Undeniably Enemies: Chapter 24

“Ifeel like I haven’t talked to you in ages. How was today?” my mom asks through my AirPods, her voice a little distracted since I know she’s making dinner.

How was my day? Awful. Weird. Emotional.

“It was great,” I tell her because my mother is a worrier, and it’s not good for her epilepsy. She hadn’t had a seizure in years, and the night I went into the hospital after I was attacked, she had one. Needless to say, she does not know about my fours, and she thinks I’m gumdrops and rainbows every day of the week and twice on Sunday. But since today is Wednesday, I throw a little extra pep into my voice to really sell it.

I’m in the gourmet shop around the corner from my apartment, picking up a few supplies I’ve run out of because after watching all those college kids with their burns and drugs and alcohol poisoning and after avoiding Jack all week, having him yell at me only to hug me like he was going to die if he didn’t, I need a distraction. Because I wanted to hug him back. Fiercely. I wanted to tilt my chin and let him kiss me the way I could tell he wanted to. Plus, one of the asshole drunk dudes pinched my ass and then my boob, which is totally uncool.

And I haven’t had any time for baking this week, so I’m going all in.

It’s a good way to test recipes for Thanksgiving which is next month. Or at least that’s my excuse. Baking, like the number four, is consistent and precise. It’s also soothing because it’s both of those things, and I get to eat all the goodies after I make them.

“So the ER is good? I haven’t had a chance to come down and see you. Not that I would,” she quickly amends because no one wants their mother, who works in the same hospital, to come down and visit them at work. It’s not a good look for the adult in me and definitely not something I want to have to explain to the other med students, who already think I’m the favorite because of Callan and Layla being there. “Layla told me all good things about you.”

She clearly didn’t speak to Jack.

“Overall, it’s going great. I love the ER.”

“It’s not weird for you to be working there?”

“You keep asking me that.”

“I keep waiting for you to be honest.”

That gives me a moment of pause. “I am honest. I don’t think about it when I walk into the trauma rooms. I’m fine, Mom. This is all part of healing.” Which it is. I truly believe that, and every time I walk into that ER, I feel stronger for it. I can’t control what someone did to me, but I can control how I choose to fight back, and living my best life and helping others who endure something similar to what I went through is my fuck you to him.

I pick up a large sack of sugar and drop it in my cart. Definitely gonna need that bad boy.

“Fine. I won’t push it. You have a long way to go.” A pause. “Where are you, and why do I hear Christmas music?”

“Right?!” I exclaim. “Halloween is tomorrow! I’m in Bakers and Butchers.”

“Oh, what are you making, and when will you bring me some?”

I smile. I get my sweet tooth from my mother. My stubbornness and short temper from my father. Genetics. What can you do?

“I’m thinking kitchen sink cookies, and maybe I’ll test out a new recipe for pumpkin rolls.”

She groans. “I’m so glad I had you. Have I mentioned that today?”

I snicker. “No. Only yesterday and the day before that, but those were via text, so they don’t count.”

“Damn. I knew I was forgetting something. Oh, your father is home. Say hi.”

“Hi, Dad,” I singsong, grabbing some pumpkin puree and dark brown sugar and placing them in my cart.

“Hi, kiddo. How was work?”

“Good.”

“Kick ass. You still settled on emergency medicine, or can we convince you to join us up in OB?”

“Never.”

He laughs. “Shame.”

“Stop pestering her with that,” my mother jumps in just as I hear a loud, screeching siren. “Oh shit, the lasagna’s burning. We have to go.”

She disconnects the call, and I giggle as their voices cut out and music starts blaring back into my ears. I start to dance my way through the store, shaking my hips and swinging my arm up into the air like I just don’t care because I don’t. All the haters can keep on hating, but Tay is singing loud and proud in my ears and helping me to forget, well, this entire week pretty much.

Two hours later, I’m already feeling like myself again—sass and sunshine as my dad calls me. Well, with a hint of darkness, but that’s not entirely my fault. I have music blasting through my Alexa, a glass of wine in my hand, Tyson dancing and shaking his ass in my living room, and cookies baking in the oven while I whisk the filling for my pumpkin rolls.

“I’m heading upstairs,” he tells me, swinging around the corner and into the kitchen. “Wednesday is grooming night.”

I wince as I lower the volume of the music. “For the thousandth time, laser hair removal is a real thing.”

“Honey, for the thousandth time, you don’t have balls. Lasers and balls do not mix.”

“Oh, and lasers and vaginas do?” I throw back at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I can’t speak to that. I just know what I know, and pussies have never been my jam.”

I hold up a hand to stop him before this goes to the next level. “Fine. You… go groom. I’ll bring some baked goods to you tomorrow morning before my shift.”

“My girl.”

He kisses the top of my head since he’s like six-foot-seven and the entire world is shorter than him. I hear my front door open and close only to immediately reopen.

“Wren, turn that machine off and get your bony ass over here.”

I flip off the standing mixer, wipe my smeared hands on a dish towel, and come over to the door.

“What?”

He claps his hand over my mouth and uses his other to point across the hall. “Shh. Look. The light is on under his door, and there’s noise coming from inside.”

I shrug. “So? He lives there.”

“Yes, but you never told me what happened after I left Saturday morning.”

No, I didn’t. Tyson came on Sunday for pancakes and grilled me better than a detective investigating a murder would. I didn’t crack, though.

“Nothing happened.”

“But that man wants you, and did you see the bulge in his track shorts? That is no joke dick.”

I choke. On nothing and throw him a glare.

“Go knock on the door.”

I laugh. “Um, no. You go knock on the door. You can welcome him to the building.”

“Honey, I am a giant gay man. I am not who should be welcoming him.”

I roll my eyes. “You welcomed me.”

“With wine and cupcakes.”

I smile wryly. “Now you know why we’re friends. And he’s already met you and thinks you’re just as fabulous as you are, so cut the shit.” My hand pans toward the door across the hall. “He could be the love of your life.”

He gives me an unimpressed look. “The love of my life is built like Zeus and fucks like Hades.”

I start cracking up. Two glasses of wine will do that. “I think that’s the love of my life too.”

I get a smug grin. “Yes, it is, and I think we both know that perfectly describes the Adonis across the hall.”

I throw him a side-eye. “Stop fucking with shit that doesn’t need fucking with.”

He pauses. “You’re right. But he’s all alone in there. Bring the good doctor some cookies and see how it goes.”

“I’m not knocking on his door, and I sure as hell am not bringing him cookies.”

I get pursed lips. “This is the problem with your generation. All antisocial and shit.”

I snort. “Look who’s talking.”

“So you guys have drama? Since I know he’s your brother’s BFF, that should make you friendly by association. Why aren’t you?‘

I shove him out the door. “Go groom. I have baking to finish, and I will not burn my cookies.”

A knowing look I choose to ignore covers his face, and I lock up, making sure the latch clicks four times before I return to my kitchen. My last batch of cookies comes out of the oven, and I set them on the rack to cool. The reason I bought this apartment was the kitchen. For a one-bedroom apartment in a brownstone in this part of town, the kitchen is huge, and after I redid it, it’s magic. My total happy place.

After what happened, both Owen and my parents tried to get me to buy a place in a large building with a doorman. My therapist at the time was on board with that too. I thought about it. I did. But large places creep me out more than small ones—too open, too many noises at night—and I didn’t want fear to control me more than I already allowed it to.

I followed my heart instead. I’ve always loved the old brownstones that line the streets of Back Bay, and that’s what I wanted. I’m no longer in therapy—I honestly didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and I think at this point, I’m as healed as I’m going to get. Yes, I count when things feel a little too much, and yes, some of that has turned into a slight amount of OCD, but it’s not unmanageable, and numbers are soothing to me.

Hell, my therapist was the one who suggested I start with number facts as a coping technique. The rest will just take time. Besides, the bastard is dead, and I love my apartment, and I love having Tyson upstairs. Even if Jack now lives across the hall.

Just as I get back to my cream cheese filling, my phone pings with a text.

I read it again and debate if I want to text him back. I’ve spent far too much of my time thinking about him since Saturday. I was afraid this would happen, and while I’m avoiding him and going about my days, I can’t help but spend my nights thinking about him. Wanting him to creep across the hall and back into my bed.

I smirk. I shouldn’t love how overprotective he is of me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.

I set my phone down as I finish off my wine and turn off the mixer before I overwhip the cream cheese filling. I prop my hip against my counter and swipe my finger into the frosting before I pop it in my mouth. It’s perfect. Smooth, sweet, and creamy.

I choke on my frosting and end up coughing out a chunk onto my counter. Gross. I clean it up with a wet cloth, but I can’t stop reading what he wrote. Wow, is that blunt. And holy wow, is it turning me on. I can’t tell him it’s been the same for me. If I do, he’ll be here, and I can’t have him here. I can’t sleep with him again. My heart is already shaky.

I finish smearing on the frosting and use cellophane wrap to roll the whole thing up into a tight cylinder. It looks good and smells even better, but it needs to set in the fridge for at least an hour before I can slice it.

I place it in there and grab a cookie off the cooling rack.

I take a bite of my cookie, and wow, is that good. I groan and shove the rest in my mouth before I put the extras away. I need to stop this. My relationships with men already aren’t the healthiest, and there is nothing good that can come from this. I clean up my kitchen and head into my room. I’m exhausted after this weekend and the start of this week and want nothing more than to climb into bed, use one of my BOBs, and fall into a blissful and heavy sleep.

Stupid Jack ruining more things for me.

Stupid men who text you and tell you they’re thinking about you. What am I doing? I cannot get my heart broken by him again.

He replies instantly as if he were waiting for my response.

I pause and stare down at my screen. Why do assholes always have to say the perfect thing? It’s like they know just how to get us right in the soft center of our most vulnerable parts, and after they’ve melted us just right, they stomp in our fucking puddle and splatter our shit everywhere. I’m tired of it. I’m angry at Jack for being perfect. For being the guy I would want and also for being the guy I can never have.

Where are all the decent men? Do they even exist anymore, or is everything a game to them? I brush my teeth and get ready for bed, but I’m unsatisfied. In several ways at the moment, but I’m miffed, and I already know it’ll bother me enough to keep me up if I let it go at that.

I’m tired of men always seeming to have the upper hand.

He can’t stop thinking about me, huh? Good. Let’s add a little fire to it. Without overthinking it, I get undressed until I’m naked and slip into bed. The sheets are silky and cool and feel so good against my already-heated skin.

Biting my lip, I lift the sheets and snap a quick pic. You can’t see much of anything. It’s dark in my room and dark under the blanket. It’s a suggestion. A tease. A black-on-black silhouette of my body, but with that, if I enlarge it and squint, I can just make out the hard peak of my nipple.

As a Fritz, sending a nude selfie is a total no-no. People put our pictures on social media, and they obsess over our family. Especially here in Boston, though occasionally the madness turns national or even global the way it did with Stone and Tinsley, as well as Sorel and Mason.

But still, my face isn’t in this, and like I said, you can’t see much. And it’s Jack. He may be an asshole, but I know he’d never do anything to hurt me in that way.

Before I can second-guess myself, I send him the picture.