Page 57 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

For now, I have Littlewing work to do and a woman to woo.

Because of my horrible meeting, Aanya ran yesterday’s mountain biking session for me. Today, I’m running her hike. The fresh air helps clear my mind, the group of kids easy to excite and engage. The littlest ones are always a blast. We link hands around the largest trees to test how many of us can cover their girth, then we discuss how old the trees are. I let them bury me under dead leaves, then I chase them around like a leaf monster, growling and earning a torrent of giggles. In a clearing near the end, they each get rope and learn to tie knots, at which point my phone vibrates in my pocket.

“I need a moment,” I tell the group. “Keep practicing. If you have questions, ask Tonell. He has mastered his knots.”

Tonell beams. I give him a thumbs-up, then strut to the side and pull out my phone.

Maggie. Finally.

Nemesis: I think it’s better if you don’t come tonight.

I think it would be better if Maggie quit fighting the undeniability that is us.

Me: Wrong answer.

Nemesis: Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

Me: The only one making this harder than it needs to be is you.

Nemesis: Bye, Lennon.

Nope. No way. This is not how this goes down. I didn’t survive a decade of witness protection to lose Maggie now. I search the forest, looking for inspiration. Any clue for how to get through to her that I’m a safe place and she doesn’t have to hide from me. All I see are trees and rocks and a group of fun kids tugging at rope.

Which gives me an idea.

“Gabriela!” I smile and wave at her. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

Gabriela is adorable personified. She’s seven, with long brown hair, light brown skin, and a button nose. She has a tiny mouse voice, and thanks to her missing two front teeth, her lisp pushes her cute factor over the edge.

She runs her little legs over to me and looks up expectantly. “Yes, Mr. Lennon?” But it sounds like Yeth, Mithter Lennon.

Seriously. This level of cute should be illegal. I hold up my phone. “I’m going to call someone who only likes speaking with little girls, even though she pretends she doesn’t. If I tell you what to say, will you talk to her for me?”

It’s a sneaky move. If I call Maggie, she’ll either curse or shout or hang up on me, none of which she can do to this adorable seven-year-old. With Gabriela in on my plan, I hit dial and wait for Maggie to pick up.

The second she does, she unleashes her most exasperated tone. “Lennon, I told you—”

“I have someone who wants to speak to you, and you better be nice.”

“Maggie?” Gabriela says when she takes the phone from me. “I’m Gabriela.” She looks up at me with wide brown eyes. I nod my encouragement. “Mr. Lennon is sad. He says you won’t talk to him.”

I cross my toes, hoping Maggie says something to the effect of “Can you please put Mr. Lennon back on the phone,” since that’s what I told Gabriela she’d say.

Gabriela grins, clearly pleased with Maggie’s reply. “He can’t talk now. He’s busy. But he asked me to ask you if he can see you at the party tonight. Please,” she adds, that lisp and her tiny voice impossibly sweet.

Gabriela does an excited bounce as she listens to Maggie’s answer, then she hands me my phone. “She said yes. And then she said you should bring…” She squints a moment. “A bulletproof vest.”

I laugh. That sounds about right.

* * *

Three hours later, I pull up to Maggie’s childhood home. The classic white farmhouse has a wraparound porch and inviting mahogany door. The property around is clean and well tended. While I’ve never been inside her parents’ home, I know the back property intimately. Specifically, the pond nestled in the forest, under a sweep of twinkle lights, where Maggie and I swam circles around each other.

I grab the small wrapped birthday gift from my passenger seat and attempt to maneuver out of my truck. Unfortunately, it’s not easy getting through the door wearing Desmond’s old football gear—the closest thing I could find to a bulletproof vest.

Maggie’s standing on her porch before I’m on my feet. Her Die Motherfucker Face is alive and well, but when she sees me strapped in shoulder pads, wearing a protective cup over my jeans, she cracks up.

“Oh my God.” She laughs harder, wiping at her eyes. “Only you, Lennon Bower.”