Never Ever

14| Hello to my past

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.