The Best of Enemies Read Online Free PDF Page A

gone, back in the days when my brothers and I were in charge of amusing ourselves while Dad was at work.
    Yesterday, I witnessed two warriors battle almost to the death . . . in a potato sack race. This event was immediately followed by a competition to see who could keep a stick upright, using nothing but their foreheads to balance as they spun in circles, growing more and more dizzy with each rotation. As for the Second MEB, Second Battalion, Third Marines’ epic remake of Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe”? Catch the YouTube video—my words won’t do it justice.
    Never an easy day, but sometimes a good one.
    There are other days when these same merry jokesters will spend ten hours defusing an insurgent’s booby trap. These bombs contain
confetti
, which brings to mind birthday parties and glitter, and not the nails, bolts, and screws that absolutely tear victims to shreds. The dichotomy of any given twenty-four-hour period fascinates me and I’m in awe of our troops’ strength and commitment. Whether or not I believe this or any war is justified is irrelevant, because it’s my honor to chronicle every aspect of our soldiers’ heroic service.
    I probably don’t need to mention that my love for these servicemen and servicewomen is inversely proportional to my distaste for
girls.
    But I don’t say any of this to Bobby. Instead, I respond, “Busy enough.” I’ll elaborate when I see him in person. Sometimes he needs me in front of him to temper the harsh realities I report. He’s truly tenderhearted. A decade ago, he found a litter of kittens dumped by the side of the road. He fed them with an eyedropper every four hours until they were grown enough to feed themselves. Bobby held on to every one of those cats, rejecting each qualified adoption offer. “Where are you and the crew heading after ski season this year?”
    My brother stays in Aspen until the snow melts, and then he and the cats head to summer gigs in that year’s playground-du-jour for the beautiful people. Given what happened with our mom, her parents set us all up with a small trust fund. Mimi and Poppy pretty much dropped out of our lives afterward, so this gesture was the least they could do. The amount’s fairly negligible, but it’s enough supplemental cash to keep Bobby from ever having to wear a so-called
monkey suit
and work in an office.
    I’ve never touched my share of the trust. Don’t want it.
    Bobby’s lived all over—Nantucket, the Cape, Southampton, Ibiza, Montenegro, the Cayman Islands, and St. Barts, to name a few. He’s always hanging out with celebrities in his line of work. Reese Witherspoon is a pal—apparently she and her husband fell in love with his twist on the Bloody Mary last summer. He says the trick is to add fresh ground wasabi and ginger, which turns a stodgy old brunch standby into something indescribably delicious. He calls his concoction the “Bobby Mary.” His inside scoop on the rich and famous is wasted on me, but his lifestyle brings him joy, so I’m glad.
    Bobby says, “My summer plan? It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
    Top Gun
quotes will never lose their charm.
    Bobby always elevates my mood far more than any prescription SSRI ever could and I find myself grinning back at him. “No, Maverick, really—where are you off to next?”
    Bobby suddenly becomes serious. “Gotta level with you, Jack. This life of skiing bumps all day and partying all night is taking a toll on me. I’m finally settling down and going corporate.” He holds a straight face long enough for my heart to skip a beat over such a drastic change, and then he can’t contain himself.
    We both laugh until our stomachs hurt. Bobby seeking salaried employment is as likely as me slapping on a pair of panty hose and hosting high tea.
    He’s wiping the tears from his eyes when he remembers something. He roots around on a coffee table where Jean-Claude Kitty (brother to Tomba-Cat and