Dear Enemy

The writhing feeling within takes a nauseating turn, and I gulp down juice.

A sigh gusts from her end of the phone. “I’m sorry that you ended up in this position. I truly didn’t realize you’d do this for me.”

“I did it for Mama,” I say automatically, my voice wooden. I feel as hollow and brittle as an old log. My lips feel numb.

“Whatever the case,” she says, tossing the distinction away. “I’m sorry. But you texted that you like Macon. Don’t. He’s never cared for you. Did you forget about prom?”

I hadn’t forgotten. I just didn’t want to think about that anymore. But the girl in me? She’s curling in on herself, Sam’s reminders burning through the skin like so much acid. I don’t want to believe Sam. I want to believe in Macon.

“If he’s acting kind,” Sam says, “it’s to keep you happy and in your place.”

Funny thing is, she might as well be talking about herself. That knowledge depresses me. “He’s not that good of an actor, Sam. You forget, I know him too. Maybe not as well as you do . . .” Everything in me screams out that it’s not true; I do know him better. But is that truth or vanity talking? “I know when he’s bullshitting and when he’s not.”

“What exactly is going on between you two?” Suspicion laces her voice.

I don’t tell her about last night, the kissing, the growing attraction. I don’t tell her about getting closer to Macon or the way he’s opening up to me. It would feel like a betrayal. At some point, my loyalties have shifted.

“A working arrangement.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. We’re more than that. More. “Given the circumstances, Macon has been really good about everything.”

God, if only that point would sink into my head too. Stupid insecurities. Stupid Sam for stirring them up.

She hits me again, right where I’m most tender. “You didn’t hear half of the ugly things he’s said about you. He couldn’t stand you, Dee. You think that just goes away? Hell, you wouldn’t even watch Dark Castle because the memory of him was so repugnant to you, and that was only a few months ago.”

Her words fall over me like hot tar, sticking and burning. She has to know she’s hurting me. That she’s willing to do it to get her point across hurts too. “That’s really unfair, Sam. People grow up. I grew up. Macon did too.”

“This is what I’m talking about! You’re letting your guard down. Macon will use it to his advantage.”

“Why? To what purpose?” I shake my head and huff out my exasperation.

“To use you as bait and lure me back home.”

“Then take the bait,” I snap. “Come back, and end this.”

And then we’ll know. A trickle of fear goes down my spine. What will happen if she returns?

“I will. Soon.”

“That isn’t good enough. I have to tell him you called.”

“No! Don’t you dare!”

“Why not? He should know.”

I can practically hear her thoughts racing.

“He’ll get in an uproar again, and it’ll be relentless. You tell him, and I’m not going to come back.”

“Oh, that is low.” I can’t punch Sam, so I punch the padded arm of the chair. “Really low.”

“Am I wrong? He’ll be back in a black mood, gunning for me.”

She’s not wrong.

“If you’re unwilling to leave that house . . . ,” Sam begins, making it sound like a question.

“I’m not leaving. I made a promise.” I don’t tell her the other truth: I don’t want to leave. Not yet. I’ve grown attached to this place, to Macon. Is that a weakness? Stupid of me? I don’t know. Sam’s muddying the waters even more.

“That’s what I thought,” she says. “So don’t rock the boat. I’ll come back as soon as I can. And I’ll bring Macon his damn watch. But don’t you dare fall for his act, whatever it might be.”

Sorry, sis. I’m already falling.

“You’re being melodramatic.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. And I’ll give you a month. After that, I’m telling him.”

A month is more than generous. Even though I feel like a traitor to Macon by keeping this secret.

“Fine,” she says. “But I’ll know if you tell him.”

That’s why I’m agreeing to this. Because he’ll absolutely start up texting her again. He’ll want her to return immediately. And like before, his threats and texts won’t bring Sam back. She has to do that for herself.

I feel small and irritable and suddenly don’t want to hear the sound of her voice. I can’t believe I’ve been anxious to get a call from her. “Just get your ass back here with the watch.”

“I will,” she promises with a drawl. “And you remember your past. Remember who Macon is.”

She hangs up, and I’m left holding the phone in my numb hands. Remember who Macon is? Or who he was?