Dear Enemy

You.

Fucking you.

Why? Why is it always—

YOU?

The impact of his words hits me like a blow, and I sit back in my chair and stare out of the window. It’s almost too bright in here, the sunlight bouncing off the walls, making my eyes burn. For a moment, I was in that car with him, huddled down in the seat, feeling his frustration, his rage. The way he thought of me was so similar to my reactions to him—it’s eerie.

I’m afraid to read the last, knowing that he hates me in it, and I am the ghost he wants to be rid of. Oh, how I regret my words to him earlier. Ghosts, I realize, are just that: long dead. They can’t hurt us unless we let them. But I owe it to both of us to finish.

Hey Tot,

I won an Emmy.

It’s heavy and cold. And the best thing I’ve ever received. And the worst. Because it feels like a lie. Why didn’t they see I was full of shit? Why did they think I deserved it above the others? Those fine and true actors who know what they’re doing. Who are real.

I never feel real.

Do you? What do you dream of now? Is it of being a famous chef?

A friend handed me your catering card. Said your food was incredible. As if I needed telling. It always was.

I carry the card in my wallet, but I don’t look at it much. I’ll be tempted to call if I do.

What would I even say? We’re strangers now. Nothing to each other but an ugly past.

At least I am to you. To me, you are something different.

You have no idea that tonight, when I stood at that podium and said,

“I thank the stars for leading me here. Nothing is possible without them.”

I was speaking of you.

Anyway, I just thought you should know.

Or the “you” that is in my head.

Always yours,

—Macon

“Oh, God,” I whisper in the empty silence. My eyes burn hot when I press my cold fingers to them. “God.”

The diamond necklace on the table winks at me, and I pick it up. It’s so fine and light I barely feel it against my skin, and yet it’s the most substantial and real gift I’ve ever received. Macon gave me everything he had when he bought me this, even though he had little hope of my forgiveness or friendship.

There are eleven tiny diamonds on the chain. Eleven. The age I was when I met Macon. The number on Macon’s high school football jersey. Come May, it will be eleven years since we fought at prom.

He’s still giving me everything he has.

It takes me two tries to get the necklace on. It settles like gossamer upon my skin. Then I’m rising.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Macon

There’s something cathartic about doing the thing I most feared. Even if I don’t know how Delilah will react to my letters, she has them now. She’ll read them and know all those secret thoughts I never expected to tell anyone. I’m glad she has them. They belong to her.

Doesn’t stop me from feeling agitated as hell. I can’t seem to settle. I pace my office, then my room. I don’t want to be in my room. I can see the bath from here, and I cannot look at that damn bath without thinking of her slim, capable hand on my cock . . .

“Shit.”

I push open the balcony doors and step out. The sun is hot and bright. I turn my face into a breeze and breathe deep. The air smells of salt and sea and sweetgrass. I let it calm me as much as I can, but nothing truly helps. I’ll only settle when I can face her again.

I’m sitting in the chair I once cuddled Delilah in, my knee bouncing, my gaze on the horizon, when I hear a noise and look up.

She stands a few feet away, her big eyes glassy. Is she upset? Happy? I’m too worked up to get a proper read on her.

I stay completely still as she walks my way, those rounded hips swaying. God, I love the way she walks. I love the way the sun gilds her skin golden brown. I love the way her butterscotch eyes always seem to see right through me. I love . . .

“Hey,” she says, stopping before me.

I scramble to my feet, then regret it because I’m looming. She doesn’t back away, though, but tilts her head back and stares at me as though she’s seeing me anew. Her slim hands cup the rough scruff of my cheeks, and she kisses me, gentle explorations of her mouth. I draw in a sharp breath before letting it out slowly as I stroke the delicate line of her jaw, the warm curve of her neck.

Delilah touches me as though I might soon fade away. She kisses the bridge of my nose, the skin at the edges of my eyes. I rest my forehead against her, my breathing growing deeper, faster. I brush my lips against her with every other kiss she places upon my skin because I need that contact, however brief.