COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 16 | Codependent Enemies

"I was only staring at you because you were ignoring me and we have a competition to win," I say.

Eris steps closer to me, finally wiping her eyeliner away, but it only leaves smudges everywhere. "It's more than that."

"Maybe we're obsessed with each other, then."

"Aren't you sick of it? Of always thinking about me? Always trying to one-up me? Because I am."

"Yes," I say, though I'm not. I'm not sick of it at all.

"What do we do about it?"

I lower myself into the water as much as possible, only leaving my head exposed, the tips of my braids floating around me. My wash day wasn't even today, and now I'll have to move it up to get the chlorine out of my hair.

"I'll be in Canada after graduation," I say. "And you won't have to hear about me until I'm famous."

"Right," she mutters, wiping at her eyes again. "You're off to Canada. Damn. I didn't even think about that until now."

"Don't sound so disappointed."

"I know I'm always getting on your ass, but I don't know what I'll do without you, Ef. I'm serious. Even if you're a pinche snitch."

My chest tightens in a completely unfamiliar way. It's not anxiety or the marijuana. I run through the register of all the things I've ever felt, everything I've carefully dissected in my diaries, and none of them match this.

"I..." I stammer. I want to voice the first witty comeback that pops into my mind—that's kind of sad to say about someone who's not remotely close to being your friend—but I wrap my arms around myself, and all that comes out is, "Really?"

"I'll lose my mind without you," she says.

"You make me lose my mind every day," I say.

But what would I do without her? Where would I direct my latent anger, my bottomless pit of teenage angst? Who would motivate me to reach perfection, humbling me when I fall short?

"You're the reason I even care about art," she continues. "I don't just paint because Iker makes me, because I'm naturally good at it, because he put a brush in my hand before I could even crawl. I've been doing forgeries forever, but I never gave a shit about my own art until you came around. The goal turned into beating you no matter what."

It's not meant to be funny, but I laugh. The chlorine stench wafting around me reminds me of childhood swimming lessons in Ottawa, my favorite oversized pink parka I put on every time before stepping outside.

"And fuck, I don't know," Eris rambles on. "With you, it's not even just about art. Like yeah, it's a nice distraction from all the real shit going on, but... I don't know. Forget it. I'm high as fuck."

Her eyes aren't even red. But I nod, my breathing going shallow.

She steps toward me. I force myself to go motionless like a statue. I don't expect her to get right up in my space, tracing the dark scar on my collar.

"From the car crash, I'm guessing?" she asks.

I nod again. Why, why did the broken glass have to puncture me there—right where she, years later, can feel my absurdly beating heart?

What am I doing? Why am I here? Why her? Out of all people, why her?

It's as if she counted the seconds my hand was on her thigh earlier and is touching me for the exact same amount, down to the second, drawing it out like payback.