Enemy Dearest

I’m diving headfirst into another fantasy conversation when the radio cuts out and Soren’s name flashes across the display. I clear my throat, sit up straight, and tap the green button.

“Hey,” I say.

“Happy birthday …” It’s loud where he is. I can barely hear him over all the commotion in the background. Someone’s yelling.

Exhaling, I manage a quick, “Thanks.”

I completely forgot today was my birthday.

“You out celebrating?” he asks, yelling over the noise.

I scan the empty highway and chuff. “In my own way.”

“I’ll do a shot in your honor tonight,” he says with a chuckle. We don’t have traditions, but if we did, this might be the closest thing to it. “One of these days I’ll be there in person and we can do one together.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

He covers the phone, his voice muffled for a second as he speaks to someone else.

“Sorry about that.” He’s back. “Was going to see if you had any plans for Thanksgiving. We’re doing our eastern leg of the tour that week … playing Madison Square Garden and working our way down. I could fly you out if you want to hang with us for the week?”

I’ve toured with his band once a couple of years ago, and honestly, once was enough. Their parties make mine look like a kiddie parade with clowns and balloon animals. It took me two solid weeks just to recover. And I’ll be damned if I go within a football field’s distance of Everclear ever again.

“Thanks but I’m good,” I say.

He’s wordless for a second. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seem … I don’t know … sad or something,” he says. “It’s, what, nine o’clock where you are? On a Friday? And you’re alone? I call bullshit. It’s some chick, isn’t it?”

Sheridan is hardly some chick.

But Soren wouldn’t understand.

And I don’t have the energy to explain any of it.

“Just tired,” I say. And it’s not a complete lie. I am tired. Tired of merely existing while everyone around me moves on with their life and I’m treading water. If I could snap my fingers and get myself out of this trance-like state of despair, I would.

But I can’t—I’m stuck on her.

“What’s her name?” he asks, seeing through me. “This chick.”

“It’s no one you’d know.”

“Obviously,” he says. “Is this the same one you were going to bring to my show last summer?”

I told him she was sick. A lame, uncreative excuse in retrospect.

Sighing, I say, “Yeah. Same girl.”

“Well, shit,” Soren says with an exhale. “I have to get out there for soundcheck, but my offer still stands. Come hang out with us if you want to get away for a bit. And if not, I mean, I understand. I get it. I’ve been there. I still think of mine sometimes. And hell, every song on my last three albums was about her in one way or another. Biggest fear is I’ll marry someone else but see her face on my wedding day. They stick with you, man. Those first loves. It’s heaven and it’s hell.”

A sign ahead tells me Briardale’s exit is seventeen miles away.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I say, half-chuckling. Awkwardness of this “bonding” moment aside, it’s good to know I’m not alone.

“All right, well, I have to go. You take care. Have a drink or something tonight, okay? Take the edge off. And I’m always here if you need me,” he says. “And August? I hope you get the girl. Honestly, knowing you … you will.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sheridan

* * *

“Stacia.” I grip her arm under the table at a local sushi place. “You didn’t tell me this was a double date.”

“Obvi.” She smirks as her boyfriend and his friend make their way from the front door to our booth. “Or you wouldn’t have come …”

“So messed up.”

She climbs out of her seat and wraps her arms around her boyfriend, Bryan. They’ve been dating a few weeks now and they’re already exclusive, inseparable, and in love. I’m thrilled for her, truly, but every time I see them together, my heart breaks a little.

It could’ve been us …

“Sheridan, this is my roommate, Dillon,” Bryan says.

Dillon extends his hand, and flashes a megawatt smile accented with two perfect dimples. His hair is freshly cut, slicked back with brilliantine, and he’s dressed like he’s going to a job interview.

A lifetime ago, he would’ve been my type … clean cut, preppy.

Stacia and the guys slide into the booth, and I brace myself for a night of small talk and awkward conversation.

“So you’re a nursing major?” Dillon asks. “Like Stacia?”

I nod, sipping my ice water. “That’s how we met.”

“Awesome,” he says with a little too much enthusiasm. “I’m studying accounting. Hope to be a corporate accountant someday. Got my sights set on a Fortune 500 company.”

I stifle a yawn.

I should’ve stayed in my pajamas and called it an early night, but Stacia spent an hour blowing up my phone and begging me to get sushi. We were halfway here when she told me Bryan was joining us, which would’ve been fine had they not been setting me up for a surprise, blind double date …