Enemy's Secret - Ashlee Price Page 0,2

almost represented O. J. Simpson, for Christ's sake.

"I will be careful," I say smoothly, turning to go. This conversation is long past its expiry date. "And we will win."

There's no other option. Although, as I'm leaving the building, it's not our win that's clogging my head. It's her.

Kyra.

Smiling that hateful smile.

Chapter 2

Kyra

"Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him," I grumble over whatever too-happy pop song is on the radio.

At the red light, I mash the station button until I get to an angry punk song that better expresses my current mood. "How fucking dare he."

It wasn't enough that he acted like the tool of the century back in college - he had to make a go of it again. I recognized the avid way he gazed at me, his easy smile, all too well. He was on the hunt. He saw something he liked.

"Well, fuck him, because it's not going to happen," I snap to myself. "Ever."

Even if my heart is skipping a beat now and I'm still jittery with adrenaline, so what? I was an idiot to fall for him the first time, and I'm not about to do it again. God, I should've figured he'd be literally the exact same jerk as before.

He wasn't a jerk until the very end... a small voice in my head reminds me.

And all at once, I'm back there - lunch dates on that grassy hill with the willow tree, the Tim Hortons blueberry muffin he'd always pick up for me before class, the intricate diagrams he painstakingly sketched out in Economics even though I was the visual learner, not him. A boat ride for my birthday, an impromptu trip to Montreal for Christmas. A promise ring for our anniversary, topping off the sweetest weekend in a cabin in the forest I could've asked for. He was Lan, I was Kyky. He kept a picture of me in his wallet. A whole corner of his closet he kept open for my things. The two of us touring Battery Park City, as if we were really buying a house in New York's most expensive neighborhood together - the look in his eyes as he looked at the nicest house there, then me, and said, "Someday..."

"Fuck it," I say.

The end is what counted, what changed everything. The end is all that matters. No use in remembering anything else.

Like how his smile is still the same: slightly pulled up on the left side. How his light brown hair is better styled now, his hazel eyes touched with an almost permanent amusement...

No. Fuck him.

I did hate him. I do. After what he did to me, I don't care how many mindfulness gurus or self-help books tell me that forgiveness is cleansing for the soul or whatever-else bullshit - I'm not going for it. Maybe rage and hate is toxic for some people, but not for me. It's what's driven me to become the woman I am. The mother I am. If I get rid of that rage, all that's left is a sad pit. And I can't afford that.

I pull up to the school, and minutes later, Madison comes out. I change the station to the third button down: the kid's classical channel I have saved.

"Hey Mom," she says, as calming Debussy trills through the car.

And just like that, the iron grip on my heart releases.

"Hey," I say. "Have fun at school?"

Madison looks at me with serious hazel eyes, like I've lost my marbles. "Always, Mom."

"That's what I like to hear," I say, pulling out and driving away.

"We made paper cranes and let the wind take them. It was so funny, Mommy."

"I'll bet. What was yours like?"

Madison bites her lip. "I used some of the Babar stickers."

"That's OK, honey. You know that's what I gave them to you for."

"I know... But now I'll never see them again. The wind took them."

"You never know - maybe the wind will bring them back." I find myself smiling vaguely. "Life has a way of surprising you."

Preach. Although, like today, not all of its surprises are good - or in any way wanted.

Why couldn't Landon have stayed in his stupid office where he belonged? It was bad enough seeing him and his brothers splashed across the papers every other month - now I have to see him every few days in court?

Back at home, we're working on some more paper cranes when the phone rings.

"How'd it go?" Pamela asks.

"Good," I say. "Judge agreed we have a case."

"Score!" I can almost see her