22
W e’re lying side by side in our bed, staring up at the rattan ceiling fan creaking with each turn. A total of one minute into “Speed of Sound” (Teller changed his mind about ten times before settling on this song), he says, “I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“Just thinking.”
I turn to face him. He studies me for a few beats before tracing his finger over his sun tattoo.
“About what I said back in Venice. About not believing in soulmates. It’s been bugging me ever since because I feel like I didn’t explain myself properly.”
“It’s okay, Tel. You don’t have to believe in them.” And I mean that. It never offended me. It’s a lot for people to understand. Especially someone like Teller, who bases his life in logic and fact. Even I sometimes doubt it.
“I know. I sounded like a dick, though. Here’s the thing—I think I could believe in soulmates, but only if you can have more than one.”
“It would be cool if there was more than one out there,” I say.
“Yeah. And if you can find one of them, I’d say you’re pretty lucky.”
The idea is comforting, especially given what happened with Caleb. “I hope you’re right.”
He’s pensive through “Clocks.”
“What are you thinking about now?” I finally ask.
“How cardboard is made.”
I can’t help but snicker at the ceiling. “Cardboard? The mystery of cardboard is keeping you up at night?”
“Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But seriously, like, how do they make it? I think about this often. Don’t you?”
“I literally never think about that. Who thinks about that?”
“Me!” he shouts, and we both ugly-laugh, chin to chest, double chins galore, until we’re crying and begging the other to stop.
Once our laughter finally dissipates, Teller suggests we go to the pool—which is shocking, given his aversion to public pools. Tipsy Teller is still here and well. Before he changes his mind, I jump out of bed. We eagerly throw on our bathing suits and stumble downstairs (with Coldplay blasting through his portable speaker, of course). Unfortunately, the sign on the gate reads “Chiuso” after 9:00 pm . It’s 8:55.
“Damn. It closes in five minutes,” Teller says, already turning back.
“That means five minutes to swim,” I say with a wink, pulling the gate open. I dive right in, plunging into the deep end. The cool water envelops me, whooshing through my ears, drowning out the distant, warped sound of Coldplay.
I rise to the surface just in time to see him peel his towel away. Sharing sleeping quarters with him for the past few weeks, I’ve seen his abs too many times to justify a reaction. But against the moonlight and the illuminated pool, the ridges of his body make my breath hitch. He plunges into the deep end, long limbs piercing through the water elegantly. Mesmerizing.
He resurfaces, wiping away the water dripping into his eyes, and taps my shoulder. “Tag, you’re it!” By the time I come to, he’s already swimming away, kicking up copious amounts of water in his wake.
No one kicks us out of the pool at nine. We play water tag for what feels like forever until I can barely keep up. If this were last year, I would have been a semi-decent match for him. But after his year of kickboxing, I’m left in the proverbial dust. Drained, I reach for the side of the pool, only to fall short in my exhaustion. Teller notices and tugs me close, steadying me around the waist. “Gotcha,” he says quietly, and I don’t resist.
Warmth shoots through me like liquid as I sway against him. His hands gently trace up and down the sides of my abdomen, sending a tingling sensation through my body. I secure my arms around his shoulders, feeling every groove of his muscles as he moves. I can feel his heart pounding, nearly in sync with mine. Even though I’m a bit uneasy in the deep end, I feel safe in his arms.
And when his eyes catch mine, lashes flecked with water droplets, I forget where we are. It’s like we’re in our own bubble. Everything else drowns out, even the sounds. Something inside me desperately wants to be even closer to him, if that’s possible. His eyes drift toward my lips. For a moment, it seems like he wants to kiss me. And I want him to—so badly, down to my bones. But with a swish of the water, the moment passes. He releases me and swims to the side of the pool, hoisting himself up.
“Since when did you become Michael Phelps?” I ask, pushing all those thoughts to the recesses of my mind. “I thought you were scared of water. You were practically trembling on the gondola in Venice.”
“I don’t mess with open bodies of water. Pools are different. At least I can see what’s at the bottom.” He wrings the water from his hair. “I am still afraid of it, though. That’s why I took swimming lessons this year.”
“Shut up. You did not!”
“Don’t make fun,” he warns. “But yes. I did, and it’s not what you think. I had a friend who was a lifeguard teach me.”
I raise a hand to proclaim innocence, although I can’t help but smile at the image of him wading around in a kiddie pool with a bunch of drooling toddlers, inflatable water wings circling each arm. “I wasn’t going to. I think that’s really brave of you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He winces. “I was embarrassed, I guess. Figured I’d wow you with my skills first,” he adds with a deliriously charming wink.
“I think it’s brave of you to confront your fears head-on.”
“What about you? What are you scared of?” he asks, breaking the silence.
Lots of things, but I start with the most obvious. “Disappointing my family. Not living up to the legacy.”
“But you have. You’ve had the vision like everyone else.”
“And look how that turned out,” I say wryly, deflecting. Because I already know the big answer. The one that first came to mind when he asked. It’s losing him . My second vision coming to fruition. That’s what I’m most afraid of. But instead, all that comes out is “Somersaults.”
His brow pinches, confused. “Somersaults? Like, seeing other people do a somersault or doing one yourself?”
“Doing one myself. Don’t laugh,” I say, splashing him a little.
He stifles his snickering. “I’m sorry. But how did I not know this about you? I have a feeling there’s a story here.”
“Oh, there is. When I was in first grade, all these girls were doing somersaults at recess. One of the girls, Renee, was the best. She would do like, ten in a row, all around the yard.”
“Sounds like a show-off,” Teller teases.
“She totally was. But get this. One day we were all watching and counting how many she could do in a row, and she ended up somersaulting right off the brick retaining wall and falling like, three feet. She had to get stitches all down her face, Frankenstein-style. There was blood everywhere.”
“Holy shit. That’s traumatizing. But my question is, why didn’t anyone stop her from going over the wall?”
I laugh. “I mean, we were like, six years old.”
“So you’ve been too scared to try one since?”
“I’ve always wanted to. I felt like the only kid who didn’t know how. But the older I got, the more embarrassing it was not to know how. It’s a heavy cross to bear, I know,” I tease.
He shakes some water out of his ear. “You should try.”
“Like, right now?” I ask, gesturing to the grassy area by the pool.
“Why not? There’s space.”
I stand on the stairs, shaking out my limbs as I get out of the pool. I bend over to touch my toes. “I don’t know where to start. This doesn’t feel natural.”
He positions himself behind me and straightens my arms over my head. I freeze slightly at the span of his chest against my back. “Okay, so on the count of three, you’re going to bring your arms down to the ground and tuck your head between your legs. Easy.”
“If it’s so easy, you do it.”
Sober Teller would never do an impromptu somersault on a tiny patch of grass beside a pool. But Tipsy Teller is so down.
“Sure.” He’s uncharacteristically confident as he proceeds to do a very poor excuse for a somersault. It more closely resembles a cartwheel, legs flailing and crooked like a spider. “Why are you laughing? It was a perfect somersault.”
It was not, but I don’t want to burst his bubble, so I let him have it. “You’re basically Simone Biles. But I still can’t do it.”
“You absolutely can. Look, I’ll find a step-by-step guide.”
He grabs his phone from the side of the pool and, after multiple typos, manages to bring up a YouTube tutorial on how to somersault.
We spend the next half hour attempting to follow the steps, each resulting in total disaster. I keep veering sideways, while Teller is a little too aggressive and continually topples into the gate. We both end up on the grass, cold and hooting with laughter until a light flicks on nearby, sending us racing back to the room in a fit of hysterics.
“What else are you scared of?” he asks once we’re dry and warm, collapsed in a heap on the bed, Coldplay still playing. I can’t help but notice how his shirt is slightly bunched, revealing his lower abs.
Ugh. There’s that stomach dip again. I stare at the ceiling, hands folded over my middle, thoughts churning. “Losing people I love,” I finally admit.
He reaches over, sliding a warm hand over mine. I suck in my breath and close my eyes, relaxing under his gentle squeeze. I can’t lose him. I won’t let it happen. I’ll do whatever it takes.
“I love you, Lo,” he mumbles, though it sounds more like, “ IlubyouLuuh .”
The words strike me in the heart. He’s never told me he loves me. Bianca and I say I love you all the time, but Teller has never been that gushy kind of friend. “You really need some sleep, Tel. But I appreciate it.”
He rolls over, peering at me through sleepy eyes. “Do you love me?”
My breath hitches, the rubber band between us pulling tight. “Of course I do.”
“Because I really, really do.”
I freeze, stomach curling into a tight knot as his eyes wander over me, awaiting a response. Does he mean what I think he means? No. There’s absolutely no way. He’s still in love with Sophie, and even if he wasn’t, he’s never once shown any sign that he feels anything more. I try assessing him through the darkness. He’s rolled onto his side, breath growing heavier until he’s fully asleep.
I lie awake for what feels like hours.
I wake up, warm and cozy, at some point in the night, only to realize I’m wrapped tight like a burrito—and it’s not the sheets. Teller’s warm chest is pressed against my back, arm slung around my stomach.
My body stiffens, acutely aware of every nerve ending in my body. Is that what we’re doing now? Casually cuddling? Is this a normal thing friends do? I suspect not.
He tightens his arm around me. Judging by his slow, deep breaths, he’s still sleeping—at least, I think so. I stay still, lest I surrender to the strong urge to turn around and kiss him. It’s not lost on me that this is the second time I’ve had that urge tonight.
We lie like that for what feels like forever while I try to figure out what led us to this point. First, there are our broken hearts. Second, there were a lot of drinks tonight. I’ve always been a bit affectionate when under the influence. Let’s blame it on the wine. Wine makes everyone cuddly, even Teller Owens.
Still, I think of Caleb and Sophie. And while neither of us are beholden to either of them, the thought is enough to bring me back. It doesn’t feel wrong, but after being so sure about my future, it also doesn’t feel right.
I tuck and roll out of his embrace and feel the absence of his warmth immediately. As I curl into a ball on the other side of the bed, I can’t help but wish I’d stayed right next to him.