Enemy Crush (Sweet Crushes #4)

Chapter 1

QUINN

It had been a wretched nine hour ride from my Dad’s place in the city which had included one bus change and a thirty minute delay, so of course I couldn’t wait to get home. Which was a far cry from six weeks ago when I’d been desperate to leave town and get away from my mother.

Since my parents’ separation earlier in the year, Mom had been more insufferable than usual, not just bossy and controlling but very, very angry.

Which is why summer with my father had sounded like a sweet escape, staying at his new apartment which had a rooftop pool and was right in the center of the city, and hanging out with my older brother, William who was visiting from college.

Except he never did. Instead, he’d gone with some friends to Florida, telling Dad he’d come for Thanksgiving weekend.

Well, at least I’d have Dad all to myself and could spend quality time with him, right?

No, not exactly. Summer had virtually been a bust. Dad had barely settled into his apartment, boxes still unpacked and his new job at an insurance company meant he was away all day, every day.

And to top it off, the rooftop pool wasn’t usable due to ‘servicing issues.’ It was also way smaller than I’d imagined and a neighbor a floor above had a penchant for listening to violin concertos loudly.

Yes, it could’ve been worse—heavy metal, I imagine—but my dream summer had been a disappointment and a bore.

Not that I’d told Mom or my friends. Celeste’s lakeside holiday looked amazing, and Naomi was visiting her grandparents in Osaka, so I’d talked up my vacation too.

I raved about my freedom in the city and getting away from Mom for the summer.

I posted dozens of photos from the outdoor festival Dad and I went to, the huge shopping mall, and all the delicious foods at the farmers market, but in reality I’d spent most of my time inside alone.

I read eleven books, binge watched whole seasons of television shows and scrolled through my phone so much that I was sure I was developing tendonitis in my wrist. In fact, I was looking forward to going back to Brizendine Prep, where phones were banned during the school day.

My heart rate escalated when my phone pinged, realizing that I was actually looking forward to seeing Mom.

Yeah, I never thought I’d say it, but after six weeks in the noisy, poky apartment, I longed for the serenity of Ambrose Manor, the spacious rooms, the large yard and gardens, the crisp clean air of Snow Ridge.

The last argument sprung to mind on the day I left for Dad’s. An accumulation of heated words and stony silences had been the norm for Mom and me since Dad had moved out in April. Mom had been in a constant state of rage and bitterness.

“You wouldn’t understand, Quinn,” was her only answer to the questions I asked relentlessly: Why did you always fight? What did Dad do? Why were you so mean to him?

“Can you not drag those wheels on the stairs?” she’d yelled as I heaved my suitcases down from my bedroom, smacking them against every polished step, “you’re damaging them!”

Out of petulance, I continued on for the remaining three steps and clunked them down in the front entrance with an extra loud thump. As Mom’s frown lines deepened, I had a bizarre thought that she must have skipped her regular Botox treatment.

“Well, are we going or not?” I’d snapped, swinging a tote bag over my shoulder as I lengthened the suitcase handles, ready to roll out, mumbling, “Can’t wait to get out of here.”

Mom had blinked rapidly and her eyes had misted but she’d straightened her shoulders, grabbed her designer handbag and retorted, “Well, I’ll be glad of a bit of peace and quiet myself.”

And she’d marched out the door, leaving me to my own bags.

Living on the outskirts of our small town, I’d had approximately fifteen minutes to make amends before we reached the bus station, but after I’d slammed the trunk shut and hopped into the car, Mom’s phone had rung.

She’d spent the entire ride talking to Erin, the manager at her hair and beauty salon, Trés Elegance.

Because of that, I’d pulled out my headphones and turned up my music.

If she had no time for me, I’d ignore her back.

When we arrived at our destination, she was still talking as if it was a matter of utmost urgency, so I’d stormed out and nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to lift both suitcases out of the trunk at the same time.

“Let me,” Mom huffed as she joined me, her face still sour, and we’d wrestled out the remaining suitcase together.

She’d wheeled one over to the waiting bus, while I’d taken my time locating my online ticket.

Ensuring both my bags were stored in the luggage compartment, I joined the long line, overawed by the amount of people, the different types of people, all complete strangers I was about to spend hours with in a confined space.

A bus journey was the only way to get to the city from our small town which had no airport, and that had been a major point of contention.

I’d wanted to drive myself but Mom said absolutely not, and Dad had unfortunately agreed because there was no parking at his apartment complex.

“Have you got your water bottle?” Mom asked.

I patted my tote bag, staring over at the driver who was holding a clipboard.

“Make sure you stretch your legs when you get a break,” she said sharply, but I wasn’t fazed; Mom’s default tone was like that of an army general, always giving orders. “Text me when you get there.”

I tossed my head and stared down at my phone, stepping forward to the driver when the old woman in front of me hobbled aboard.

“Good morning.” The elderly bald man greeted me with a smile.

“Hi,” I said, holding out my phone for him to scan.

“Thank you,” he said. “Take any seat.”

“Thanks.” I shoved my phone into my back pocket and turned to Mom. “See ya.”

Mom’s mouth twitched and after a moment of hesitation, she ambushed me, arms around my shoulders in a hug. “Be safe.”

“Yeah,” I said, regretting that I immediately disentangled myself from her embrace. But it was hard to communicate civilly when we both got into a mood. We were stubborn as mules and equally unforgiving, and that’s when we found ourselves merely co-existing in a hostile environment.

I found a window seat on the opposite side, meaning she couldn’t see me to wave goodbye.

That’s if she intended to wait for the bus to leave.

I doubted it. Salon business had been her sole focus since Dad left.

Mom, a trained hairdresser, had gone back to work, like it helped to take her mind off of the divorce.

Five minutes later, when the driver closed the doors and the bus moved off, I caught a glimpse of her dark blue Mercedes still in the parking lot.

Maybe she waved—I wouldn’t know because I didn’t look over—but a few minutes later when she texted Have a good trip xx, I was racked with guilt.

A glance, a wave, any acknowledgement would have taken very little effort.

I sent back a heart emoji—but not till we were far away on the freeway.

And now, with my hometown looming minutes away, my heart unexpectedly lurched with soppy sentimentality.

I had thought I’d love the city, the bright lights, the malls, my independence, that I wouldn’t miss Mom one tiny bit, but I’d been wrong—I was homesick for the small town vibes.

Familiar streets, less traffic, less noise, less people.

But everything changed in an instant as I read her text in complete disbelief: Sorry I can’t come, busy with client, you’ll have to walk to salon.

It was a Saturday afternoon, almost four in the afternoon. Why on earth was she still working? Where were her staff? My blood boiled—after six weeks away, she couldn’t find the time to leave her precious salon and pick me up? My envisioned sweet homecoming was nothing more than an illusion.

Disappointed, but mainly furious, I hauled my suitcases out of the bus station, relieved not to see anyone I knew.

I was tempted to take a taxi, but it was only three blocks to Mom’s salon.

Awkward as it was to pull two suitcases, it wasn’t the end of the world, but I’d be sure to use this as ammunition against her some time in the future.

The lights in the salon were dim, but through the window I could see Mom standing behind a seated lady with foils in her hair.

“I’m back.” I announced my arrival with no subtlety, clanking my suitcases against the doorframe.

“Ah, Quinn, hello,” Mom said, looking at me through the mirror. “Welcome back.”

I didn’t recognize the client, a woman in her 20s, which was kind of odd. I’d have thought Mom might decide to work late for a regular client, not a random. But it was also unusual that Mom was doing a color. I remembered her once saying that hair chemicals gave her dermatitis.

“You’re still working?” I tried to stifle my annoyance in front of the customer.

“Yes, of course,” Mom breezed. “Take your bags into the staff room and make a cup of coffee. I won’t be long.”

Forty five minutes later, the sound of the blow dryer alerted me to the fact that Mom was nearing the end.

I left my coffee mug on the small table and readied myself to lash out in outrage.

I stood beside her at the counter, fake smiling as Mom persuaded the woman to buy a special color shine shampoo, conditioner and hair masque.

The woman paid and swooned over her ash blonde highlights, which admittedly did look pretty.

I waited for Mom to close the door behind the client before launching into my tirade about being stood up with two suitcases to lug from the bus station.

But as she locked up, I scanned the appointment page, noticing she had bookings tomorrow—on a Sunday.

Surely that was an error. I clicked to the next page.

Mom’s column was fully booked out. As was the next day, and the day after that.