Dear Enemy

He laughs freely. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry I didn’t know this then. I would have found a way to attend.”

“I would have been scarred for life if you had.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe Sam never told you.”

“Why would Sam tell me about it?”

I stop short, my gaze searching his face to see if he’s serious. He appears genuinely confused.

“It was a nightmare for both of us. You and Sam were in each other’s pockets all through childhood. I assumed she told you everything.”

The tendon along his neck stands out as he looks away, his brows drawn tight. “Sam did most of the talking, and I’d pretend to listen. But it was never about anything personal. She’d complain about her hair or if someone was being a shit to her, and I’d nod along. Truth is, I found her boring as all hell.”

My mouth falls open. “But you . . . she . . . God, Macon. You were with her on and off for years. Why would you do that to yourself if you thought she was boring? Why would you do that to her?”

His lips curl in a parody of a smile. “You don’t get it, Delilah. The feeling was entirely mutual.”

“How do you know?” I challenge.

“Easy. She told me.”

“Bullshit.” Sam had thought Macon was the bomb. She loved him for a time.

He scratches his chin. “Let’s see; if I recall, she said, ‘I don’t particularly like you, Macon Saint, but aside from me, you’re the best-looking person in this school, so we really should be together.’”

I wince. That sounds exactly like something Sam would say. “And you agreed?”

His nose wrinkles as if he smells something off. “No, I couldn’t have cared less what people thought of me. But if I was with her, other girls wouldn’t bother to approach me.”

Everything in me goes still, and I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach as understanding finally hits. “You’re gay.”

“What? No.” His brows wing upward. “Why the hell would you think that?”

I lift my hands in confusion. “You’re describing Sam as a beard, Macon. You went out with her to keep girls at bay.”

The crests of his cheeks flush again. “Oh, for the love of . . . I did not keep Sam around because I secretly liked guys. Sam was safe, Delilah. She didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t really want to get to know me. I was a loner stuck in the role of town charmer. Sam suited my purposes because she played the part of devoted girlfriend and kept people from getting too close. That’s all.”

I really don’t want to examine the purely selfish reasons that I find myself relieved to know he’s not gay. But his confession depresses me. “Life isn’t a play,” I find myself saying. “You don’t act out roles in real life.”

“Just because you’re an open book doesn’t mean everyone is.” His brows lower as he leans closer to me. “Most of us pretend to be something we’re not. It’s only to a select few that we really show our true selves.”

“I’m not an open book.”

“More like newsprint.” He gives me a level look. “I can read you like a headline, Delilah.”

I huff out a breath. “Okay, I’m fairly open, but I do get it. Everyone has a public self and a private self. I’m only saying that it’s kind of sad, you and Sam sticking together for those reasons.”

“Why do you think I found you so annoying?” Macon quips. “Because you damn well knew we were fakers.”

I smile, showing teeth. “I thought you two were plastic. Not faking a relationship.”

“Brat,” he says, amused.

Thing is, I’m amused too. It’s easier now, hashing things out with Macon. Which is a surprise. People grow up; I know that. But usually you’re there for the growth, the steady change of character. Seeing is believing. I hadn’t been around Macon for a decade. I hadn’t seen the change from boy to man. And though he might look and act more mature, my instincts react as if no time has passed. My first impulse is to think the worst of him. Only slowly but surely, he’s making me reassess that.

Rolling my eyes, I unwrap my mango and take a bite. It’s richly sweet and perfectly ripe. Like Macon, I find myself scrambling to wipe away the juice that runs free.

He watches beneath lowered lids. “Missed a spot.” The blunt tip of his thumb brushes the lower edge of my lip, just at the corner—a place I never thought to be particularly sensitive. Yet that small touch sends thick chords of shuddering pleasure through my body.

That damn spot fairly hums now, a little tickle, and it’s all I can do not to lick it. Macon stares at my lips like he knows I still feel his touch. When did he get so close? The scent of his skin and the heat of his body carry on the breeze, moving over me like warm cotton.