Chapter 15
When I get to the pool the following Saturday, I don’t even notice Nox at first. I think he must be late. A worried little twinge ricochets across my chest until I spot his coach across the complex, focused on someone in the other pool—the fifty-meter racing pool.
What’s he doing over there? I wonder.
Then stop.
My gaze drops to the steps I’ve been using to slowly adapt to the water, the gradual slope of the shallow end into the deeper lap end.
It never struck me as odd until right now, but suddenly the idea of Nox even stepping foot in this pool makes no sense at all.
It’s the recreational pool for swim lessons, open use from other students, aquatics classes, and club sports.
He’s a freaking gold medalist. Why would he ever warm up here when an empty, professional pool is just on the other side of the complex?
He wouldn’t.
But he did. For five months.
Well apparently, he’s not anymore.
Nox doesn’t look my way once. Not in the pool. Not at lunch the next day. Not the rest of the week when his blinds remain stubbornly shut.
I think about confronting him, but to what end?
It’s easier for me to live without his scrutiny.
No one else really knows much about my fear of swimming.
No one else is going to call me out on my half-truths.
No one else wants to dig up all the baggage I’m desperately trying to keep buried.
They accept what I give them without poking for more.
Does it hurt every time his gaze slides past me? Yes.
Does it needle every time I look into his barricaded window? Sure.
Do I sort of miss pissing him off? A little.
But it’s better this way.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Three weeks into the new semester, Nova, Willa, and I finally launch Operation Payback.
It’s a Wednesday morning, one of the coldest so far this year.
A blanket of snow covers the quad. Icy patches speckle the sidewalks.
The trees creak in the wind. Just sliding open my window brings a shiver to my skin.
When I poke my head out, a plume of white reveals my warm breath.
Perfect.
I glance over my shoulder at Nova. “It’s go time.”
Her lips curl into a devious grin as she types into her phone.
Willa comes in a moment later with the last of our supplies.
The hardest part of the plan was figuring out a way to get all three of the guys where we want them all at the same time.
They don’t travel in a pack quite as much as we do.
The three of us agonized over the options until finally, drunk one night at three in the morning, Nova came up with a revolutionary idea.
“Why don’t we just ask them?”
So simple.
So easy.
And it works. Because they’re idiots? Because they trust us?
Because they’ve been lulled into a false sense of complacency after so many days without retaliation?
Whatever it is, it works in our favor. Today is Nox and Nova’s birthday, and we laid the groundwork for a celebratory breakfast a few days ago.
When she texts them to meet us out by the front gate, which happens to be directly below my window, they do.
Now, if Nox hadn’t been blocking me out with such obvious vigor, it might not have been so easy to get the buckets ready on my windowsill. As it stands, they don’t see us coming. One second, they’re perfectly dry, joking about something while they rub their hands in the cold.
The next, they’re drenched.
Ten gallons of water land on their heads in a more perfect hit than anything the three of us ever dared to imagine.
The boys go stiff with the shock. We toss the buckets aside and lunge for the row of Super Soakers lined up across my bed.
By the time the guys think to look up, we’re already shooting out the window.
For the first time in almost a month, that piercing green gaze turns directly on me.
It’s like taking a hit of cocaine, or, well, what I imagine a hit of cocaine must feel like.
The high rushes through me, lighting me up from the inside out.
A cackle escapes my lips before I can stop it.
Drunk on the feeling, I keep pumping the water gun.
“We’re under attack!” Logan shouts.
“No shit,” Nox grumbles as he pulls his jacket over his head to protect his face.
Grant doesn’t waste time speaking. He’s already around the corner, his military upbringing on clear display as he rushes to find cover.
We keep shooting while Nox and Logan scramble, switching to Nova’s window for better access when they finally make a run for the door.
The second it closes behind them, we collapse into a fit of giggles on her bed.
“Best. Birthday. Ever.”
It’s not so funny when, two weeks after that, we walk into our rooms at one in the morning to find every single inch of our things covered in Saran Wrap.
And I mean covered. It takes Nova and me half an hour just to cut through the layers on our beds.
Willa doesn’t even try. She shows up at our door with her cochlear supplies, which were generously left unwrapped atop her mattress, and crawls into my bed.
Our entire Sunday is wasted cutting and stripping, and cutting and stripping.
I don’t think I will ever look at a box of plastic wrap again without shuddering.
By the time the last traces are finally cleared, we’ve come to an agreement.
This means war.
We come up with our next plot about a week later, then spend a week gathering supplies, and another week after that waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
Swiftmore Hockey wins the conference championship, and while the guys are out celebrating—yes, even Nox, finally—we sneak into their rooms. Nox is first because he’s the most likely to come home early.
I want to snoop so badly, but with Nova and Willa right there, I can’t do anything more than study his room.
The navy duvet is nothing new, nor the desk lined with books and trophies.
I can see both from my window. He’s got a poster of himself on his wall, because of course he does.
Smaller, beside it, there’s one of his father from decades back.
Surrounding those are some family photos, a few fan letters, some other papers I can’t quite decipher.
“Clara! Focus!” Nova orders, handing me a balloon.
We form an assembly line. Nova sprinkles in a little glitter, I handle the air pump, Willa ties.
Time fades as we fill one balloon after another after another, not stopping until the rainbow of balls rises so high it’s almost impossible to close his door.
Then we move on to Logan and Grant’s room.
We’re almost done when we hear a loud pop at the end of the hallway, followed by a very annoyed, “What the fuck?!”
All three of us double over. The balloon Willa is holding slips free and whizzes over our heads, dropping glitter as it flies, a little taste of what Nox is dealing with right now.
We absolutely lose it, especially as a chorus of popping and cursing traverses down the hall.
Suddenly, it’s quiet—too quiet. A sixth sense has me turning.
Nox storms down the hallway. Rainbow flecks stick to every inch of his skin, his clothes. He’s literally shimmering like an angry leprechaun as he stomps toward us.
“Go! Go! Go,” Nova half laughs, half shouts, pushing Willa and me toward the door.
“Are you kidding me with this?” he calls.
I can’t help myself. I turn around just before I slip outside, drinking in that pissed-off gleam in his eyes, the sparkle along his furrowed brow. “Payback’s a bitch!”
Glitter clings to their clothes for weeks.
Every time I catch a telltale flash, a grin rises unbidden to my lips.
It’s glorious.
Until we come home one night to find every single piece of clothing we own tied into one gigantic knot in the middle of our floor.
Every shirt. Every pant. Every undergarment.
Every shoe. Everything. I have to wear a sundress in April while a morning frost covers the grass because it’s all I manage to get free before my class the next day.
If I didn’t know it was those three guys already, their faces when I walk into the cafeteria at lunch, shivering from the chill, say it all.
I pointedly refuse to sit with them, but Nox finds me anyway.
He walks by on his way to the door and leans down. The feel of his breath skimming my neck leaves me hotter than any make-out Evan and I have shared in the past two months. Goose bumps pebble my skin. Every single nerve sizzles.
“Too bad you don’t have a sweatshirt,” he murmurs.
I turn abruptly, but he’s already walking on, leaving nothing but the sound of soft laughter in his wake.
Fuck! His sweatshirt!
But when I finally get all my clothes free a few days later, it’s there, buried in the center of the pile, taunting me. Surprisingly, the feeling that washes over me as I grip that soft cotton isn’t anger. It’s relief. I wear the sweatshirt to bed that night and tell Evan not to come over.
But it’s not a truce.
Far from it.
Nox still hasn’t opened his blinds. He hasn’t returned to the recreational pool either. While everyone else seems to be able to separate our ongoing prank war and our friendships, the animosity between him and me grows.
I don’t even really know why. It’s just like—can I go to the pool one time without him there swimming laps?
Does he really need to slurp on his drink so loudly when he gets to the bottom of the cup?
Could he just not be on the other side of my window when I’m trying to fall asleep at night?
And how the hell does he always look so good?
Like, seriously? Can he just get a pimple like the rest of us?
Have a bad hair day? Stop holding his head at the perfect angle to always catch the light? Is that really too much to ask?
Everything he does annoys me. And I know he feels the same. I can sense it in the way his gaze glides over me like a silent accusation every time we’re around each other, as if just the sight of me breathing is enough to send him over the edge.
As the weeks drag on, it’s obvious the others sense it, too.
“Okay, I’m calling a truce,” Logan announces in the cafeteria one day as finals season approaches.
We hid three dozen alarm clocks in their two rooms the week before, set to go off at varying hours of the day and night, and they still haven’t found all of them.
It’s clearly beginning to take a toll. “I can’t live like this anymore.
You won. You did. You and your devious little brains.
Someone please go in my room and remove the rest of the clocks before I lose it. ”
“I knew I’d break you.” Nova grins, then looks at the others. “You guys feel the same way?”
“Yes, please,” Grant groans. “Finally.”
Nox doesn’t say a word. Nova still concedes.
“Truce,” she announces.
“Yes, truce,” Willa immediately agrees. “I need to study. I can’t live a dual life anymore.”
Five sets of eyes turn on me. I find the piercing green ones and arch my brow. His nostrils flare. I set my jaw. A frown pulls at his lips. I cross my arms.
“Just say truce!” Logan interrupts our stalemate.
“Come on, guys,” Nova adds, unease pulling at her expression. It’s that, more than anything else, that moves me.
“Fine. Truce,” I mutter with a shrug.
“Truce,” Nox relents.
It’s not enough for the group. Their gazes still bounce between us, studying us as if we’re rabid and might attack at any moment.
They’re not entirely wrong.
“Maybe the two of you should find some common ground?” Willa offers diplomatically.
“Yes!” Logan jumps at the idea. “I have just the game. I’m going to say two things. Make a choice between them as fast as you can, okay? Breakfast or dinner, go.”
“Dinner,” I say immediately.
“Breakfast,” Nox answers.
We exchange a mutual glare.
“Okay…” Logan brushes it off his shoulders. “Cat or dog?”
“Dog.”
“Fish,” I interject.
Logan actually frowns at me. It might be the first time I’ve ever seen such a cross look on his face. “You’ve got to play by the rules.”
“Let me try,” Nova cuts in. “Cookie or cake?”
“Cake,” I reply.
“Cookie.”
“Up or down?” Grant asks.
“Down,” Nox says.
“Up.”
“Flight or invisibility?” Logan tries.
“Invisibility,” I answer, no doubt.
“Flight,” Nox supplies.
“Italy or Greece?” Willa questions.
“Italy,” we say at the same time.
“Aha!” Logan cheers. “That solves it. You two need to go to Italy together.”
I snort in the most unflattering way. It just pops out.
“Logan.” Nova sighs. “That is not a solution.”
“What?” he asks honestly. “Why not? Italy is an awesome place. Everyone gets along in Italy.”
Nova presses her fingers to her brow and the conversation thankfully moves on after that.
But I should have known it wasn’t over. When I caught the calculating spark in her eyes a few days later, I should have known what was coming.
When she texted me with an SOS from the dance studio an hour after my last final, I should have sensed the pieces falling into place.
I should have, but I didn’t.
Nope.
I don’t expect a goddamn thing until the moment I come running into the studio and see Nox already standing in the center of it with a confused expression on his face two seconds before the door slams closed.