I let him kiss me because there’s never a time I’ve stopped wanting him to, no matter how much I wish I could purge that desire from my heart. I kiss him back because kissing him is the closest thing I know to happiness.

  Neither of us speak when he grasps my hips. Like we’re both afraid to breathe too loudly and let this brief illusion evaporate and realize we’re both still us and nothing’s changed. I comb my fingers through his hair that’s gotten a little longer since the last time I did this. It’s still soft as I remember.

  His hands find bare skin under my shirt. His shirt. Which feels like a blanket, and I’ll probably take it home, where I’ll throw it over a chair tomorrow and tell myself I’ll wash and return it. But it’ll just lie there for weeks while I close my eyes and remember the way he tastes on my tongue or how smooth his fingertips are when they skim my spine.

  I swallow hard and bite my lip when he slides his hand under that shirt to grasp my breast. My knee falls to the side. The wall holds me up as he steps between my legs. I arch into his palm, and my tongue against his begs him to make me feel everything I’m too scared to admit I want.

  Because he is everything I should run from.

  “You’re beautiful.” Finally, he speaks. A reverent whisper.

  Fenn pushes the shirt up my chest. He kisses the slight valley between my breasts before traveling a path to one nipple. He licks softly while I resist the shudder weakening through my limbs.

  When he reaches between my thighs and his mouth meets mine again, I can only think of the times he was afraid to touch me. Afraid of moving too quickly. But we aren’t those people anymore, kissing on a picnic blanket in the forest. He’s a beautiful stranger and I’m the girl he left behind. A dream so fleeting, it practically never happened at all.

  “I want to make you feel good,” he says, breathing hard against my lips. “Will you let me?”

  I should say no.

  “Yes.”

  With a visible gulp, Fenn tentatively slips his hand inside my sweatpants. Applying pressure to the spot that banishes every small whisper warning me that when this fantasy wears off, we’ll both go back to being ourselves and nothing fundamentally broken will have been repaired.

  I grip his shoulders to hold myself upright, burying my face in his neck. Every short, shallow breath fills me with his scent while he massages me toward pure sensation. No thoughts but his skin. His heartbeat against my chest. His fingers teasing my clit.

  Then his fingers are gone, and I’m ashamed of the desperate moan that’s ripped from my throat.

  “Don’t worry. Not stopping,” he says roughly, then walks me toward his bed. “Lie down.”

  I’m shaking like a leaf in the wind as I lower myself onto the mattress. Fenn peels my sweatpants off and tosses them away. A groan escapes his lips when his gaze focuses on my bare pussy.

  “Fuck,” he whispers and reaches out to rub his knuckles along my slit.

  Pleasure shoots through me. I can’t take my gaze off his face. The way his teeth are digging into his bottom lip. The way he sucks in a breath when he feels how wet I am.

  “Has anyone ever made you come before?” The question is hoarse. Strangled.

  “No,” I say honestly.

  I feel his fingers tremble against my heated flesh.

  “Anyone ever gone down on you?”

  “No.”

  So fucking pure.

  I suddenly hear Lawson’s mocking voice in my head, and for some reason it evokes a twinge of resentment. I’m not pure. Or at least, I don’t want to be. I’m tired of being the fragile piece of china everyone is so afraid to break that they resist from touching altogether. Fenn resisted doing this for months, and the reminder emboldens me.

  I spread my legs wider.

  His choked expletive echoes in the room.

  “Do something,” I say.

  An impish gleam lights his eyes, invoking memories of the Fenn I fell for. The guy who was always armed with a quip and a smile. The sight makes me soften, breathe easier, and I know he notices because his features soften too.

  Then he licks his lips and brings them between my legs.

  I jolt when he makes contact, gasping with pleasure. Oh my God. This is…

  This is…

  My brain short-circuits. I’m incapable of forming thoughts. I lose myself in the heat of his mouth against my aching core. My eyelids flutter closed and breathing becomes labored. I start rocking my hips, and Fenn moans, the sound vibrating like a cascade of notes across my body.

  There’s nothing tentative about his movements. My nails bite into his shoulders as he explores me with his mouth. Licking. Tasting. When he sucks gently on my clit, another shudder overtakes me. This time I give in to it, shaking on the bed while Fenn brings me closer and closer to the edge.

  “That’s it, Case,” he whispers before slicking his tongue over my clit. Teasing. “Let yourself go.”

  So I do, welcoming the sweet oblivion of orgasm. The electricity firing across every nerve ending as pure bliss consumes my entire body.

  But the peace is temporary. It begins to be subside even before he’s placed a last delicate kiss to my sated flesh. Reality creeps in, forever determined to remind me there’s no silence too permanent to make me forget what Fenn did.

  When my eyes open, I push him away and scramble to sit up.

  His brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

  I swallow a few times. “That shouldn’t have happened. I have to go.”

  Without looking at him, I find my underwear and his sweatpants, slipping them both on.

  “You can’t leave,” he insists, but his voice is thick with unhappiness because he knows I’m already gone.

  “I’ll be fine.” Eventually.

  “At least let me drive you.”

  “I’ll walk. It’s not far,” I remind him when he tries to object.

  “You don’t have shoes.”

  Shit. He’s right. And there’s no way I can fit into any of his and trudge ten minutes through the woods.

  He gets to his feet, raking both hands through his hair. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

  Since I don’t have much of a choice, I allow him to drop me off, sliding out of the car five minutes later with a muttered, “Thanks.” My guard is back up, and not even the memory of how good he just made me feel can penetrate the shield around my heart.

  “Good night,” he says gruffly.

  I close the door and hurry up the front path. Then stop in a comical skid when I realize I have no way to explain my appearance to Dad. I left the house in yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Spent the evening in a tight top and jeans. And returned home in a guy’s shirt and sweatpants.

  Fuck.

  I start to panic, until I remember I told Dad I was spending the night at Jazmine’s. That means he’s already in bed. Probably took a sleeping pill too, which he’s been prone to do lately. As long as the dogs don’t go berserk, I should be able to creep in and upstairs without notice.

  Luck is on my side. It’s nearly two a.m. and both dogs are passed out cold. Bo cranks one eye open when I tiptoe past him. After he confirms it’s me, he goes back to sleep. From her dog bed in the living room, Penny is snoring obliviously.

  At the top of the stairs, I almost slam into RJ, both of us hissing in surprise.

  We’re like two burglars trying to rob the same house, only he got here first and is already escaping with the loot. I take in his rumpled hair and inside-out shirt, then lower my gaze to his fly, which is unzipped. Classy. I hope Sloane wasn’t too busy banging her boyfriend that she forgot to feed my rabbit. When I texted her from the party earlier, pretending to be at Jaz’s dorm, she promised she’d take care of Silver.

  Rolling my eyes, I point to RJ’s crotch.

  He looks down, then shrugs. Completely unruffled as he zips up. Then he gives me a wry smile, white teeth shining in the darkness, as he gestures at my outfit, instantly recognizing Fenn’s clothes.

  I offer a shrug of my own.

  Sighing, RJ shakes his head and descends the first step. He pauses to glance over his shoulder. “Night,” he mouths.

  “Night,” I mouth back, then slide into my bedroom and close the door behind me.

  Chapter 32

  Silas

  This beef with Sloane has gone on long enough. We’ve both been more than stubborn since our argument, but it appears her will is holding out longer than mine. Fine, then. I’ll be the bigger person and make the first move toward reconciliation. I miss talking to her. I miss her sarcastic remarks and throaty laughter. If she needs an apology, I can make that sacrifice of pride. Because whatever she says in fits of anger, our friendship is ultimately more important than whatever rhetorical point either of us tried to make.

  And honestly, without Amy in the picture constantly questioning our friendship, it’ll be much easier to get back to normal.

  Wednesday afternoon before swim practice, I toss my bag down on the bench in the locker room and pull out my phone.

  Me: You win. I humbly apologize and throw myself at your mercy.

  Me: Forgive me.

  Me: Let’s meet up and talk?

  Sloane doesn’t reply right away. Probably driving home from school. But I know we’ll be able to put this behind us once we have a real conversation.

  With only a few minutes before Coach wants us warming up in the pool, I throw my phone back in my bag and get changed. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about locker assignments. RJ struts in with Lawson to the locker two down from mine.

  It’s become nearly intolerable sharing oxygen with him. The way RJ’s practically claimed ownership over Sloane and the entirety of her social life makes me goddamn homicidal. Lately my best tack is simply avoiding eye contact so I don’t get sucked into another self-righteous lecture about boundaries and loyalty from a guy who’s been lying about who and what he is since the moment he got here. In a few short months, he’s managed to turn everyone but Lawson against me. The fact that Sloane and Fenn can’t see how he’s manipulated them is beyond frustrating.

  As I’m fitting my cap on, I can’t help noticing RJ with his phone out. His thumbs tap across the screen seconds before my own phone buzzes on top of my bag.

  Sloane: I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

  “Did you do this?” I growl at RJ.

  He has the nerve to stare at me blankly. “Huh?”

  “Don’t fuck with me. Sloane. Just now.”

  He glances at Lawson for clarification, but my best friend merely shrugs. Swim goggles dangling from one hand, RJ gives me an irritated look. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re babbling about.”

  “Then show me your phone.”

  He snorts. “Fuck off.”

  “If you did nothing wrong, then there’s nothing to hide,” I shoot back. “I saw you texting Sloane right before she refused to meet up with me. You told her to. Just admit it.”

  RJ stares at me. “I can’t tell Sloane shit. And if you understood her at all, you’d get that.”

  Disbelief slams into me like a freight train. “Don’t act like you know her better than I do, all right? I was in her life way before you got here.”

  “Come on, girls,” Lawson mockingly interjects. “You’re both pretty. Let’s take it down a notch.”

  RJ and I are all but toe-to-toe on either side of the bench. Part of me wishes he’d throw a punch, so I could finally get him kicked off this team. Maybe kicked out of Sandover altogether.

  “And it must burn you up,” RJ tells me. Goading.

  “What’s that?”

  “Finally knowing that all this time it wasn’t Duke or her dad that kept Sloane from being with you. She’s just not into you.”

  My hands tingle with the urge to break his face. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Okay then.” Lawson once again attempts to defuse the situation. “Why don’t we table this discussion for never?”

  “And now,” RJ continues, flashing a cheerless smile, “she doesn’t rate you at all. How does it feel to be demoted from the friend zone?”

  I shove him. Two hands to the chest. He comes back at me just as quickly, about to jump the bench, fists clenched, before Lawson throws himself between us and holds him back.

  “Come on, man,” RJ taunts. “You’ve been begging for this fight. I’m right here, asshole.”

  “Nice temper. You argue with Sloane like that too?”

  “Watch your fucking mouth.”

  RJ makes a fool of himself having to be dragged away by Lawson in front of the entire team. I figured that’d be the end of it, but no such luck. RJ’s need to be the chest-slamming gorilla in the room doesn’t stop when we get in the pool.

  After an initial warm-up, Coach Gibson blows his whistle and has us line up behind the starting platforms.

  “Mason, Clark, RJ, Silas. On the blocks.”

  RJ intentionally puts himself in the lane next to mine. He proceeds to do that annoying compulsive habit where he slaps his thighs like he thinks he’s Michael Fucking Phelps.

  “Hey, remind me,” he says over his shoulder, getting into a starting position. “What’s Silas’s record in the 400 free?”

  “Uh…” Lawson eyes me cautiously. “Like a minute thirty-three?”

  “Hey, Coach,” RJ calls. He slides his goggles down over his eyes. “Get out your stopwatch.”

  “This isn’t a race, Shaw,” Coach barks back. “I want to see form. I want to see follow-through. Clean lines, smart breathing.”

  “You’re dreaming,” I tell RJ, staring straight ahead at the flat water and seeing only the lane ahead of me. “That record’s getting me into Stanford.”

  “Then you better hope they’re desperate for alternates.”

  When Coach’s whistle blows, we’re both off the blocks like our feet are on fire. I hit the water in a straight line. Every muscle is pulled into focus on a clean entrance and getting as much distance as possible powering through my dolphin kicks.

  RJ is right beside me. Almost stroke for stroke when we breach the surface. We hit the wall for the first turn dead even and well ahead of the outside lanes.

  The problem, though, with swimming a dead heat with the lane beside you is all the chop they churn up. White water is the enemy of speed. Ideally, you want to be the lone leader with nothing but clean water ahead of you. RJ apparently doesn’t know this and thinks he can draft an advantage by hugging our lane line. I try squeezing every ounce of speed I can out of my kicks, grabbing the water with both hands and propelling my body as far as I can. Still, I can’t seem to find an inch of distance between us.

  After the second turn, I come up to a face full of water. I know he’s intentionally splashing into my lane. Timing my breaths. Dirty fuck. But if he wants to cheat, he’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder than that.

  Turnabout is fair play, so I start hugging the lane line as well. I make a point of smacking it with my hand or kicking it with a foot to force a wobble that veers into his lane and obstructs his strokes. In a competition, this would obviously be illegal. Here, all’s fair in love and war, right?

  But I must get under his skin, because on the third turn he takes an extra dolphin kick past the resurface marker. A blatantly desperate move that proves he can’t beat me in a fair fight. So I show him there’s no honor among thieves. When I see him approaching the surface, I throw a leg out that connects square against his jaw. The result gives me almost a full hand of distance advantage. Then it’s a dead sprint to the finish.

  I can already feel the wall against my fingertips as I push with everything I have left. I don’t even take breaths. I just keep my face in the water and kick as hard as I can.

  Until I feel a sudden shove against my shoulder.

  It’s enough to throw me off my stroke, and I watch RJ’s hands slam into the wall before mine.

  “That was bullshit.” Ripping my goggles and cap off, I jump over the lane line.

  He gets right in my face, cheeks flushed and eyes blazing. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish.”

  Coach’s whistle screams through the building. “Everyone out of the water. Now!”

  We all haul ourselves out and stand behind the blocks. I notice Lawson watching me with a frown and resist the urge to give him the finger. Since when does Lawson disapprove of shit like this? He lives and breathes chaos.

  “You two,” Coach booms, pointing at RJ and me. “Push-ups. Go.”

  “Are you serious?” I charge over to Coach, incredulous. How is it not obvious RJ is the problem? “He was messing with me the whole time. I was defending myself.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I managed to kick myself in the face, right?” RJ throws himself in front of me like he’s ready for another round.

  “Learn to stay in your own lane.”

  Coach’s whistle again screeches us to silence.

  “Both of you shut the hell up,” he barks. “I’m sick of your bickering.”

  “Coach, come on.” I can’t believe he’s letting RJ off the hook on this.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you two lately but keep it out of my pool.” Then he shakes his head at me. “I expected better from you, Silas. Push-ups. Get on it.”

  “This is bullshit,” I snap.

  Fuck push-ups, and fuck RJ. I’m not taking the heat for a fight he started.

  Coach shouts after me, but I ignore him as I head into the locker room.

  Chapter 33

  Casey

  It starts in my toes. A stinging chill that quickly claws up my legs. The fabric of my prom dress balloons around me as the car fills with black water and the dashboard lights flicker. The rearview mirror glows red, and I struggle against the strangling seat belt. Even before the rushing water reaches my lips, my chest is tight. I can’t suck in a breath. Panic clenches my throat. Even my fingers are terrified as they flail helplessly to free me.