After all, she owes me …
“Perfect.” Dad reaches across the table, his hand covering Mom’s.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own world lately with all the excitement on the horizon, that I haven’t stopped to think about how much of their world will be flipped inside out once I leave. They’ll do fine with me gone. But it’ll be an adjustment.
I’m their whole world.
Always have been. I always will be.
When I was about eight or nine, I overheard Mama crying to someone on the phone one day after school. Being nosy, I pressed my ear up to the door and listened. I’m not sure who she was talking to, but I heard her saying something about “the baby had no heartbeat this time.” And later that day, I remember seeing tears in my father’s eyes after dinner. It took me years to put it all together—that they’d lost a baby. Though they never came clean about it to me. Guess it wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in ordinary conversations.
I’ve always wondered if things would’ve been different had I not been an only child. And when I was a small child, I’d often ask for a baby brother or sister for Christmas. But they always told me I was enough, that I was everything they ever wanted and then some.
It’s a lot of pressure to put on one person.
But I’ve never known any other way.
“So, kiddo,” Dad says. “What’s on the docket for today?”
I’m about to respond when my phone buzzes in my lap. Swirling a quick sip of watery juice, I steal a glance—and nearly choke.
ENEMY DEAREST—Morning, sunshine. Let me know when I can pick up my shirt.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Mom leans to pat my back.
How did he get my number? He programmed his info into my phone last night … but I never gave him mine.
“Yeah.” I cough. “Just swallowed wrong.”
They study me. I pray they buy it and let it go.
I take another sip. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Their attention lingers for another endless minute until my father finally changes the subject to yard work and catching up on his To Do List. Finishing my breakfast in record time, I excuse myself to my room and read his text again.
I pace the small space beside my bed before mustering up the courage to respond.
ME — How’d you get my number?
ENEMY DEAREST—I have ways, Rose girl …
ME— Tbh, I’m a little creeped out right now.
ENEMY DEAREST—I appreciate your honesty.
ME—Anyway, I told you I’d get your shirt back to you as soon as I could. I haven’t even been home for thirty minutes …
ENEMY DEAREST—Patience has never been my virtue.
ME—I’ll text you when it’s ready.
Three bubbles fill the screen before vanishing, only to be replaced by a new message two minutes later.
ENEMY DEAREST—What are you doing next weekend?
ME—Coming on a little strong, aren’t we?
ENEMY DEAREST—As opposed to coming on weak?
ME—I’m busy.
ENEMY DEAREST—Liar.
ME—I don’t lie.
ENEMY DEAREST—Safe to assume your parents know where you were last night then?
ME—Are you bored right now? Is that what this is? Because this doesn’t feel like it’s about a shirt to me anymore.
ENEMY DEAREST—I want to see you again.
A lump forms in my throat. I stop pacing.
ME—You’ve literally met me three times. Are you always this thirsty?
ENEMY DEAREST—Not thirsty, Rose girl. Curious. Big difference.
ME—Curious about what?
ENEMY DEAREST—Wonder if all the things I’ve heard about you are true.
Exhaling hard, I wrack my mind trying to think of the types of rumors that could possibly swirl around this town about me. I’ve always kept my head down. Walked the straightest of lines. I’ve held various part-time jobs since the day I turned fourteen, earned a full-scholarship to nursing school, and graduated top ten in my high school class. The number of “boyfriends” I’ve had, I can count on one hand. And the worst thing I’ve ever done is not hold the door open for someone behind me—which was an accident because I was texting on my phone and not paying attention.
I’m practically a modern-day saint by some people’s standards. Virginity and all.
ME—You’re bluffing. Nice try.
ENEMY DEAREST—You dated Brett Rathburn last year.
ME—Yeah, me and, like, half the school. Your point?
ENEMY DEAREST—I’m just saying, people talk.
ME—So?
ENEMY DEAREST—I want to know if what they say is true.
I tug out my hair tie, pace the room, and redo my bun before replying. This man has an agenda. I just don’t know what it is it. He’s trying to get me fired up, trying to keep me engaged in this bullshit conversation.
But for what?
I collapse on the foot of the bed and grab my phone again.
ME—I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but I’ve never been the competitive type so I’m going to forfeit this one. I’ll text you when your shirt is ready. Bye.
I wait until my message shows it’s been delivered.