the room, and redo my bun before replying. This man has an agenda. I just don’t know what it is it. He’s trying to get me fired up, trying to keep me engaged in this bullshit conversation.

  But for what?

  I collapse on the foot of the bed and grab my phone again.

  ME—I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but I’ve never been the competitive type so I’m going to forfeit this one. I’ll text you when your shirt is ready. Bye.

  I wait until my message shows it’s been delivered.

  No dots or bubbles color the screen.

  Instead of some smart-mouthed response, he’s given me silence.

  Interesting …

  I hit the shower and wash the events of the past twenty-four hours out of my hair—but the thoughts remain.

  Two in particular.

  Who is August Monreaux? I mean, who is he really?

  And what does he want with me?

  Chapter Seven

  August

  * * *

  The pool area practically sparkles Saturday morning. Trent and his crew did their thing. Can’t even tell there was a single stoned soul here last night. Not a wrinkled Solo cup. Not a smashed beer bottle. Not a single silk bra hanging off the back of a lounge chair.

  Spotless.

  Like it never happened.

  Like it was all a dream.

  Only it wasn’t. Despite my drunken state, last night’s memories come through with crystal clarity, from the second Sheridan Rose moseyed onto the premises, arm in arm with her spitfire best friend, to the moment she dashed out of my house like fucking Cinderella at the stroke of twelve.

  I flick my shades down over my eyes and recline as the mid-morning sun beats down. Dad and his newest girlfriend du jour are out on yet another weekend adventure in the most expensive parts of BFE.

  The image of my father in his midlife-crisis-red Ferrari with his twenty-two year old girlfriend on his arm makes the bile churn in my stomach. Vincent Monreaux, arguably one of the most powerful businessmen in Missouri and its surrounding states, is a walking, talking cliché.

  I’ve never been one for daydreaming, but at times I’ve caught myself wondering what our family would’ve been like had my mom and sister survived. Would we be one of those wholesome kinds who actually eat dinner around a table and play Scrabble and have inside jokes and family portraits on the wall?

  Or would my mother shop away her boredom every day while my dad drowns his in a fifth of imported liquor.

  It’s easy to idealize what might have been, what could have been.

  Maybe we wouldn’t have been happy or perfect, but we would’ve been something more than this dysfunctional excuse for a dynasty. All the money a man could need and then some—and all the misery that comes with it.

  If people around here aren’t afraid of us, they’re cursing our name. My father quit donating millions to charities years ago because it was never enough to stop the rumors. Nothing he could do painted us in a different light, so he stopped giving a fuck.

  My phone buzzes on the table beside me. I don’t make a habit out of scrambling over a text, but today I’m making an exception.

  I let out a sigh.

  Not who I hoped it’d be.

  SOREN—Got you those tix. How you been? Haven’t heard from you in a while …

  My oldest brother—the shining perfect beacon of the family and my father’s pride and joy—is a bona fide celebrity in the music world. I lost track years ago of how many platinum albums and number one singles he’d accumulated.

  When the rest of the world looks at him, they see a rock God.

  Me? I see the only older brother I can stand.

  For a Monreaux, he’s not that bad.

  ME—Busy. The usual. Dad’s got me “interning” again this summer.

  For tax purposes, our father calls it an internship. But if the IRS ever knew I sat around in a spare corner office, watched cam girl porn, and fucked around all day, I don’t think they’d be thrilled.

  SOREN—You can always “intern” with the band …

  ME—Road life’s not for me.

  Not to mention I’ve never needed to score ass by riding his coattails, and I’m not about to start. Plus groupies are notoriously STD-ridden and someone always winds up fucking pregnant with a mystery baby daddy.

  Not my scene.

  SOREN—Glad you’re finally coming to a show. Who you bringing?

  ME—Not sure.

  It’ll be Sheridan. One hundred fucking percent. She’s going even if she doesn’t know it yet.

  SOREN—Cool, cool. I’ll have my manager shoot you the barcode for the tix. Will be good to see you, man.

  I was in my middle school heyday when Soren got signed by some top tier label out of LA. He was in college, playing his guitar at open mic nights and coffee shops for nothing more than whatever a few broke college kids could toss into his tip jar. But the thing about Soren is, he was never looking for fame. And God knows he didn’t need the fortune.

  He was just pure fucking raw talent.

  It’s a shame he couldn’t keep his name. Some middle-aged, balding big-wig at the head of the table came up with the phonetic MUNRO. All caps, to stand out even more because it would appeal to the Gen Z demographic. And that’s all it took for Soren to sign on the dotted line.

  I’m happy for him.

  Even if he’s half a stranger to me these days.

  We’re not close, then again, I’m not close to anyone.

  I set my phone on the side table and stretch my arms behind my head, basking in the early heat. I’ll give Sheridan a few more days. I came on pretty strong this morning, though I had no choice. Subtle isn’t going to work on this girl. But come mid-week, I’ll drop the invite in her lap. Front row center tickets to a sold-out show with a backstage pass … there’s no way she’ll say no, even if she hates me.

  But for now, I’ll give her some time to miss me … to wonder … what if?

  Chapter Eight

  Sheridan

  * * *

  “Is it just me or does August Monreaux always look like he hates life?” Adriana shoves her phone into my hand Wednesday after we lock up the shop.

  “Why are you looking up August Monreaux?”

  “I’m not,” she says. “I was trying to find that Isaac guy and happened to see him in his pics. They went to high school together.”

  We stroll to our cars, parked side by side in the back lot. “And why are you looking up Isaac? I thought he used you to make his girlfriend jealous or something?”

  “He did. But I’m nosy. You know that. I just wanted to see what I was up against. I didn’t get a good look at her at the party because he was sucking her freaking face off like a damn Hoover.”

  “Ew.” I point my key fob at my car. “Tell me you’re not going to DM him.”

  “God, no.” She flicks to another picture. “Look, here he is again. He looks miserable.”

  “August?” I inspect this picture. A bunch of guys in football jerseys stand in a half circle, their beefy arms around one another.

  Everyone is smiling—except him.

  “He’s definitely different,” I say.

  “You still have his shirt?”

  “It’s at the cleaner’s.” Surprisingly, the cost to dry clean a dress shirt isn’t much different than the cost of a venti vanilla bean Frappuccino—which I could really use about now because I’m dragging. Our AC is still out so sleep has been a sweaty hit-or-miss mess. Dad claims he’s going to fix the unit himself. Mom keeps claiming the heat wave is almost done, reminding me this isn’t normal even by southern Missouri standards. I’m just waiting for the
night when I can fall asleep without a rickety box fan blowing warm air on me. “Did I tell you he texted me last Saturday?”

  We stand by the front of my car.

  “Um, no!” Her jaw hangs. “What’d he want?”

  “His shirt.” I laugh and quote the air.

  Adriana squints. “Ugh. Why do guys have to be so transparent? I can see through that a mile away. He just wants ass.”

  Lucky Adriana is blissfully unaware of our families’ history. While she’s a local, she’s not a local-in-the-know. Some people around here fashion themselves official town historians. Her parents are Rhode Island transplants who moved here when Adri wasn’t even a year old. There’s a lot they don’t know, a lot that they probably don’t even care to know.

  “So you going to do it?” she asks. “You going to hook up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Dang. I mean … if you want me to take one for the team.” She winks.

  “If you want him, he’s all yours.” I lift my palms in surrender.

  “Really?”

  “Totally. He’s not my type. At all. Not even close,” I say. “I think it’s the long hair.”

  And the tattoos. And the nose piercing. And the last name.

  “Seriously? He’s, like, every girl’s wet dream.” Her eyes widen and she studies me, as if I’m trying to punk her. “But if you like those clean cut good boys, you do you.”

  Yawning and eyes watering, I say, “I should get going.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “You’re still covering for me Saturday, right?” My parents would be heartbroken if we had to cancel our afternoon shopping plans.

  “Eight to four. I’ll be here. ‘Night, babe.” She struts to her driver’s door and ducks inside. The engine of her little blue Dodge fires up with a purr, and she plugs her phone onto her charger before buzzing away.

  I stop for a few gallons of gas on the way home. And when I pull into the driveway, I sit in my car, AC blasting, for a solid ten minutes. The second I get inside, I’m going to melt into a puddle. Last night the thermostat read eight-seven degrees at bedtime. I’m about ready to fix the dang unit myself.