Page 10 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

Sure, I don’t remember what he looks like . . . I think he had brown hair? And I don’t remember if I told myself to throw his number away or call him first thing in the morning, so I think I’ll split the difference and text him. A fun dinner date with a cute guy is exactly what I need to remind myself that Ryan means nothing to me anymore.

Except the phone number is not here. It’s been replaced with a note from a psychopath.

He was a tool. You can thank me later.

I won’t thank him later. I will replace his shampoo with Elmer’s glue later.

I pull into the parking lot of Darlin’ Donuts around six A.M., see my employee Nichole’s car, and thank my lucky stars that I no longer have to do the graveyard shift. Perks of being an owner: I never have to work from three A.M. to six A.M. prepping the dough if I don’t want to—which I never do. Having to be here at six is bad enough. And honestly, right now I would give this whole bakery up to the highest bidder if it meant I could just go home and sleep. Five whole dollars?! Sure, why not! Can I go home now?

Too bad it’s so early that I don’t even pass anyone on the street to give them the purchasing option. Plus, there’s already a space for sale across the street from us. Pretty sure if someone was in the market, they’d snatch up that little shack in a heartbeat. And I must really be hungover to keep dwelling on this ridiculous hypothetical.

Instead of being relieved of my bakery-owner duties, I’m forced to nurse my head all morning as I’m rolling out dough, resisting the urge to toss up my cookies at the smell of donuts in the fryer.

Sometime around ten o’clock, after the morning rush has faded out and we are nearly sold out of our most popular donuts, I see Stacy enter the bakery. She’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and her blond ponytail is waving down her back with leftover curls from last night. She looks like a celebrity trying to fly under the radar.

“You’re brave, showing your face around here,” I say as she approaches the counter.

“Ugh. I feel like someone tried to kill me but then decided to keep me alive just enough so they could continue torturing my body slowly and painfully.”

“Really? I feel amazing.”

“You do?!”

I don’t have the luxury of wearing sunglasses to aid my pounding head, so Stacy has a front-row seat to my icy glare. “No! I got two hours of sleep before I had to wake up and open the shop. I swear, I’m never touching alcohol again. It’s prune juice for this grandma from now on.”

Stacy has the audacity to laugh, because apparently, she’s hoping to get punched today. “It’s your own fault. No one forced those last few Jell-O shots down your throat.”

“No, it’s your fault for planning a bachelorette party on a Sunday night!”

Stacy shrugs a shoulder. “Sunday nights are less busy.”

“Yeah, no kidding. No sensible person wants to show up to work hungover the next day.”

“Don’t be mad at me because you lost your cool around Ryan McHotChef.”

I point a finger at her. “First, you can come up with a better nickname. Second, you’re already on thin ice, ma’am. Keep it up and you’ll need to give your heart to Jesus.”

“You sound just like Bonnie.”

“Thank you.”

She chuckles and rounds the donut counter to stand next to me. Brave move. “Okay, time to get your panties out of a wad, because we need to talk.” Something in her voice makes me feel like we are about to break up. And I say so. I’m not encouraged when she sighs and takes off her sunglasses.

“Oh gosh. You are breaking up with me?” My voice is high-pitched and panicky.

She gives me a tense smile that does nothing to ease my anxiety. “No way, you’re stuck with me forever.” She pauses, and I can feel the giant but coming. “But . . . you’ll just be stuck with me from afar from now on.”

What! She really is breaking up with me! Oh gosh, does this mean I have to box up all the stuff she’s given me (I’ve stolen) and return it? She’ll have to pry that green jumper from my cold dead hands, though.

“Stacy, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry. I thought about telling you sooner, but I decided that a long, drawn-out goodbye would be too hard. Ripping off the Band-Aid is better for both of us.”

“I will shake you, woman, if you don’t tell me why the hell you’re ripping Band-Aids off me.”

Stacy’s face crumples as she rushes to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders so forcefully that I make an involuntary oof sound. We’re holding on to each other for dear life when the truth spills out of her. It’s all blubbering nonsense, but since we’ve been friends for so long, I understand every word.

“Logan got a job in California. It’s his dream position at a great hospital, working under the best thoracic surgeon in his field. We talked about it for so long, and he told me he didn’t want to take me from my dream job, but then I realized . . . I don’t think this bakery ever has been my dream. It’s yours, and I love you so much that I’ve just wanted to help you bring it to life. But now that that’s done, you don’t need me here anymore. So I told him to take the job. We’re moving after the wedding.”

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