My breath stills. I blink a few times like if I blink hard enough, she'll vanish from view, but she doesn't. She just stands there with her hand on her hip, ready to pounce.
I'm an idiot.
"Ever," she says, equally confused, "what are you doing here?"
Alarm bells ring as I wrack my brain, thinking of a lie that won't sound suspicious, but why else would I be here at ten o'clock at night if not for nefarious reasons?
Why would she?
"I was dropping by some notes for business management," I say. "My internet wasn't working, so I couldn't send them." I pause, and even though I don't want the answer, ask, "What are you doing here?"
She stares back at me with eyes so frosty that I want to look away, clearly not buying my excuse. She straightens, running a finger through her glossy red hair, and without inflection, says, "Noah needs a pick me up. He's been having a hard time with Coach on his back."
I nod as if I know all about Noah and his hard time, but the truth is, I don't know anything about Noah at all. "Well, have fun," I say and hurry to my Uber.
The whole ride home, I swallow the lump and convince myself nothing has changed. Noah and I are just friends, and who he chooses to sleep with is none of my business. The only thing I care about is making it through tryouts, and that's what I intend to do.
Anything else is a distraction.
***
The second my alarm goes, I reach across my nightstand and cancel it. My heart feels heavy, twisted with knots like I've just had a nightmare, even though I don't remember dreaming.
I pull up my duvet and stare at the ceiling, counting with the thumps of my heartbeat. I thought I was over the accident – I thought swimming again would erase what happened, but if anything, it's the opposite. The more I take to the water, the harder I remember.
When I grow tired of counting, I grab my phone and scroll through Instagram, determined not to think about Noah. It's supposed to be motivating – most of my feed is swimming-related – but really, it's a form of self-harm. I look at these pictures of all these strong swimmers and wish it were me.
It's one of many awful side-effects of ruining your life. I've never been a jealous person, nor someone who focuses on what others have, but I feel it spread through my veins like poison, threatening to consume me. It's not fair, I think. Why me? Peter had the same amount to drink, got in the pool like I did, so why did my dreams end while he came out unscathed? On what planet is that fair?
As if the higher powers are taunting me, a picture of Peter pops onto my feed. He's handsome as always, holding up a medal as his lips curve upward in a bright, charming grin. First place, the caption reads. Blessed.
I glance at the time he posted and see it was a minute ago. Of course he's awake at five am; swimmers always are. I hesitate, unsure of what compels me to do it, but I leave a comment saying Congrats.
A message immediately pops in my requests. My heart stutters – I'm half-tempted to delete it without looking at it; whatever it says can't be good. But despite my defiance, curiosity wins out. I click on the message, holding my breath as I skim to the end before backtracking again.
The first reads: Hey, Ev. How are you doing?
The second: I'm in town for a meet against the Calbears and remembered you go to Berkeley. Do you want to meet up? I've been meaning to talk to you.
I gnaw on my lip, my finger hovering over the delete button, but what would be the point? Peter attends Pacific, so if the Pacific Tigers swim against the Calbears at the Spieler, the likelihood of bumping into him is high. At least this way, it's on my terms.
I type back: Free this afternoon?
His reply comes immediately. Afternoon is good – let's say one? Know any good coffee shops?
Eyes closed, I feel the dread working up my throat, tightening my airways. The whole point of attending Berkeley was to get as far away from everyone back home as possible, but for reasons I can't possibly explain, my past keeps catching up with me.
Breathing out, I send him the name of the campus coffee shop and throw my phone aside. There's only one thing he could want to talk about: the accident.
I just don't know why.
When no good reasons come to mind, I climb out of bed and perform my land drills, needing a distraction. Tryouts are in less than a month, and all I can do is float around the pool like a toddler learning how to swim. I need results.
It's why, when I've brushed my teeth and grabbed breakfast, I head straight for Noah's. Not only will swimming take my mind off things, but a twice-a-day practice is the only way I'll be ready in time.
As soon as I pull up, I march through the lobby and into the elevator, hoping I don't bump into Noah on his way to practice, but the elevator shoots right past his floor to the rooftop.
My stomach churns. Natalia could be up there right now in his bed; her red hair fanned across this pillow. You don't care, you don't care, you don't care.
I don't care.
After dumping my things, I grab the flotation device and leave it by the side of the pool before descending the steps. I didn't think it was possible, but the pool in the early morning is even better than at night, shimmering in the light like glitter.
I grab the railing, shivering a little as I descend the steps. The more submerged I become, the more it feels like this weight lifts, and I'm no longer obsessing about Peter or Noah or tryouts.
I can breathe.
Slowly, as if living my best cliche moment, I tilt my head back, basking in the sun's warm glow. With a few more stretches under my belt, I swim back and forth in the shallow end, loosening my limbs with each stroke.
I move on to underwater work, taking a deep breath before diving under the surface. I stroke through the water, my arms and legs working in perfect harmony as I propel myself forward. I'm in my element here, the water my home, and I revel in the moment.
Determined, I launch into a powerful breaststroke, feeling the water rush past me as I surge forward. It's like I'm flying, weightless, free as a bird, leaving behind all the drama. Under here, there's no Noah. No Peter. No accident –I'm safe.
It's not long before the deep-end calls. I turn until I'm facing the opposite end, my stomach knotting immediately. With a few even strokes, I reach the middle of the pool before turning and heading to the shallow end.
My arms move in a smooth, fluid motion, my body undulating in a rhythmic dance. I push harder, feeling the burn and a flicker of triumph. It might not be much, but halfway to the deep end is more progress than I've made in a year – I'm proud of that.
I keep going, my strokes steady as I swim back and forth. The world outside the rooftop pool fades away, and all that's left is the sound of my breathing as I push myself forward. I turn my head to the side to take a breath and catch a glimpse of the sun peeking through the clouds. The light refracts through the water, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the bottom of the pool. If I could stay here forever, I would.
When I'm ready for the deep end, I slip on Noah's device and wade to new depths, bobbing along like an apple in water. As a once-champion, all-star swimmer headed for the Olympics, I feel stupid, but it's also the freest I've felt in a long time, so I take it.
By the time I reach for a towel, I've never felt more relaxed. I sit on one of the sun loungers, basking in the rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds. The impatient side of me – inherited from my mother – wants to jump back in the pool, flotation device be damned, and head for the deep end, but I'm not quite there yet, and besides, I'd promised Noah. As much as I shouldn't care what he thinks, I don't intend to break it.
My stomach churns, and everything I've been swimming from for the past hour comes rushing to the surface. I pull out my phone, reading Peter's message for the millionth time and wondering if it's too late to cancel.
There's already a message from him waiting in my inbox. I hold my breath, clicking his name and wishing I hadn't.
Excited to see you.
A/N
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