Page 7 of The Enemy Plot
“Yes, you are.” I hug her tight, and Hayley joins in.
“You guys are smothering me,” she grumbles, her voice barely audible.
“We can’t help it, Emz,” Hayley says. “That was just so cute. And real.”
“Definitely,” I add, accidentally eating Emma’s hair in the process. When we break the embrace, I add, “But it would still be nice to have a man.”
Emma and Hayley burst into laughter, and I soon join in. Hey. I might be single, but I do have the best friends in the world.
4
Foolproof
Deacon
Today is Saturday, which means I don’t need to get up early to take Lola to school. But it also means spending the entire day with my niece who hates me. Granted, I’m not the best company, and I don’t really know what to do with her, but cut me some slack. I’ve been an adoptive parent for barely two months, and most of that time was spent putting this bar together. No one gave me a handbook on how to raise a teenager, especially a grievingone.
When I reach the kitchen, she’s already seated at the table, hunched over her cereal bowl with her earbuds in. I grunt a “hello,” but naturally, she doesn’t hear me. My heart clenches as she twirls the end of her brown hair the exact same way my sister used to. She’s so much like Amelia, it’s hard to look at her sometimes.
I make myself some coffee and pull up a chair next to her. We sit in silence for a few minutes before she takes an earbud out. “Hey, so one of my friends invited me—”
“No, Lola,” I growl. “You know the rules. No parties.”
“But you haven’t even heard what I was going to say!” she whines, her voice way too high-pitched to handle before my morning coffee.
“It’s not about a party?”
Every week, there’s another damn party at one of her friends’ houses in Manhattan. Which is clearly not an appropriate outing for a thirteen-year-old, but apparently, I’m the only “parent” who thinks so. She keeps saying Amelia used to let her go. Unfortunately, I don’t know if that’s true. My sister and I didn’t see each other much these last couple of years. She hated returning to Sycamore Springs, and I despised coming to the city. But my sister was a reasonable person, so I highly doubt she let her young teenage daughter skip off to some rowdy party at night.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so annoying. So, I’m stuck in here again?”
“Don’t you have homework to do? Or dance routines to practice?”
This apartment is pretty big, and I’ve seen her rehearse around the living room a few times already. I’m no dancer, but I thought she was quite good. Handy that almost none of the place is furnished yet. Plenty of space. When we were moving in, I mostly focused on furnishing the bar and getting stuff for her room so she could feel at home.
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Well, you can get a head start. I have work to do here in the apartment, and we have our appointment with Dr. Stewart in two hours.”
She exhales loudly. “I told you I don’t want to go. I don’t need a shrink.”
I want to say that I don’t want to go either, but I hold it in. “I know, but it’ll help. You’ll see.”
I’m not entirely sure I believe that, but I really hope it’s true. I’m way too messed up, even for Dr. S., but Lola can still be saved.
“Whatever,” she mumbles before drinking the milk from her bowl. Then, she stands up and stomps to her room. The door closes with a loud thud, making the walls tremble.
Sighing, I sit down with my coffee, hoping it’ll clear away some of the fog.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t do the trick, so I shuffle over to the spare room, put some music on, and lift a few weights. I try to focus on the burning in my muscles and the blasting notes of the music, but my thoughts are louder—and stronger. As always, they trap me, reminding me that the people around me all end up dying. That I now have to care for someone when I barely know how to take care of myself. That I need to provide for Lola, so I can’t be a screw-up. That I have to make sure everything is safe and secure around her so I don’t lose her like I lost my grandmother.
The door to the bedroom flies open, and I find myself face to face with Alice, her cheeks as red as the headband in her hair. I stare back in shock. She’s wearing a thin red sweater and black leggings. Today’s brooch says“One more chapter”on top of an open book. How many of those does she have? Her collection seems endless.
Putting down my dumbbells, I walk to the stereo and turn it off, my heart racing just a few beats faster.
Immediately, the space fills with her angry tone, and warmth radiates through my body. I wish the comforting sensation could last, but I know that as soon as she leaves,it’ll be an icy wasteland again. “What is wrong with you? Don’t you have any consideration for others?”
When I cross my arms over my chest, I notice how her eyes trail to my biceps. “How did you get in here, Frenchie? I don’t think breaking and entering is a chapter in the good neighbor handbook you’re so passionate about.”