Page 2 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

3) I set his car on fire. (Don’t worry, I’ll wait until he’s out of it . . . maybe.)

I could go on and on, but you get the picture.

I can’t, for the life of me, understand why Logan and Ryan have stayed close friends even after graduating and living in different states. Sometimes I wonder what Ryan has been up to this whole time, but I don’t dare ask Stacy because I implemented a strict “no mention of the devil” rule a long time ago, and I refuse to break it. Both Stacy and Logan know that even the slightest slip of Ryan’s name gets them put in the friendship doghouse for an entire week. Am I being petty? Yes. Absolutely. But I’m okay with it.

I’ve had twelve blissful years of Ryan-lessness. Well, almost blissful. That time, five years ago, when my fiancé cheated on me and I had to cancel my wedding sucked. Other than that, though, it’s been twelve years of success without worrying that Ryan will somehow swoop in and overshadow me. And if I could ever get off this toilet, I could go rub all my newfound success in Ryan’s face.

Thankfully, I hear the door open again, and I sit up straighter, determined not to mess up my lines this time. Fate is on my side as the woman chooses the stall beside me. Deciding not to risk it with chitchat, I cut right to the chase. “Umm. Hi. I don’t mean to startle you . . . but the thing is, I’ve been in here for a while, and I was wondering if—”

I cut myself off when a hand shoots under the stall wall, clutching a bouquet of toilet paper. “Yeah, yeah, here you go.”

Yes! Finally! See, now this is a woman I can appreciate. Soul sisters. Women who understand each other! I briefly consider giving her my tube of red lipstick and asking her to exchange numbers, but I decide against it.

Once all my business is complete, I emerge from the bathroom like I’ve been lost at sea for ten years. It’s good to be back in the world. Are the Kardashians still famous?

I make my way down the dark, slender hallway toward the bar. The music pulses through my chest, and my heels pound the floor with the sure strides of a six-foot-tall Vogue model on the catwalk rather than the five-foot-two southern peach I am.

Right now, I am all confidence—high on my own determination as I step out of the hallway into the trendy sports bar. I have no time to scan the room before I’m grabbed hard by the arm and yanked to the side.

“Ow! What the—”

“He’s here,” Stacy whispers loudly into my face. And WOW has she already had a lot to drink or what? I’m going to need to slip her a Tic Tac.

“Who’s here?” But I know who she’s talking about. I’m just getting into character with my false disinterest.

“Didn’t you get all my texts?” She sounds frantic. It makes me laugh a little because I know that even though this is our first stop of the night, she’s already a little tipsy. Stacy is a lightweight. And when Stacy gets tipsy, she turns into the star of a reality TV show. Which reality show? It doesn’t really matter. A drunk person is the driving force in all of them.

“No, I left my phone on the table.”

Stacy looks appalled. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because I was proving that I— It doesn’t matter. How long has he been here?”

“About five minutes. He’s standing over at the bar.”

Nerves zing through me because this is it. After twelve years, my archnemesis is once again standing in the same room as me, and I fully intend to squash him.

My little black dress is hugging my curves, and my loose-wave, honey-brown hair is tickling my spine. I’ve been saving this dress for exactly this occasion. It has a high neckline but low-cut open back, making it the perfect combination of sexy and sweet. The mullet of dresses, if you will. Business in the front, party in the back. Even better, the slender long sleeves cover almost all of my shoulder tattoo, leaving only the tiniest sliver of pale-yellow sunflower petals to peek out over my shoulder blade.

I take in one deep breath before turning around and scanning each man at the bar. I search. I search again. I search one more time because . . . “He’s not here.”

“Yes, he is,” Stacy says in a matter-of-fact way that gives me a sinking feeling. “He’s right there.” She points toward the bar, and I whip my head around to her.

“No. He’s. Not,” I say through my teeth. “I don’t see any ugly men with greasy hair and rotting teeth!” I’m doing that thing where I’m yelling in whisper form with a smile still plastered to my face. It’s scary.

Stacy doesn’t back down from my intensity. She gives a look that says this ends here and now. “That’s because Ryan is not ugly or greasy.”

“But you said he was!” I sound so desperate now. I’m seconds away from breathing into a paper bag.

Stacy shakes her blond head, and if I wasn’t completely freaking out right now, I would tell her how pretty her new highlights look. “Nope. You always assumed he was, and I just never corrected you.”

“Why! That’s the kind of thing that you correct a girl about.”

Her eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me! The last time I tried to mention anything remotely complimentary about Ryan, you took my fifteen-dollar glass of wine and poured it into the restaurant’s ficus!”

I did do that. And I stand by it.

“Now! Like it or not, Ryan is here, and he’s not ugly, greasy, or unhygienic, so it’s time to put on your big girl panties and woman up.”

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