He may have a façade of steel and a signature wicked glint and naughty intentions, but I don’t think he’s the monster everyone thinks he is. Misunderstood maybe. And a spoiled Monreaux with unlimited access to fuck-you money. But if those are the worst things about him, I’d hardly call him a monster.
He doesn’t scare me.
He’s intense, sure. But he owns it. That’s more than most people can say.
The rain picks up, beading harder on my windshield as the worst of the storm makes its way through this side of town. I text Mama to let her know I’ll be home soon, and then I tune to a local radio station—the one that doesn’t fade in and out every three seconds.
A MUNRO song plays—A Thousand Words for Summer, and I hum along with August’s brother. I’ve never been a big MUNRO fan. For whatever reason, their music never resonated with me. It always made me think of lying on my bed, crying into a pillow and missing someone I could never have.
Maybe that’s a theme with them. Unrequited love. Missed chances. Too little, too late. Regrets.
But this song is catchy. It isn’t as sad. It’s about this girl and how there aren’t enough words in the world to describe how much she means to him. With nothing else to do but wait for the rain to finish, I snap a picture of my radio and send it to August because I need something to take my mind off of what I just witnessed. Can’t think of a bigger distraction than him …
ME: Listening to your brother’s new song. Is “Summer” a real person or a marketing ploy?
I add a winking emoji in case I come off the wrong way.
It takes a couple of minutes, but he replies.
ENEMY DEAREST: Not sure. I’ll ask him.
ME: Appreciate it.
ME: What are you up to tonight?
ENEMY DEAREST: Literally sitting around waiting for you to text me.
ME: Whatever ... What are you really doing?
ENEMY DEAREST: Top secret project.
I laugh under my breath. Such a smart ass, this one. But, for all I know, he might not be joking. I heard a rumor once that the Monreauxs have a “blacklist” and if your name so much as touches that list, they’ll destroy you from the inside out. A slow and painful reckoning. It’s probably why my father has had so many jobs in the last twenty years. Every couple of years he gets a pink slip, and it’s always for some asinine reason.
They went after a local guy a few years ago—Mark Greeley—who had some kind of road rage incident with Vincent. Thirty days later, the guy lost his job of fifteen years at the power company due to “gross misconduct.” They said he sexually harassed one of the secretaries there. Never mind the two of them didn’t so much as work in the same unit. Shortly after that, he spent six months on unemployment. And when his bills wouldn’t stop piling up, that’s when his marriage began to crumble. He’d gained weight. Lost his spark. And had all but given up. By the end of that year, his wife took the kids and filed for divorce.
I’ve seen him around town a handful of times over the years. He’s put on at least fifty pounds, gone all gray, and wears a full beard to hide half of his face.
It’s crazy how a single incident can have a ripple effect that spans the rest of your life.
I should count my lucky stars that our family didn’t crumble like that. My father has spent his fair share of time standing in the unemployment line over the years, but we never went hungry and we never had our water shut off and he and Mama never once considered divorce.
Then again … look where we are now.
I exhale, pressing my cheek against the cool glass as the rain drops diminish to almost nothing but a few tear shaped trickles.
I could go home now.
But I have a wild hair to ask a favor of August.
ME: Can I call you?
ENEMY DEAREST: ???
ME: Is that a yes or a no?
I nibble my thumbnail. Maybe he’s one of those guys who hates phone calls. Who only text. Or maybe he’s with someone?
ENEMY DEAREST: Yeah. Give me 2 secs. I’ll call you.
Resting my phone in my lap, I make sure the ringer’s on, and I wait. Only the ringtone is different, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s Face Timing me.
Oh, god. I wasn’t ready for this.
I flip my visor down to check the damage. Swollen eyes, pink nose, puffy lips, humidity-kissed hair.
Screw it. It’s dark in here anyway.
I accept his call and manage a cool yet casual, “Hey.”
“Hey, you.” His voice is low, intimate almost. Judging by the motion behind him, it would appear he’s walking down a dimly lit hallway. A second later, he closes a door behind him. “What’s going on?”