Chapter 7 #2
“Classic.” He looks skyward and sighs, then looks back at me.
“Off the record, my parents had a very messy divorce about six years ago. You probably heard about it since the tabloids won’t fucking let it go.
” I don’t admit I still have no idea who his parents are, because I don’t want to interrupt his flow.
“But anyway, my dad moved out. I lived with my mom and my sister in LA. Then about three years ago, my mom had a really bad depressive episode. Her therapist told her to get out of Hollywood. Nova wanted to stay with her, so the two of them moved out here to the lake house, while I stayed back in LA with my dad and my coach. Mom hated it, but she understood swimming was my main focus. So instead of trying to argue with me, she pulled a typical mom maneuver, and gave a huge cash donation to this school to revitalize their swimming program based entirely on one condition—they would hire Coach Fleishman to lead the program. Where he goes, I go. So, here I am. I wouldn’t call it blackmail exactly, but… ”
“Nova had to learn her scheming ways from somebody?” I supply at his silence.
A brief, true smile flashes over his lips. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t realize the two of you lived apart.”
“Yeah, well…” He takes a deep breath, running his hands over his thighs as though uncomfortable. “If you want to be the best in the world at something, there are sacrifices that come with that.”
“Like not drinking.”
“Not partying,” he clarifies. “I don’t care about the alcohol, but going to bed at eleven o’clock every night when I know my friends are out having fun? Yeah, it sucks sometimes. But there are people who might say it was worth it, for those five gold medals or whatever.”
I wince as he mirrors my comment back to me.
The apology is there on my lips—because, while we don’t get along, five gold medals really is an incredible achievement and I didn’t mean to minimize it—but class ends before I get the words out.
Suddenly, everyone is standing, gathering papers, putting away pens, and filing out the door. When I reach for my bag, Nox stops me.
“Hey.” He puts his hand on my arm. The contact is like a live wire. An electric charge zips up my spine. My eyes snap to his, that hue annoyingly vibrant against his green-stained cheeks. “Don’t, um, write about any of that, okay? I didn’t mean to— It’s just—”
“I won’t,” I answer quickly. “I promise.”
He doesn’t move his arm, doesn’t look away.
I hold perfectly still, as if caught.
Someone bangs into my chair. Nox glances up, annoyed. The second I’m free of that weighty stare, I grab my bag and get the hell out of there.
Hours later, in my room, I can still feel the impression of his fingers on my skin, as if they’re a brand, burned deep.
It pisses me off. I want to get back to where I’m comfortable.
I need to redraw that dividing line in bright, bold paint.
So, in a flash of pure inspiration, I print out a huge green exclamation point on a piece of paper and tape it to my window.
Then I lower the blinds just enough to keep Nova from seeing.
This is between me and him.
When I wake up in the morning, there’s a glass of water sitting on his windowsill—a move that could be totally banal or elite levels of trolling.
I’ll never know for sure which, but I’m leaning toward the latter.
Which is why, hours later when I’m doing homework on my bed and see his light flick on, I turn up the volume on my laptop and blast Kermit the Frog’s immortal hit “Bein’ Green” through the open window.
He pauses midway through stripping off his sweatshirt.
I cover my mouth and cackle into my hands, not even bothering to feign innocence.
I just want to see the look on his face.
That’s it. That’s all. But instead of spinning around indignantly, he rolls his shoulders and finishes pulling off his top, taking his T-shirt with it.
Green or not, he’s freaking ripped. My gaze roves appreciatively over his chest, his arms, his back, drinking in the profile view.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when he finally leans over his desk and grabs a pen before hastily scrawling something across a piece of paper.
His biceps ripple with the movement. Even from here, I see the muscles in his forearm pop.
When he finally stands tall, my cheeks are warm.
He turns before I remember to look away, a cocky grin on his lips as he presses the paper to the window.
I pull my focus from the cut lines of his abs just long enough to read it.
Take a picture. It’ll last longer.
I scowl.
His shoulders bounce with barely contained mirth.
I’m saved by the door opening behind me. Nova sweeps into the room and drops her bag on her bed before turning to me with a confused look. “What the hell are you listening to?”
I slam my laptop shut and turn my back on Nox, but that doesn’t stop his laughter from carrying in on the wind.
Jerk.
At the pool on Saturday, I don’t even see him come in.
Behind closed eyes, I’m whispering mantras, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest as the water creeps up and over my knees.
I’m just about to go back to the higher step when I hear a splash.
I don’t need to look. Somehow, I know it’s him.
My feet suddenly grow heavy as lead. I couldn’t move them even if I wanted to—and I do, but I won’t.
It’s one thing for the lifeguard to see me chicken out.
It’s another thing entirely for him to see it, too.
My pulse quickens.
Nerves crawl like spiders up my legs, over my ribs, spinning webs that leave me constricted and suffocated, my breath coming shorter, my head growing light. I try to run through my senses.
What’s one thing I feel?
Water.
One thing I smell?
Water.
One thing I touch?
Water.
One thing I hear?
Water. Water. And more freaking water.
But then I listen, really focus, as I draw in a deep breath. Splash, trickle, trickle. Splash, trickle, trickle. Splash, trickle, trickle. I latch on to the repetition, timing my breath to the sounds. In. Splash, trickle, trickle. Out. Splash, trickle, trickle. In. Splash, trickle, trickle. Out.
The world comes slowly back into focus. I blink. It’s only then that I realize what exactly pulled me from the spiral—or who, I should say.
Nox.
He’s doing a relaxed freestyle, cutting through the water with ease.
With each reach of his arm, I hear it again.
Splash, trickle, trickle. Splash, trickle, trickle.
An uneasy pull tugs at my heart. I retreat slowly up the steps and wrap myself in a towel.
Not an inch of my bathing suit got wet, but it makes me feel better somehow to hug the soft cotton over myself like a shield.
I wait until he makes a turn for the far side of the pool before I attempt to sneak out.
And I almost manage it, but he’s too damn fast for his own good.
“Hey, Clara,” he calls, just as my hand pushes against the door.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s perched on the edge of the pool, crossed forearms digging into the concrete as he holds his glistening chest up on full display. He’s not smiling, but the corners of his eyes crinkle just enough to mock as he shakes out his shaggy, wet hair.
“How’s your article coming along?”
I haven’t written a single damn word, but I smile sweetly. “Wonderfully. You?”
He shrugs, a sly little grin playing over his lips. “Mine’s done.”
All right. What did this fucker write about me?
“Great,” I call, resisting the urge to give him the reaction he so clearly wants.
“Great,” he repeats.
“See you Tuesday.” I shoulder into the door, practically knocking it off its hinges. Just before it closes behind me, his response echoes across the pool.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Shit.