THREE MONTHS LATER
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
I roll forward in the too-cold pool, and it’s perfectly timed. For once. My legs drive me away from the tile, and I’m swimming again.
Even by my standards—much higher these past few months—I know this is going to be a good time. And each time my left ear breaks the surface, I can hear the echoed shouting and cheering around Sorrowsong’s greenhouse.
My arms are burning, my lungs are on fire, I’m not entirely convinced my legs are still attached, and yet I think I might be … enjoying myself? It’s a new concept, recently discovered: Swimming for pleasure. Not for medals, not to pass the time, and not to stave away the grief and despair.
When my hand hits the tile for the final time and I pull off my goggles and drag in a desperate lungful of air, Belladonna is nodding at me where she stands at the edge of the pool. PR, she mouths at me, and sure enough, it’s my best time ever
It’s not enough to win the race—some girl from Bath University is literally going to the Olympics—but it’s second place.
When I tug off my cap, one word rises above the unfocused buzz in the greenhouse, chanted louder and clearer than the rest of the chatter.
Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia. I turn to face them, that small crowd gathered to my left who are here just for me.
You’d think I had set a new world record, judging by the way Alex and Vincenzo are celebrating.
Mia, Evie, and Fleur are here, waving printed out pictures of my face stuck to wooden skewers.
Elise, too, wrapped in a big jacket and a scarf that covers most of her face.
They’re all waving, and it’s so ridiculous, given that most of the other seats are empty.
I might be the only university student in the country whose family has shown up for a sports event, but I don’t care.
I missed out on this for the last few years of high school. I will not take it for granted now.
There’s an empty seat beside Elise, and I just know that somehow, in some way, my dad is in it, shouting and hollering in the way I always told him was embarrassing.
Alex mouths something at me. I fucking love you, I think. I love fucking you, I mouth back, and he laughs.
I climb out the pool, slipping my feet into flip-flops and smiling at the outdated floor tile like a complete idiot. A towel slips around my shoulders, a whispered caress against the top of my head.
“I love fucking you, too.”
“Later?”
Alex turns me to face him. “I don’t think we’re going to escape Vincenzo’s poker night. He’s literally put it in my calendar so I can’t forget.”
I glance over my shoulder toward Vinnie, where he’s letting Mia and Evie beat him up with paper versions of my face. “A poker night sounds great, actually. What time do you finish rugby?”
His thumb swipes a droplet of water from my jaw, gaze dipping to my lips for the briefest of seconds. “Seven.” His expression turns hopeful. “But I don’t have to go?”
“Yes, you do, you insatiable fool.” I shove his chest, but he doesn’t distance himself from me. He never did. He never does. “Go to rugby. We’ll play poker after.”
His bottom lip makes an appearance, but those green irises are glittering, and my god, he is tempting.
But there’s something about Alex, twenty-four, living like a twenty-four-year-old should; two months of rugby practice, poker nights, drinks with friends, hangovers and takeout boxes and lazy mornings.
That storm cloud over his shoulders seems to lessen every time I watch him, Jack, and Vinnie jog their way up the path to the mansion.
“Not really the time or the place for”—Belladonna appears beside us, waving her fingers in our general direction—“whatever this is. You two are insufferable. See you in the locker room, Winters.”
Alex grins down at me. “Better not upset the boss.”
“I’m going to miss her.” Belladonna is in her last few weeks at Sorrowsong, and I’m alarmingly sad about that. “I’ll see you guys later?”
“Later.”
I stare down at my hand, a full house, with an expression that I’m hoping says oh no, I’m so sad about my hand.
“Ophelia has a full house,” says Belladonna, breaking the silence.
“What?” I clutch my cards to my chest. “I do not.”
“You’re terrible at faking being sad.”
“Well, maybe I have a royal flush,” I snap, over Alex’s laughter.
“If you had a royal flush you’d be too excited to look sad.”
“Alex!” I cry. “Defend me!”
Alex stops laughing long enough to lean over and peek at my cards.
It spoils the game, but we’ve been going for hours and Belladonna has run out of things to win at this point.
Vincenzo and Colette are drunk. Divya is furious at the whole situation, insisting it must be rigged.
Alex has been too busy running his fingers along the hem of my skirt to truly focus on the game, and I’ve been losing without excuse.
My ears, chest, nose, and cheeks seem to flush red at every good hand, and Belladonna remains stony and impassive, face shrouded in shadow where we’re all splayed out across the chesterfield sofas in the Nightshade library.
“Wow, that’s a bad hand,” Alex mutters, trying to rescue me.
Belladonna scowls. “You used to have a backbone, Corbeau.”
Alex’s fingers dip beneath my skirt, dancing along the tights that cover my thighs. If he goes up any farther, he’ll discover that they’re stockings. “Did I? I don’t remember.”
Belladonna rolls her eyes at us, but she’s not quite succeeding at squashing that tiny glimmer of fondness in them. Colette shows her hand to Vincenzo, asking him for the thirtieth time if an ace is good or bad.
Alex’s thumb swipes an inch higher, and I lose focus on the game. Belladonna probably wins. I don’t know. I don’t really care.
Jack shuffles the cards while Vinnie tops off the glasses. They’re all laughing at something, but I’m stuck on the way my pulse has moved from my chest to my upper thighs, the hot touch of his fingers scorching a path along my skin.
“Can’t we play Scrabble?” asks Divya.
I perk up at that, the promise of letter tiles and wordplay enough to distract me from my ridiculously attractive boyfriend, apparently. “Yes!”
“Scrabble is for cowards,” Belladonna mutters, and Vincenzo tips his glass toward her in agreement.
“That makes zero sense.”
“We can play, but if anyone puts zoo on a triple word, I’m leaving Sorrowsong early.”
One inch higher, and he’s found his way to smooth, bare skin.
I hear Alex’s sip of whiskey catch in his throat.
His fingers grip the fabric that covers my legs, like he can hardly believe his luck.
He’s up and standing behind the sofa with his hands on my shoulders before I take my next breath. “Ophelia and I have to get to bed.”
“What? No you don’t,” grumbles Vincenzo.
“I have to drive to see Mom and the girls in the morning.”
Vincenzo scowls at him, narrowing his eyes in a way that says I can’t argue with that excuse, but I know it’s bullshit. Alex goes to bed late and wakes up at the crack of dawn most days.
He slips his hand around mine and tugs me to my feet, planting the softest kiss beneath my ear. “Are you happy to go, Twist?” he asks, quiet enough for only me to hear.
My swallow is thick, my voice hoarse. I hope the library is dark enough for the others not to notice the way my face flames. “Yeah.”
I bid the others goodnight, distracted by Alex and his hands and his thighs and his eyes and his hair.
He steers us between dusty shelves of forgotten books, two wide hands encircling my waist. He pauses behind me somewhere between outdated medicine textbooks and Latin texts, then sinks his teeth into my shoulder with a rough growl. “I could just fuck you right here.”
God above. “Would you?”
The noise that escapes him is tortured. “Is that a request?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses the spot where his teeth just were, arms tightening around me. “Another time. I’ve been thinking about taking you to bed all day.”
He has me in his arms before I can reply, carrying me effortlessly up the winding staircase to the third floor, and it’s the lightness in his footsteps today, the ease with which he laughs, that fill me with so much hope for the future. He’s keeping his promise to me; fixing me like I’m fixing him.