Page 16 of The Enemy Face Off

"It's not that. I mean, it is that. Boy germs are the worst."

"Very true."

"But I'm not hungry. Thanks though."

I take a bite of pie, and as I chew, mull over a response to her question.

No one knows what I've been going through these past few months, not even my teammates, who are the closest thing to family that I've got. Who are theonlyfamily I've got. Without them, I'm all alone in life. Been that way since the state intervened and took me from my parents when I was seven.

But I can't tell Beth about the phone call with my lawyer that got me all riled up earlier. Why burden her with my problems when she low-key—or, more likely, mid-key—hates me?

I take another bite of pie, wash it down with a healthy chug of chocolate milkshake, and answer her question without really answering her question. "I got some bad news tonight."

"I figured. I overheard you on the phone."

"You were listening in on my private conversation?"

"No. I happened to overhear bits and pieces of it. I didn't do it on purpose. I actually came out to the terrace to apologize."

"Apologize in advance for your plot to crash into me later in the evening?"

That draws a smile out of her. "No. For being rude to you when you—when maybewe—bumped into one another on the street."

"Oh. I see."

"I reflected on my behavior, and I was a little…harsh with you. I'm sorry about that."

I'm speechless.

I'm not used to people owning their stuff. I guess when you've been exposed to a lifetime of foster parents who blame everything and everyone else for their woes—the government, their bosses, other family members—rather than take one iota of accountability for their own crummy lives, it's…refreshing.

"I'm sorry, too," I say. "I was rude to you on the terrace. I just had…"

"Some bad news?"

"Yeah. But that's no excuse to speak to you the way I did."

"Thank you for saying that." She lowers her head, bringing her full pink lips to an inch above her straw. Her gaze stays down as she says, "Because you should know, I don't verbally spar with just anyone, Milo."

Ah, that's right. I said something stupid about not being in the mood to verbally spar with her. I remember now.

Man, I'm an idiot.

I'd verbally spar with her any time, any day. Our run-in last week has been playing on loop in my mind. I loved every second of it.

I clear my throat. "I apologize for saying that because I enjoy verbally sparring with you. A lot."

She makes a satisfied noise, like she feels the same way but doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of saying she feels the same way.

"So…" I decide to push my luck, because what have I got to lose besides my dignity and self-respect? "Does this mean that we're friends?"

I smile at her, and it comes more easily than it has in a long time. She holds my gaze for a few seconds, and no children are running away screaming. Both good signs.

"I wouldn't go that far," she finally says, a playful sparkle lighting up her hazel eyes. "We're more like friends…ish."

5

Beth

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