Pictures of You

Chapter 13

13

Evie

Beneath the surface, it’s shockingly cold and blissfully peaceful, dance music muted. Shadowy figures converge on the water’s edge above me, distorted through ripples of water.

Underwater, there’s a boy—perfect face and blond hair floodlit, blue eyes fixed on mine as we ricochet off each other and time stands still. Just for a second or two, but long enough for me to lose myself in his attention, before instinct hits and I try to kick my legs in this awkward skirt, wedge-heel shoes striking the pool floor, and start to panic.

The boy’s expression shifts. His arms pierce the water as he powers toward me, a sense of relief washing over me. I’ll be okay.

But just as he arrives heroically at my side, a pair of strong, leather-clad arms reach into the pool from above, scoop me under the shoulders, and wrench me to the surface.

I gasp as I’m dragged out of the water, dripping, and am swarmed upon by Bree and several others, who help me to my feet. My outfit clings to my body, hair bedraggled, as chlorinated water runs off my face.

I pull off wet shoes, the straps of which have been biting into my ankles anyway, and wring out my curls, laughing now.

The boy in the water swims to the edge and looks up at me, eyes roving over the damage. “Thanks for taking this so well,” he says, smiling.

Never mind my ruined outfit. I have moved swiftly onto the next crisis because He. Is. Gorgeous.

Those striking eyes—I’d thought blue, but maybe they’re green?—fix on mine again. His face is entirely symmetrical, in that Hollywood way that is totally unfair to everyone else, and there’s something kind of “retro boyband music video” about him, fully dressed and saturated in the pool. It reminds me of the time Mum showed me Backstreet Boys videos one Saturday morning, trying to explain her twenties. I half expect him to launch into the chorus of “Quit Playing Games (With My Heart),” as he plants his hands on the pool deck and starts to push himself up out of the water. Effortlessly. Because of course he has the sort of shoulders that can manage a task like that with ease.

Bree and I hold hands. For emotional support. And to communicate what we are both thinking.

It’s the wet-white-shirt phenomenon.

Time seems to slow as he emerges from the water, shirt now totally transparent over the chiseled muscles of his chest … oh my God .

It’s Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice . Dan Stevens in Sense and Sensibility . Rupert Friend in The Young Victoria . And now this extraordinary boy emerging from McKenzie Pritchard’s swimming pool, somehow rivaling all of them.

I’m vaguely aware of Kennedy, butting into my line of sight.

“Evie, are you okay?”

It’s static noise on my periphery as White Shirt hoists himself up from the edge of the pool. The Regency fantasy falters slightly at the sight of his perfectly fitted jeans, but I overlook that because the rest is just … it’s honestly so glorious I’m speechless. In this moment, I want to take back all I’d ever said about twenty-first-century boys. Every time I’d rolled my eyes and judged girls for their laughable Insta Love obsessions. And I emergency-revoke my No Romance rule.

“Drew,” the boy says to Kennedy. I’m still mesmerized as water drips off the tips of his dark blond hair, down his cheekbones, and runs off his jaw, onto his shirt and his jeans, pooling at his feet.

Bree clears her throat to break me out of my trance.

“Oliver,” Kennedy says.

Such a heroic name. Reminiscent of Oliver Twist, except of course he was a penniless orphan and this Oliver goes to an expensive school and doesn’t seem remotely upset about the fact that his leather boots are currently waterlogged.

It’s clear there is no love lost between him and Kennedy—or Drew, apparently. It’s like one of those moments in old movies where they “take it outside” with dueling pistols, and for a few amazing seconds I pretend their antagonism is for some reason inspired by me—even though one of them hasn’t even met me yet and the other one probably doesn’t like me after our altercation on Wednesday.

Now that my outfit is ruined, I feel way more confident than I did when it was spotless.

“I’m Evie,” I interrupt. No question mark this time. No trouble focusing on Oliver’s sparkling eyes.

“We met,” Drew says. “In Photography Club?”

He thinks I’ve forgotten. And that I’m on speaking terms with him. Ironically, the way I look right now is exactly the type of photo opportunity I meant for the exhibition.

“I’m Oliver Roche,” White Shirt says. He puts his hand briefly on my arm . “And you need a towel.” He glances hopefully toward the house, as if someone might appear with one, and then back at me, like he cannot bear for us to be parted while he goes and gets one himself.

I hold out my hand to shake because I am—what, exactly? A businesswoman about to conduct a meeting? This is why I can’t do “sixteen” properly. Bree frowns at my hand, willing me to do something less professional with it, but that’s when Oliver saves me.

His mouth draws into half a smile as he takes my fingers in his, brings my hand to his lips, and kisses it without ever breaking eye contact. So that’s that then, isn’t it? I’m clearly going to fall in love with him. What else am I meant to do in these circumstances?

Someone brings towels at last, and Oliver, who is still holding my hand, lets go, says, “Excuse me,” and starts stripping his shirt off right in front of us. I imagine myself having an attack of the vapors and Bree having to fetch the smelling salts or raid McKenzie Pritchard’s mother’s medicine cabinet for a Valium or something to snap me out of it.

“You are imprinting ,” Bree whispers. “Like in Twilight . Rein yourself in.”

But I’m already in trouble.

I cannot let myself fall in love at first sight. No, I hate that. I’m a romantic, but it’s the slow burn all the way for me. Tortuous, intoxicatingly drawn-out courtships during which we pine for each other amid multiple misunderstandings. None of this unambiguous freaking out on the pool deck microseconds into one smile.

I’m pro-school. Pro–hard work. Pro–focusing on the big goals on the chart I’ve made for the wall in my room, none of which include going all goose-bumpy over a two-second glance from a spectacular potential boyfriend, if I may be so bold as to label him that.

I’ve never been psychic. I don’t believe in that stuff, just like I don’t believe in love at first sight. But in this exact moment, as crazy as it sounds, and while I can’t explain how or why, I know this fact: Oliver Roche is my future.