Dear Enemy

Sam’s phone call festers. I try to shake it off, but her ugly words keep playing over in my head. I can’t rid myself of them. They remain even when I go to my happy place, the kitchen. They ring around my head like an unfortunate earworm as I chop onions, my eyes smarting and watering.

“Shake it off,” I mutter, patting at the corner of my weeping eye with my sleeve. “They’re just words. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

“Are you crying?” Macon stands at the entrance to the kitchen, a frown on his face. For a moment, I simply look at him, remembering the bronze of his skin, beaded with water, the way he came in my hand with a groan that seemed ripped from the deepest part of his wide chest.

My face blazes with heat. He must notice; a slow, lopsided smile unfurls. Those inky eyes hold tenderness and mischief.

“Onions.” I set the knife down and go to wash my hands and splash my face with cool water. “This one is particularly fierce.”

He takes his time walking over to me, that small pleased smile playing on his lips. And here I am, jumpy as a cat with fleas. Stopping before me, he reaches out and gently touches my cheek, catching a water droplet I missed when I dried my face. I try not to flinch. But I do.

The frown returns. “You all right?”

I know he’s asking about more than the damn onions. “I’m good.”

The frown remains. “Something is on your mind.”

It isn’t a question. That jumpy, twitchy, ugly feeling grows nearly intolerable.

“What is it?” he asks in a low, concerned voice.

It’s Sam. She called and burst my happy, horny bubble. She cut me off at the knees and reduced me to that insecure teenager.

Sam called.

I’m not supposed to tell you.

I hate her.

I hate that I wonder.

I hate that I’m doubting you.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I see those thoughts racing behind those pretty eyes, Tot. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Macon . . .” I lick my lips.

His soft gaze shutters. “Are you regretting last night?”

“No,” I whisper. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly,” he repeats flatly.

“I’m just having a moment.” I stare down at the counter. My sister eviscerated my self-confidence. “I’ll be okay in a bit. Just . . . give me some space.”

That clearly doesn’t sit well with him. His chest lifts on a breath, and he makes a fist as though he’s trying not to reach for me. But then he shakes his head once and cups my cheek. “Let me in, Delilah. Please. I want in so badly.”

Tell him your piece. Get it out, or it will continue to fester.

But the truth hurts and makes me ashamed that I’m not able to let my past go. Words work like broken glass against my throat. “I want to be with you. I do. But there are things . . . my mind . . . sometimes it gets stuck on repeat.”

“Repeat?” A furrow appears between his brows. “What does that mean?”

I can’t tell him about what Sam said without telling him about Sam’s call.

My fingers curl into the folds of his soft cotton shirt. “I woke up today . . .” Excited. Until Sam. Now I’m . . . “It’s not logical, okay? And that’s the most frustrating thing about this. But like it or not, we spent a decade lashing out at each other, and I still have those scars. For years, whenever I looked in a mirror and saw flaws, whenever I heard that voice in my head that said I wasn’t good enough . . . Macon, it was your voice I heard.”

A sound leaves him, small and pained. He looks utterly wrecked. “Shit.” His jaw bunches tight as he ducks his head. “Delilah . . . shit.” He slams his fist against the counter.

“Don’t do that. You’ll hurt your wrist again.” I reach for him, but he brushes me off.

“You think I care?” He doesn’t yell; his voice is a ghost of itself, which somehow makes it more horrible. “When you’ve just torn me wide open? It fucking guts me that I’ve done this to you.” He lifts his hands in supplication. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this.”

With another curse, he turns away and glares at the floor as if it might hold some answers.

“Maybe you can’t. Maybe it’s too late for us.” Clearing the air hasn’t made anything better. It’s worse. So much worse.

Macon’s head snaps up. “No.” He moves as though he wants to hold me but halts a few inches away. He doesn’t touch me but lowers his head until we share the same air. “No, don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry, Macon. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll get over it.” I will. I will. “It just hits me sometimes.”