Dear Enemy

I hate kissing.

Dear Diary, (age 16)

There are far better words than hate. Loathe is one. Loathing. I love how it rolls off the tongue . . . lah-oo-thing. Or detest. So nice and crisp. “I detest him.” Abhor? No, that’s too light. You can’t really get a good sneer with “abhor.” Although it does have a certain snobby quality about it. “I simply abhor him, dahling.”

I’m hiding out in my room because Macon Saint is here. He arrived shortly after the school baseball game—a game he lost when he failed to catch a high ball, resulting in Greenfield High taking the lead. Not that I said anything; I am a lady, after all. Although I may have complimented the athletic prowess of the Greenfield team. Sam called me a turncoat—she has to show school loyalty, she’s a cheerleader.

Anyway, he has been hanging around like a bad smell ever since. I’d asked if he planned to pay rent here any time soon, earning a reprimand from Mama, while Macon got cookies and the best seat in the family room. Bah. He played it up something good, ever so subtly wincing when he walked back into the kitchen to put his plate in the dishwasher.

Mama instantly began to fuss, asking if he’d hurt himself during the game. Macon laughed it off, insisting that he was fine and just a little tight from stretching too much. Oh, but he’s a good actor, letting us see just the tiniest bit of pain in his eyes, letting Mama think he’s trying to hide that wince. Worked like a charm. Now he’s invited to dinner.

I hate loathe when Macon has dinner with us. The rat always makes faces at me that no one else ever catches. Either that, or he’s kicking me under the table, or trying to squish my toes with his big, stupid foot. Tonight, I’m going to wear my steel-toed boots that Mama hates and get him good.

—Delilah Ann

Dear Diary,

They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. I don’t know if that’s true for every situation, but for me? Well, you be the judge. Because I love Macon Saint. So many words I have for Macon: love, lust, tenderness, joy, hope, and love. Always love. Somewhere along the way, he and I became part of each other. All we needed was to flip the switch. Are you surprised? Given that this entire book was dedicated to all things Macon, somehow I doubt anyone would be. It was always about Macon. And it always will be.

Delilah’s Dinner Menu

Gin blackberry bramble and peanut brittle spheres

Oysters topped with watermelon-and-habanero brunoise

Baby cream biscuits and smoked peach butter

Buttermilk panna cotta with spot prawns and spring vegetables

Cod with potato galette and shellfish emulsion and stone fruit

Banana cream pie with bitter chocolate