Next-Door Nemesis

“Well, you know what they say, practice makes perfect.” She brushes her hands together after successfully handing the cake off to me. “Now, you be careful walking to Nate’s house. I don’t want to be dramatic or anything, but if you drop this, I will disown you.”

“Real nice, Mom.” I know she’s joking, but my fingers still tighten around the cool ceramic just in case.

My parents are my last resort—I can’t get kicked out of Ohio too.

My dad opens the door for me and they both say-shout their goodbyes to my back. I focus on the step in front of me, my arms starting to burn a little from how tense I am. But even though I’d blame the cake to anyone who asked, I know the real reason I’m so nervous has nothing to do with holding the cake and everything to do with its recipient.

When I reach the bottom of his walkway, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I’m coming bearing gifts and he extended an invitation, but for some reason I’m more nervous than I was when I crashed his party and when I turned up in the middle of the night.

Maybe because this time I have expectations and worse—hope.

But even knowing how quickly those things can turn on me, I don’t turn and run—and not just because my mom might kill me if I do.

No, I keep going because everyone is right.

I’ve tried to hate him for years, but I can’t do it anymore.

I might not like the answer, but it’s time for me to find out what happened all those years ago.





Chapter 23


The front door opens before I can ring the doorbell.

“You came.” His hair is damp and he’s wearing gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, but nothing can distract me from the nervous smile on his face. “I’m so sorry about Elizabeth. I had no idea she’d be there.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I could tell she surprised you.” My fingers flex around the cake stand and I’m suddenly grateful my mom gave me something to hold on to. My heart pounds in my chest as lost memories of the man in front of me fight their way to the surface. Feelings I’ve denied for so long become more and more undeniable as the fortress I’ve been hiding behind crumbles. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better now,” he says. “I was worried she scared you away for good.”

After the night we spent together, I’m not sure anything could scare me off. It was that good.

“My mom and I made you a cake,” I offer instead of blurting out one of the millions of thoughts bouncing around in my head. “It’s lemon.”

His eyes go soft and I nearly melt into a puddle in front of him.

“I love lemon.”

He steps back and gestures for me to come inside. I don’t hesitate.

I step into the foyer and welcome the cool breeze of the air conditioning. My stomach flips and my skin buzzes as nerves and anticipation collide. Sweat forms on the back of my neck as I follow him into the kitchen.

“You can set it anywhere.” He points to the sparkling granite countertops on his kitchen island. “It looks amazing.”

He’s the picture of casual, yet I can see how tightly wound he is in the way he moves. For some perverse reason, the thought that he might be feeling as nervous as I am sets me at ease.

“My mom did most of it, but I was an excellent sous chef.” My hands feel empty without the weight of the cake in them. My palms itch to reach out and touch Nate, but I don’t. I’m loath to admit it, but Ruby’s right. I have too many feelings for this to go forward without figuring things out between us first.

“Should we have a piece now or wait until later?” He doesn’t wait for my answer before he opens a drawer and pulls out a cake cutter. Because of course he has a cake cutter. “I have ice cream in the freezer. I know you love your sweets as much as you love your cheese.”

It’s true and it’s why cheesecake is the ultimate dessert, but I’d never say no to cake and ice cream. The fact that he remembers that about me makes everything that much sweeter.

“Sugar topped with sugar? How could I refuse?” I settle onto the same stool I sat on after I crashed the HOA meeting. “Although, I’m not sure if you remember or not, but Kimberly’s baking is hit-or-miss.”

“How could I ever forget? Do you remember those brownies she made us?” His eyes sparkle as he puts giant slices of cake on our plates. “Sometimes I think I can still taste them in my mouth. It’s like the unsweetened cocoa powder haunts my taste buds.”

I didn’t remember those brownies.

Not until now.

It was our freshman year of high school. We’d been studying for a geometry test all week. Nate got an A, I got a C, and I was pissed. But in my defense, shapes aren’t math and I will die on that hill. I was on the verge of tears all day. To this day, I hate the feeling of not quite getting something—feeling like I’m missing what others understand so easily.

Because Nate knew how much I loved sweets, he called my mom and asked her if she could surprise me after school. When we got home, a tray of brownies was sitting on the kitchen counter. He and my mom high-fived like total dorks before we cheers’d our brownies together. We held eye contact as we took matching, giant bites—and watched each other’s faces change from excitement to disgust as we raced to the trash can.

Dad ended up bringing home Dairy Queen.

When I went to sleep that night, my stomach ached not from the fail brownies and ice cream, but from laughing so hard with my best friend.

It’s bittersweet, remembering the good times but knowing how abruptly they came to an end. Pain intertwines with happiness and something breaks free inside me. The fear of what I might hear dissipates and an overwhelming need to understand what happened between us comes over me. I have to know how we went from best friends to enemies.

“What happened?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Nate looks up from the carton of ice cream he fished out from the bottom of his freezer. His confused expression flickers from me to the plates to his counter. “Did I drop something?”

A kinder person might be more delicate in their approach to this sensitive and long-overdue conversation, but I can’t. I know that if I wait or dance around the question, I’ll never ask. I might not be some shrinking violet afraid of making others upset, but I am a person who constantly felt on the outside of everything.

As writers, we’re taught that all our characters have a story they’re telling themselves. Something that they believe with all their heart, even if it’s not true. Some characters may feel like they are unlovable while others believe that love makes you weak. It’s up to us as writers to figure out this story and show how it’s affecting their life. But even though I would consider myself pretty damn good at doing this for my characters, I’m only just now seeing that I’ve been ignoring mine for years. This belief that I’m not good enough, that I don’t belong, and that nobody will ever choose me has been haunting me all along.

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