Page 8 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

“I don’t think you do.” Her words are still slurring heavily, but I understand her perfectly. Her hair is hanging over one of her shoulders, and she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing my suit jacket like a blanket. It looks way too good on her. “I haaaaaate you.”

“Why?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t but also unable to resist getting this unfiltered truth.

She lifts a shoulder and drops it. “Because it’s what we’ve always done. Hate each other.”

She’s right, and the realization makes me oddly sad. June and I fought over everything in high school. We had no choice but to be around each other often since our best friends were dating, but we made it a point during those forced hangouts to annoy each other as much as possible. If June wanted to go to the movies, I convinced everyone we should go bowling. If I planned a New Year’s Eve party, she planned a bigger, better one. If Stacy and Logan convinced us all to have a friends dinner (meaning just the four of us), I would bring a date to rile June up. All of this, plus at least a hundred harmless pranks.

Yeah, thinking back, I wasn’t the nicest guy in the world to June. The thing is, my pestering was never done out of spite. It was the only way I could get her to pay attention to me. And I wanted her attention on me.

“But worst of all . . .” Her sleepy words break through my thoughts. “I tipped my chin up to you, and you walked away.”

“Tipped your chin up? What are you talking about?” I step a little closer.

She falls onto her side to bury her head in her pillow. The hem of her little black dress hikes up an extra inch, and suddenly, it feels wrong standing here in her room without her sober permission—wrong to see her picture frames, and her throw pillows, and hear her honest thoughts. I’m an uninvited guest, staying late to a party I wasn’t even invited to in the first place. I needed to get her home safely, and I did. Time to go.

I cross the room to stand next to June’s bed and pull her comforter up over her. Looks like she’s going to be sleeping in that dress tonight.

I’m just about to leave the room when June’s mumbling words stop me. “On graduation day, I wanted you to kiss me, but you walked away.”

Wait, what? My head spins. Her hatred for me now is because I didn’t kiss her that night? Does that mean she didn’t hate me back then? Was she just playing the same game I was?

After I’ve lingered beside her way too long, and maybe even brushed her hair out of her face, I let myself out. But I continue to wonder what life would have been like if I hadn’t walked away.

What if I’d kissed her that day?

Would I be sleeping next to her tonight?

Would I be happier than I am now?

What ifs ping around my brain for the rest of the night like an annoying screen saver where the words never reach the corner. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself I made the right decision all those years ago. And even worse, I still can’t tell if I’ll make the same decision again a second time.

All I know is that June says she hates me. But I don’t hate her. In fact, I think I’m just as wild about her as I was back then. Maybe it’s a mistake, and maybe I’ll think more clearly in the morning, but I want June’s attention again. And it turns out, the strategy is exactly the same as it was in high school.

I’ve gotta get under her skin.

CHAPTER 5

June

I am going to murder my best friend.

Go ahead and zip me up in an orange jumpsuit and lock me in the slammer for life, because Stacy Williams is dead to me.

Was she out of her everlovin’ mind to plan her bachelorette party on a Sunday night? Meaning, the night before MONDAY—the day that I have to wake up at five in the morning to open the bakery. (For those of you doing the math at home, that’s only about two and a half hours after I stumbled into my bed.)

I hate her. I grumble it fifteen more times before I bring myself to squint my eyes open, and good heavens, that’s one spinning room.

How did this even happen? I haven’t had more than two drinks in a night since my early twenties. I’m usually very careful, especially knowing I have to open the bakery the next day. But last night, having Ryan only feet away from me did strange things to the rational thinking part of my brain. I was too nervous to eat and lost count of my drinks (did I mention I never do that?). The combo was brutal and life-changing. Life-changing in that I will never touch another cocktail again.

Women hung around Ryan like the world was suddenly being depleted of oxygen and he contained the superspecial, never-ending supply behind his lips. Everything he said garnered a barrel of laughs. The man should be a stand-up comedian for how funny everyone seemed to think he was. If the conversation just barely turned to something that wasn’t worship for His Majesty, some little darling would pull it right back to him and then stare at his special oxygen lips while he spoke.

Ooooh, Ryan, you’re a chef! Ryan, what’s it like running a prestigious kitchen? My, what big muscles you have, Ryan!

I don’t know if it’s the tequila trying to make its way back up or the thought of Ryan that’s making me want to barf, but the nausea is real.

Finally bringing myself to open my eyes, I realize I’m hugging a man’s gray suit jacket, and I fling it to the ground. Memories assault me like I’ve just put a beehive on my head. Ryan brought me home last night. STING. He came in my house. STING. Put me in my bed. STING. Covered me with a blanket. STING, STING.

And . . . oh no. I admitted to wishing he had kissed me!

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