Enemy Dearest
Page 18
It’s almost as if he googled me and stalked my social media on the way here …
“I am. Ever heard of it?” I flip the menu over and flick my attention to him, trying to appear interested out of sheer politeness.
This is brutal.
“My grandparents used to live in Springdale,” he says, referring to the little antique town August and I spent a single, beautiful day together once. “I’m familiar with the area.”
Our server interrupts this painful conversation with immaculate timing, and I use the break in conversation to excuse myself to the ladies’ room.
“I’ll go with you,” Stacia says. She trots after me, and once we’re behind a closed door she tugs my arm. “So? What do you think so far?”
I take the last stall on the left. “I feel like he’s interviewing me for a position as his girlfriend.”
“I think he likes you,” she says, ignoring me. “I can tell. The way he looks at you … he hasn’t taken his eyes off you once. Did you notice, he ordered the same thing as you?”
“I don’t think that means anything … everyone likes California rolls …” I finish up and meet her by the sink. “
“But do you like him so far? Like, do you think there’s potential?” Her mascara-coated lashes flutter with hope. “You guys would look so cute together.”
I lather my hands and meet her gaze in the reflection. “He’s nice.”
But he’s a little too … uncomplicated. August had depth and layers. He was a thousand-piece jig saw of a man. Dillon is dead behind the eyes—nice to look at but there’s nothing else there.
“You don’t seem excited about him …” Stacia bites her lower lip and tucks her dark hair behind her ears. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no.” I give her a hug. “It’s fine. You meant well. He’s just … not for me.”
“Are you still hung up on that one guy?” she asks.
I’ve told her and the girls about August briefly, giving them an extremely abbreviated version of events. We had a fling. We ended it before leaving for college. Haven’t spoken since. But she doesn’t know the half of what went down. It never seemed like a relevant topic of conversation, and the idea of revisiting the past events of the summer felt akin to poking a raw nerve with a scalpel.
“What was his name again?” Her brows meet. “Atticus? Atlas?”
“August,” I say his name out loud for the first time in months … and it hurts. It physically throbs—as if someone took a dull knife to my soul and serrated it straight down the center. Changing the subject before it leads me down an emotional path, I say, “We should get back out there …”
The last thing I want is for Dillon to think I’m in here talking about him, analyzing everything, getting my hopes up. Wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression.
He’s a perfectly nice guy—so far.
But he’s no August.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
August
* * *
For the first time in years, I come home for Thanksgiving break. But I’m not here to partake in family traditions, seeing as we have none. And Dad and Cassandra are off somewhere tropical—Tahiti or Fiji or something.
The house is dark and empty, the way it was the day I left.
I toss my duffel on the bed, in the same place Sheridan surrendered herself to me months ago. Then I grab my keys and head back to my car. Fifteen minutes later, I’m on Sheridan’s street.
When in Rome …
Her little blue Nissan is glaringly absent from the street or the driveway.
From there, I head for the cell store, on the off chance she’s home for the week and decided to pick up a shift. Parking out front, I kill my engine and head inside because regardless, I need a spare charger as I left mine back at Bexler.
“Oh, hey, stranger.” Adriana approaches me the instant I set foot in the doorway. I’m sure she saw me coming. “It’s been a while.”
I scan the store in search of the charger section. “Need a charger.”
“Sure thing.” She points me toward the far wall. “I’ll meet you at the checkout when you’re ready.”
A minute later, I pull my wallet from my pocket at the register.
“It’s quiet here today,” I say as she rings me up.
“Yeah. Things are kind of dead until Black Friday. Everyone waits until the big sale. Good thing you came in today and not after Thanksgiving. We’ll have a line out the door.” She raps her long nails on the counter. “Twenty-five fifty-six is your total.”
I hand her my card. “You talk to Sheridan still?”
Her brows lift but she doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, she almost smirks, as if she was waiting for that question.
“We talk sometimes, yeah,” she says.
“How’s she doing?”
She slides my card into the reader. “Great. She seems happy.”
My chest burns. “Good. Good for her. Maybe tell her ‘hey’ for me next time you talk to her.”
Adriana slides me a receipt and pen. “Or maybe you can tell her yourself? She’ll be home next month for Christmas. I think she has three or four weeks off, I can’t remember. She was going to come home this week, but her parents decided to go up there for a couple of days instead.”
Good to know.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think she wants to see me.” I slide the charger off the counter and tuck it into my coat pocket.
“August.” She laughs through her nose, head tilted and hand on her hip. “When has that ever stopped you before?”
I sniff. She’s got a point. But it’s different now. I didn’t care about her before. All that mattered was what I wanted. Any pain or confusion I inflicted on her was collateral damage and not my concern.
But she’s made herself clear these last few months.
I may not agree with it, but I have to respect that—because I love her.
“Listen.” Adriana leans in, voice low despite the fact that we’re the only two here. “I shouldn’t tell you this. But she asks about you every time we talk.”
“What?”
“Yeah. She asks if I’ve seen you around town, if I’ve heard what you’re up to,” she says. “She misses you. And honestly, the way she talks, I think she still loves you—she’s just afraid to admit it, you know? Because of everything.”
“I’ll be right back.”
A second later, I’m sitting in my front seat, scratching out a note on a piece of notebook paper.
I fold it in half twice and run it back inside.
“I need you to give this to her next time you see her,” I tell Adriana. “Can you do that for me?”
Her dark gaze drops to the letter. “Yeah. I can do that.”
She slips it into her back pocket.
“August?” I’m halfway to the door when she calls my name.
I stop. “Yeah?”
“I hope it works out for you two.”
Placing my hand on the door, I nod. “It will.”
Because I’m not giving up on her.
Not yet. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Forty
Sheridan
* * *
My parents’ house smells like a winter wonderland. The second I walk through the door, I’m met with a nasal cocktail of gingerbread, cinnamon, pumpkin and sugar cookies. Dad is apparently baking up a storm …
“Hey,” I give him a wave as I place my bag by the door.
I haven’t been home all semester. I told my parents I was busy with classes and clinicals, but that wasn’t entirely true. While I’ve lived my entire life in Meredith Hills, all it reminds me of now is that single, heartbreaking summer.
And him.
I wasn’t ready to come back.
But I couldn’t get out of winter break.
“Hey, kiddo.” He slides off his oven mitts and places them by the stove before giving me a hug. “Mama’s in the living room. She can’t wait to see you.”
I head to the next room, s
topping in my tracks when I’m met with a voluminous tree that takes up a third of our tiny living room and blocks the entire front window.
“Wow,” I tell Mama as she moves and maneuvers Christmas ornaments, dispersing them ever so perfectly. She’s having a good day. Dad said she’s having a lot of those lately. And the doctors think her bout with Guillain-Barre is on the mend as she hasn’t had an episode or showed any nerve weakness in months. “This is different … why does it look so different? It’s fuller than I remember.”
She smiles, giving me a side hug. “That’s because this one isn’t from the early nineties.”
“Aw, you got rid of the old one?”
“That thing was falling apart and you know it.” She chuckles, though I kind of feel bad for the old tree. We’d had it since I was a baby and the thing was older than me. My parents got it for ten bucks at Goodwill one year. Never really could afford to replace it—until now.
My father won his settlement last month. It wasn’t as much as they were hoping for, but it’s enough to make a difference in their lives. It certainly seems to be making a difference in her health these days, that’s for sure. And that alone is compensation enough in my eyes.
“Did your father tell you he’s taking me on a little weekend getaway for New Year’s?” she asks. “He hasn’t told me where we’re going yet. It’s a surprise.”
I’m happy that they’re able to take a trip, even if it’s only for a couple of days, but they’ve only had this money a month now and it’s already burning cigarette-sized holes in their pockets. It’s all going to add up if they’re not careful.
“I was thinking, Mama …” I say. “Now that you and Dad have a little extra money, maybe you should take over the home nurse payments? Get August his money back?”
She pauses, mid-reach, for a Santa ornament.
“It’s the right thing to do,” I say. “He only did that because he wanted to be with me—and you won’t allow that. It’s just kind of unfair now, don’t you think?”
Her lips flatten. “After everything that family has done to ours, I think it’s more than fair.”
“But he had nothing to do with any of that.”
“Trust me, the Monreauxs aren’t missing a dime of that money. I doubt Vincent even knows it’s gone.”
“Still doesn’t make it right.”
“That family has caused a mountain of heartbreak for ours over the years. They’ve attacked our names, our reputations, our livelihood …”
“Maybe just think about it?”
She fidgets with another ornament, moving it over and down a couple of branches.
“He’s a good person, Mama,” I add. “He’s kind. And he’s got a good heart. I’m sorry you’ll never get a chance to see that.”
Her lips press flat, like she’s stifling what she really wants to say. And then she takes a step back from the tree to examine her work.
“There’s something on your dresser.” Her voice is so low, I almost don’t hear her.
“What?”
“In your room. On your dresser. There’s a note for you.” She avoids eye contact.
I dash to my room, heart pounding in my ears, and find a slip of folded notebook paper sitting between my vanilla jar candle and a half empty bottle of a perfume I received two birthdays ago.
Unfolding it, I’m met with blue ink and a handful of words from the man I love.
Rose girl—
The night I first saw you, I was coming to save you. Believe it or not, I thought you were drowning. Never could I have imagined it would’ve been you saving me in the end.
Thank you for showing me what love is for the first time in my life.
Thank you for saving me from the monster I was destined to become.
I love you now. I’ll love you always. And if you ever change your mind, I’ll be waiting.
—Enemy Dearest
“How long have you had this?” I ask Mama when I find her standing in my doorway. “And how’d you get it?”
“Adriana dropped it off the week of Thanksgiving,” she says.
It makes sense now, why my parents were so intent on coming to see me for Thanksgiving instead of having me home. They probably figured August would be back, and keeping me close and out of town would keep a safe wedge between us.
Adri texted me a few weeks ago saying she dropped a letter off at the house for me—I assumed she meant it was a piece of mail, like an old pay stub or tax document from work. It didn’t occur to me that she meant a literal letter … nobody writes letters anymore.
“I was only trying to protect you,” Mama says, sighing. “I don’t like that he’s a Monreaux. And I will never forgive his father for what he’s put our family through. But I’m willing to admit that maybe, maybe I was wrong about him.”
“There’s no maybe about it, Mama.”
Grabbing my keys and bag and coat, I hurry to the door.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“To him.” I skip down snow-shoveled steps and cracked sidewalk and climb inside my still-warm car.
Two months ago, I deleted his number.
I’d gone out with my friends, enjoyed way too many rum and Cokes, and convinced myself I was doing the right thing. That if I no longer had his number, it would be easier because the temptation to text him or call him would be gone.
When I woke the next morning, it took me a second to remember what I’d done.
But instead of feeling empowered, I was nauseous with rum and regret.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m at the wrought iron gate to the Monreaux mansion, frantically hitting the buzzer.
“Monreaux residence, how may I help you?” An older man’s voice greets me through the speaker.
“Hi, I’m here to see August. Is he home?”
“One moment, please.” The speaker goes silent for a minute, then another. I’m about to hit the buzzer again when the iron gates part, and up ahead a man walks toward me in a hunter green parka, his hair blowing in the December wind.
I fly out of my car so fast I leave the driver’s door open, and I sprint to him.
He catches me in his arms, squeezes me until my feet leave the ground, and swings me in a circle.
“Mama gave me your letter,” I say.
His smile fades and his brows narrow. “How did your mom get the letter?”
“Adriana dropped it off at my house … and I guess Mama took it upon herself to read it.”
Maybe that was Adri’s entire point—maybe she knew Mama had read it and hoped it would help her see him in a different light? It’s not like the letter was sealed. I’m sure she read it before she even handed it off.
His lips flatten. “And?”
“She said maybe she’s wrong about you.” Lifting on my toes, I kiss his spearmint-flavored lips. “Now we just need to work on your father …”
“Done,” he says.
She scrunches her face. “What?”
“Apparently hell has frozen over because he randomly gave me his blessing. He says he’s forgiven your family, wants to bury the hatchet.”
I study him. This all feels too good to be true. “Was he drunk or anything?”
“Fair question,” he says. “But no, he was not. He was crystal clear and coherent.”
“That’s … wow. I guess it’s all coming together perfectly.” I shrug.
The universe works in strange ways, I know. And generally when something sounds too good to be true, it is. But in this case, I don’t want to question it. If Mama’s open to this and his father has given us his blessing, I only want to move forward.
“I love you,” he says into my ear, wrapping me tight in his arms and burying his head into my hair.
“I love you too.”
“Come inside with me.”
I nod toward my car, the engine idling and the door wide open.
“I’ll have someone move it,” he says before scooping me into his arms and carrying me inside.
“I’ve missed this,” I say. “Being here with you. It’s like the outside world stopped existing the second I was within these four walls.”
August climbs in beside me, his body flush against mine, and he pulls my thigh over top of his hip.
“I’ve lived twenty years without you,” he says, “but I don’t know if I can do it another day.”
“I’m not going anywhere this time.”
“Marry me, Sheridan.” His gray eyes flash with intensity.
“You haven’t seen me in four months and the first thing you do is propose?” I chuckle, swatting his shoulder.
He isn’t grinning though. There’s no tease in his tone.
He’s for real …
“Why the rush?” I ask. “Told you I’m not going anywhere.”
“Because I fully intend to make you my wife someday, and I’m terribly impatient.” His full mouth curls up at one side.
“To say the least.”
“So what do you say?” he asks. “Will you marry me?”
He rolls me over top of him, and I sit up, my hands flat against his chest. His heart gallops beneath my palms.
“It doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow. Or even next year. And I’ll get you a ring—in fact, my grandmother’s ring is in the safe upstairs. If you like it, it’s yours. Or if you want something else—”
“—it’s not about the ring,” I say, biting a half smile. “I just … I just think you’re insane.”
He laughs. “Which we both know is what you love most about me.”
“One of the many things …”
“So is that a yes?” he asks.
Without a doubt, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but the sense of peace that fills my soul when I look into his eyes tells me it would also be the wisest.
In many ways, I hardly know him.
But in stranger ways, my soul knows his. How else can you describe that feeling you get when you’re with someone and they feel like home?
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll marry you, August.”