The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)

She shakes her head. “Drunk as skunks.”

I immediately start making my way around the room and extracting the various alcoholic beverages from everyone’s hands. They are wearing pink silk robes, and because of the way they are all gaping open, I wonder why they even bothered putting them on in the first place.

Stacy’s expression says she regrets having these girls in her wedding party. She’s barely seen them since graduating college but thought it would be a nice

idea to have her old sorority sisters stand up with her on her wedding day. Now, it looks like they’ll be doing good to be able to stand on their feet at all.

They all groan and call me Prudish Polly and Fun Sucker when I confiscate their beverages, but I don’t care. My goal is to protect Stacy today, and if that means babysitting seven drunk party girls all day, then so be it.

We’re going to need reinforcements, though. As much as I don’t want to, I know what I have to do. Or rather, who I have to text.

June: Hi. Sooooo, any chance you don’t hate me too much and would be willing to bring copious amounts of coffee up to the church? I have seven sorority sisters to sober up in five hours.

I wait for a response, not entirely expecting one, but then my phone buzzes.

RYAN: How many times do I have to tell you I don’t hate you? I’ll be there in a few minutes.

My heart flutters, and I tell it to chill out.

“Coffee is on the way,” I say to Stacy, hoping to ease the worry lines from around her eyes a little.

She wraps me up in one of her famous hugs that I will miss more than the green jumper I brought to stuff in her luggage. “Thanks, Junie.”

I squeeze her back and tell my tear ducts they better get themselves under control because there is no time for meltdowns.

“Oh! I have something for you.” She lets go of me to reach into an oversized tote bag, pulling out a manila envelope. I secretly hope it’s a scrapbook filled with all our best memories, but I don’t tell her because I’m a cool girl and supposed to hate scrapbooks. Disappointment floods me when I open it and find a stack of businessy-looking papers.

She taps the envelope, and all the sounds of the rowdy room fade away. “These are all the offers for the bakery. They all seem like good candidates, but I’m leaving it completely up to you to choose since you’re the one who will be stuck with them.”

“And because you’ll be in Mexico for the next two weeks before moving to California.”

“And that.”

“So basically, you’re just making me do your dirty work,” I say, because joking is the only thing I can do right now to keep myself from dissolving into a salty puddle of tears.

Stacy knows. She smiles softly and puts a hand on either side of my face before smooshing my cheeks together. “You’ll make the right choice. I know it.” She lets go of my face to smack my butt as she passes.

Slowly, the sounds of squealing bridesmaids and Justin Timberlake re-enter my consciousness, and I turn around to find Stacy tossing me a pretty silk robe. The bridesmaids catcall and taunt me to strip my clothes off. Somewhere, Miss Mable is proud of them.

“Uh, I think I’d rather change in the bathroom.” I’m not actually that shy of my body. If it were just Stacy, I’d be fine. But I have enough self-awareness to know my body image is fragile lately, and I don’t totally trust whatever drunken words will come out of these women’s mouths.

“Need me to come with you?” Stacy asks.

I point to the slippers I brought her. “No, you need to slip your feet into those little slices of paradise and relax. I’ll be right back.”

I head down the long church hallway to the women’s bathroom and, once inside, choose the first stall of the row. No more middles for me. Although the sanctuary of the church is newly remodeled and looks beautiful, this bathroom appears as though it’s been neglected since the days of prehistoric life. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been cleaned since then either.

I slip into the stall and carefully drape the fine silk robe over the door while I change out of my clothes. Once I’ve stripped down and hung my clothes over the door beside the robe, I reach for the pink silk fabric, and like a magic trick, it slips off the other side and disappears before my very eyes. There’s nothing I hate more than having magic forced on me.

For a split second, I worry that my robe has landed on the gross floor and I’ll catch something truly disgusting when I put it on. Then, I hear giggles followed by another disappearing act: my clothes.

Someone—the ringleader, Carly, I’m assuming—very maturely shouts, “Time to loosen up, Prudish Polly!”

They hightail it out of the bathroom as if they expect me to chase them out of the bathroom like we’re back in a college dormitory and I have water balloons stuffed in my bra, ready for a prank war at all times.

Fact: People stuck in their college days are more annoying than ingrown hairs.

I sigh and can’t help but wonder what events in my life have led me back to this place of being half-naked in a stall twice in one week. Oh, AND I’m phoneless because it was in my jeans pocket. So, great. Just great.