Dear Enemy

Now, all I want to do is take a painkiller and crawl into bed. I slow down as I near Delilah’s door. The house is so quiet I can easily hear the television playing. She’s watching About a Boy.

A memory hits me, as bright and painful as a spotlight.

We were on the big brown sectional couch in her family room, watching this very movie. Delilah was fourteen, chubby cheeked and wearing a thick braid that ran like a dark snake over her hunched shoulders. She was curled up on one end of the couch, while Sam and I were tucked into the other.

As usual, Sam leaned on me until I lost feeling in my shoulder and tried to nudge her off. She found her way back, digging her bony elbow into spots she knew annoyed the hell out of me.

Hugh Grant tossed out a quip that made me laugh. Delilah laughed too. It hit me that we kept laughing at the same times. She must have realized the same because she turned my way, and our gazes clashed. We always tried our utmost not to look at each other, so it was a visceral punch whenever we failed.

The inevitable reaction of heat, tightness, frustration, and a twisting sense of wrongness ran through my system. And inevitably, I covered it up by opening my big mouth. “Got a crush on old Hugh?”

Hugh Grant played Will in the movie. Cool rich guy who cared for nothing but getting laid and having fun.

She pursed her lips, giving me that withering look of hers, the one that I’d been found lacking. “Well, he’s witty. Intelligence is definitely a plus.”

“And rich. Don’t forget that.”

“Being wealthy is part of what makes him a useless asshole.”

Sam, who’d been picking at her nail polish, piped up. “He’s old, but he’s still hot. I’d date him.”

Delilah’s snort spoke volumes.

“Delilah is more of a Marcus lover,” I said, daring her to look back my way. Marcus was the oddball of the story. Awkward, alone, abused by his classmates, and terrified of losing his mother, the one person who he felt truly loved him.

Surprisingly, she smiled, a sad, sort of secretive gesture, and rested her chin on her knees, all but wrapping herself into a tight ball on the couch. “You’re right. If there’s anyone to love in this movie, it’s him.”

She cast me as the hapless Will type and her as a Marcus. Part of me was dying to tell her that out of everyone in the movie, I identified the most with Marcus too.

I don’t remember what I actually said. Probably something obnoxious. The memory fades, leaving me alone in the hall, listening to the muted sound of Delilah’s laughter drifting through the silence.

I want to knock on her door, ask her to let me in so badly my hands shake. But I move away instead. We both made promises. Like them or not, I intend to keep mine.

CHAPTER TEN

Delilah

“So this is where you find all those delicious fruits.” Macon ambles along the stalls of the outdoor farmers’ market I’ve taken him to, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a faded-green baseball hat.

“Among other places.” This is one of my favorite markets, as it’s tucked in a valley and shaded by towering eucalyptus trees. “The sellers here always offer the best produce.”

Earlier, we went to the doctor’s office to have his temporary cast removed and replaced with a soft cast and walking boot. Macon made an offhand complaint about being cooped up for too long, so I told him to come shopping with me. For all his whining, he wasn’t keen on going out in public. Which had me asking if he was a chicken or simply another lazy, pampered star.

At those fighting words, his nostrils flared. “Fine. But we’re taking North with us.”

“Right.” I cringed, feeling like a heel for teasing him. “Security. I just assumed since we’re going somewhere unplanned . . .”

“Things can get out of hand when you least expect it,” he said tightly.

“I’m sorry I called you chicken.”

“But not that you called me lazy?”

“Asks the man who needs his smoothie brought up to him.”

A brief gleam of acknowledgment lit his eyes before fading. “I know it sucks, Delilah. But this is your life now.”

My life. Inexorably tied up with his.

All in all, our tentative truce is going as expected. Which is to say, we still find ways to squabble like chickens going after the last piece of grain.

Now, however, he’s like a puppy finally let out of his pen.

“It smells so fresh here. Where do you want to go first?” He has a cane—mahogany with an amber top—that he loves because it looks like the one from Jurassic Park. I told him that if he wants to channel his inner John Hammond, he really should be wearing a white suit as well. Unfortunately, he didn’t go for it.