Enemy Dearest

Dad stops shelling the peas and adjusts his sunglasses. “Sure. What’s up?”

“I saw some text messages on your phone … from someone named KT,” I say.

He’s silent, stone faced.

“And I saw you with Kara Tindall,” I add. “I’ve actually seen the two of you together several times.”

Dad places the bowls on the wooden ledge of the raised garden, sits back in his chair, and crosses his legs. “Let me be very clear with you, Sheridan. You have it all wrong. I would be very careful not to jump to conclusions if I were you.”

“Why’d you act so strange when I brought up inviting her to dinner the other night?” I ask.

He sniffs. “Because it was completely out of the blue. I didn’t even think you remembered her name. It’d been so long.”

“And the texts, I saw … something about ending Mama’s suffering?” I fold my arms. “What are you planning? Just tell me.”

“This is an extremely personal and deeply complicated matter,” he says, hand splayed out like he’s going into defense mode.

“Oh, my god.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “So you are having an affair.”

My father flies out of his chair. “God, no. I would never do that to your mother.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.” My jaw is clenched, and my shoulders burn, taut with fiery tension.

“I’d advise you to keep your voice down.” The calmness in his tone digs under my skin, intensifying the maelstrom already happening inside.

I hadn’t realized I was yelling …

I glance back toward the house to make sure Mama and Laurie are still inside. God forbid they hear any of this commotion and come out to investigate.

“Why?” I ask. “Because you don’t want people to know you’re a murderer?”

With vanquished confidence, he removes his sunglasses, revealing a rare, tear-filled gaze. The number of times I’ve seen my father cry, I can count on one hand.

“Please stop asking questions.” A quaver resides in his quieted voice. “And don’t you ever call me that word again.”

Just as I expected, he’s not going to answer my questions.

“So that’s it?”

“Yes, Sheridan. That’s it.”

“You’re not going to answer anything?”

His lips press flat, and he returns his sunglasses to their rightful position before taking a seat in his chair and reaching for the peas.

The conversation is over.

Heading inside, I grab my purse and keys and dash out the front door. Mama calls my name, but I keep going. I don’t want to cause a scene in front of a friend she only sees once a year nor do I want to have to answer if she asks what’s wrong.

I’m half a block away when I call August.

“I just confronted him about the texts,” I say when he answers.

“What’d you find out?”

“Nothing. He got all teary-eyed and told me it was complicated,” I say. “And he warned me to keep my voice down and not make any assumptions. Then just like that, the conversation was over.”

August sighs into the receiver. “Sounds about right.”

“I know I just saw you an hour ago, but can I come over?” I ask. The hope in my tone is obvious, the desperation raw. I don’t care.

He doesn’t answer with an immediate yes, and my stomach turns. I crawl to a stop at the light ahead and hold my breath.

“My dad and Cassandra are home right now,” he says. “But I’ll meet you somewhere. You can get in my car and we can just drive. We’ll go anywhere you want. And if we get tired … we’ll just get a room somewhere.”

Tears blur my vision as the light turns green, and I nod despite the fact that he can’t see me. “Yeah, okay. Where do I meet you?”

“How about the back parking lot of the library? Twenty minutes?” Rustling and shuffling fills his background, like he’s getting ready. Keys jangle, followed by footsteps.

He’s dropping everything—for me.

No questions asked.

No hesitation.

It’s as if I’m his first priority and nothing else matters—and in this moment, the feeling is mutual.

Chapter Thirty-One

August

* * *

“I’m so sorry to drag you into this,” she says when she climbs into my car.

Her eyes are red and her cheeks are swollen … yet she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my fucking life.

I lean across the console and crush her pink lips with a kiss.

“I’m here because I want to be,” I say. “No one drags me into anything.”

For the next forty-five minutes we drive west, with no destination in mind. Hand in hand. Radio playing. Windows down and sunroof open.

The sun is setting and we’re approaching the state line, but until she tells me to stop, I’ve no intentions of slowing down. I’ll go anywhere with her.

“Should we stop?” She points to a billboard claiming the “world-famous” Luna Vista Overlook is three miles ahead. “Might be good to get some air.”

“Of course.” I kiss her hand and take the next exit. Signs lead us through a treed valley, over a mile-long bridge, and down a winding road, where we end up at a sparsely populated parking lot. Another sign directs us to a set of rickety wooden stairs. By the time we make it to the actual overlook, the sky has darkened and the stars are coming out of hiding.