Page 64 of Hired By the Enemy
My father and I head to the Christmas festival at six p.m. It’s already in full swing, and we have to wait in line for the chowder and cider. I can’t relax as I eat, my shoulders staying tight.
My dad spots someone he knows from his bowling team and heads off to chat with them while I continue to scan the crowd despite myself.
And there he is.
My stomach churns.
He’s standing on the other side of the square, across from the giant Christmas tree that fills the center of the town square. His coat is zipped up and he’s wearing a white beanie, one lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.
But it turns out the amount of clothing Matthew has on doesn’t reduce how much I’m attracted to him.
Fuck. There goes that theory.
He looks up, and I immediately start to retreat in the opposite direction.
The thought of seeing Matthew, of making polite conversation with him, is unbearable.
I can’t do it. It just hurts too much.
I duck behind the Christmas tree. My gaze blurs, and I impatiently swat at my eyes. Shit. I really am a fucking mess over this.
I’m taking deep breaths to calm myself when the brightly colored Christmas stars hanging on the lower branches catch my eye.
Christmas stars. Exactly what I need to remind myself of the history between Matthew and me.
I move forward, reaching out to touch one.
The design of the stars hasn’t changed, with “A Christmas wish from…” written on one side and room for people to describe their wishes on the other.
This one is from Nina, and I turn the wish over to discover she’s wished for a new Barbie and a Nerf gun.
I scan the other wishes. Judging by the handwriting, making Christmas stars is still a compulsory thing at the elementary school.
But then my scanning comes to an abrupt stop.
A Christmas wish from Matthew O’Conner.
I blink.
I’ve written so many fake Christmas stars over the years, pretending to be Matthew O’Conner.
But I definitely didn’t write this one.
I’m reaching for it before I can think, tugging it off the tree because it turns out that nothing matters to me more than finding out exactly what Matthew has wished for.
I turn over the star and my breath leaves me.
There, in Matthew’s handwriting, is a single word.
Liam.
My heart races. I continue to stare at it, but the word doesn’t change.
My name.
My name.
As I stare at it, I’m flooded with memories. Eight-year-old Matthew telling me not to feed his dog, his face when I insulted him, the endless pranks and wars between us over the years, Ms. Beauton scolding us, Max jumping the fence, me jumping around due to itching powder…
