Page 99 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

It’s a competition now. Who can love whom hardest, everything with my nemesis a strategy and a game. You better believe I’ll win.

“Can you two get in here before you’re arrested for indecent exposure?” Maggie’s sister, Emma, flutters her fingers from the door.

“This property is secluded,” I say. “No cops in sight. We can grope all we want.”

Emma hooks her thumb to the side. “Our uncle’s a cop and viciously overprotective, so we’ll see how that goes.”

A large man is standing at the window, his massive arms crossed, scowling at me.

“You didn’t tell me your uncle’s an overprotective cop,” I whisper-hiss to Maggie.

She pats my cheek. “He’s a bigger, beefier version of my father. Huge guns.” She flexes her arms in the universal tough-guy pose. “As in biceps, but he also has an impressive gun collection.”

Now she tells me. “If I’d known, I would’ve worn the football gear and protective cup.”

“And not grace us with your latest in hipster fashion?” She gestures to my skinny jeans and moves out of grabbing distance. “That would be criminal.”

I don’t give her hell for teasing me, but I do plot ways I’ll make E regret this latest blackmail, which will involve his fear of snails. “My hipster clothes and I would like to go inside now, if you and your obnoxious humor don’t mind.”

She bats her long lashes at me. “We don’t mind at all. Also…” She rushes in for a cheek kiss. “I love you.”

My grin verges on ferocious. “I love you more.”

Once inside, we’re bombarded by Edelsteins. Hugs and kisses are passed around the rowdy group, scents of frying potato and roasting meat filling the air.

The big cop, Uncle Matt, shakes my hand, nearly crushing my fingers. “Maggie and Emma are like daughters to me,” he says, dragging me closer. “Any man who hurts them, hurts me.”

“Ha-ha,” I say, unsure why I’m fake laughing. “I would never knowingly hurt Maggie. Or you. Or anyone whose number is on your speed dial. There will be no hurting if I can help it.”

“Ignore Matt,” Mrs. Edelstein says, saving the bones in my hand by pulling me in for a Mom Hug. I’ve always loved Mom Hugs. The feeling of being cocooned in kindness and grace. “Thank you for being patient with Maggie,” she says softly. “She puts up a strong front, but inside, she’s vulnerable. And incredibly special. I’ve never seen her as happy as I have when she’s been with you.”

I inhale her kind words and overwhelming warmth. “Thank you for raising her. She’s an amazing woman. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be with her.”

She sniffles and nods, then pats my back and leads us into the living room for drinks and general mayhem. Aside from overprotective cop Matt, Mr. Edelstein has a sister, and both siblings have three kids, each one funnier than the next. Three of Maggie’s grandparents are still alive, and the family loves teasing their matriarch for keeping the items in her fridge lined in perfect rows. There are jokes about one person’s poor parking skills and another’s shoe obsession. No one takes the ribbing personally or gets annoyed.

The atmosphere reminds me of my family now, in the aftermath of WITSEC, all of us showing love through good-natured taunts and friendly insults. I brace for the absence of Maggie’s birth mother to infect the mood. The shape of her shadow hanging over the jovial room. Except it’s not here. Maggie’s smiling her biggest smile—open, loose, carefree—laughing so hard at something her cousin says she wipes tears from her eyes, and a deeper awareness settles. We don’t need to reconcile with our parents or relatives who’ve hurt us to be happy. We have to reconcile with ourselves. Confront or not confront as the situation dictates, then embrace the people who lift us up and hold them close.

When the sun dips below the horizon, Mr. Edelstein clinks his glass with a spoon and places their menorah on the wooden hutch.

“We light the shamash first,” Maggie whispers to me as her father lights the tallest center candle. “Then we use that to light the others. Mom called it the ‘helper’ candle growing up. Told us we should be like the shamash, always helping others shine.”

The group chants, “Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha’olam…” A whir of Hebrew I don’t understand, but I love the rolled Rs and guttural inflections and Maggie’s strong voice at my side. I love being welcomed into her family’s traditions, learning more about the shark girl who swam circles around an insecure nineteen-year-old boy.

Two more blessings follow, then Maggie bends toward my ear. “We only light one other candle tonight, the first night of Chanukah, always starting with the candle at the left, adding a new candle on each of the eight nights.”

“The Festival of Lights,” I say, remembering the term.

She nods and squeezes my hand.

The first candle is lit in quiet contemplation, the shamash replaced in its center home, then happy chatter breaks out as Maggie’s father calls everyone to the dining room.

I tug her closer, inhale her strawberry-almond scent. “Thanks for inviting me tonight.”

She fits herself snugly into my side. “I love having you here.”

“I love being here more.”

“I love it most,” she murmurs and kisses my lips.