Page 61 of Enemy Daddy Next Door

And then there’s Amy…what do I do about Amy? Every spare moment I’ve had, every wick of emotion, any time I’ve had have gone to her.

I might have to press pause.

Just pause.

But she’s so young…so blessedly new to all of this.

In doing what I have to do, I might break her heart. And that’s nearly as bad as losing Jessica.

Nearly.

17

AMY

“I promise I’m not ending things.”

Hunter’s words ricochet through my mind every few minutes. I can’t get lost in work for too long without remembering his crestfallen expression as he explained the situation to me.

His ex, back for Jessica. I can’t imagine how terrifying that is.

Actually, I can. I’ve known Jessica since she was a baby, but in the short time Hunter and I have been seeing each other, I’ve fallen desperately in love with her.

Just like I have with her father.

I wonder, if he knew that I loved Jessica like I do if he’d push me away.

Losing her would be just as bad as losing him. So, I let him take a step back from me. Even though my body feels betrayed. Just a few nights ago I was lost in his arms, feeling pleasure I had never felt. I was worshiped. I felt divine.

Now, I feel like yesterday’s crumpled up newspaper. Discarded and damaged.

I feel a bit foolish for being so bereft over it. Hunter never mentioned that we’d have to stop seeing each other or that he wouldn’t be in touch. Just that it might be less…strained, even.

Still, though. It felt like we were just stepping into the next phase of our relationship. Like everything was possible.

Apparently, everything was possible. I just never accounted for the bad things.

In order to avoid the mere possibility of seeing Hunter (or Jessica, for that matter), I’ve posted up at Gillian’s bakery for the day. I’ve spread out all my materials at a table: my sketchbook, computer, some writing materials. From time to time, my sister or Lola, her best friend and co-owner of the store, pop by with another sweet treat for me. Usually, I wouldn’t indulge so much, but I’m grieving, so it seems only right.

My art reflects my mood too. Poor Petunia is getting put through it today on the page. In one sketch, she’s sitting in the rain, pummeled with raindrops that are mixing with her tears. In another one, her favorite dress has been shrunk in the wash.

Art is catharsis, what can I say?

Around noon, Gillian drops into the chair beside me. “We’re putting in a lunch order. What do you want?”

“Depends what we’re getting.”

Gillian smiles. “Vegan food.”

“Wow, shocking.”

“It’s good, it’s this vegan chicken place. You’ll like it. It’s like –”

“The real thing,” I finish her sentence with a smile. “Sure it is.”

Gillian laughs and puts her arm around the back of my chair. “It is, I promise.”

“Just get me one of whatever you’re having,” I say, and continue shading the underside of a storm cloud.

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