Fearless Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  We end up lying closer. Pressed up side-by-side. Feels better now. Not complete. But better.

  “Get some sleep, Banks,” he tells me like an order. I want to say the same thing to him. I almost think I do, but I can’t be certain before sleep grabs me and doesn’t let go.

  23

  SULLIVAN MEADOWS

  Fucking zilch. Nada. Nothing.

  That’s what security and a professional surveillance team found at the penthouse after two full days of sweeping for bugs.

  I trust my roommates. I trust security and my fucking family. No one that I love would create a gossip website and leak our private lives.

  It makes no sense to me.

  We have less strangers coming in and out of the penthouse than Beckett has in his Hell’s Kitchen apartment. From cleaning services, to a private chef, to the boozy ragers Tom and Eliot have thrown—they should be the ones with their secrets blasted online.

  Not that I’d wish that on them!

  God, I just hate that being so cautious still leads us here. The universe is a pigeon taking a giant, steaming shit on our heads, and no matter if I’m holding an umbrella or wearing a hat, I still have to deal with the pigeon crap.

  Akara showed me the list of “suspects” that have entered and exited the penthouse recently, and he circled the high-threat ones.

  Delivery men dropping off a piano.

  Delivery men dropping off baby clothes. (For Jane, another gift from our grandmother, even though Jane never said anything about trying to have a baby to her.)

  Cat sitters that Jane interviewed.

  Grandmother Calloway.

  Personally, Grandmother Calloway is at the very top of my You Stink Like Dirty Old Socks & Suspicion list. But she’s professed innocence to SFO, my uncles, aunts, and parents. The surveillance team tore apart the baby grand piano.

  No bugs.

  They even rummaged through the expensive onesies and bibs she bought Jane.

  Again, no bugs.

  If our penthouse isn’t wire-tapped with microphones and secret recorders, then someone in the inner-circle is blabbing to an untrustworthy fucking mole. Like how Audrey Cobalt sent the Hot Santa Underwear Contest video to a friend, who leaked the clip of SFO strutting around in next-to-nothing.

  But Jane and Moffy are so careful—it’s hard to imagine they’d tell the wrong person about Jane’s egg retrieval.

  And then two new leaks dropped on the website today.

  THE ROYAL LEAKS

  We reveal all the truths about the American Royals. These are verified and come directly from the source.

  ROYAL LEAK #1: Sullivan Meadows is trying to be vegan for her sister.

  ROYAL LEAK #2: Thatcher Moretti had an older brother named Skylar who died at 15.

  #TodaysLeaks #sisterbonds #brotherbonds #DeathInTheFam

  I’m not that impressed the mole thinks my being vegan is some sort of “salacious” leak. What I find more in-fucking-furating is the fact they announced Skylar’s death like some super juicy secret.

  Skylar Moretti was a real person with people who loved him and still hold love for him. He shouldn’t pop up on The Royal Leaks.

  SFO is concerned how Thatcher’s now a name on the gossip site without Jane attached. If he’s considered royalty by marriage, then Farrow is too. Fair game to be exposed to the world.

  It’s another checkmark in the Reasons Not to Date a Hale, Cobalt, or Meadows category. I worry about my relationship leaking even more. Everyone is fretting about how I’d handle the media pressure, but my boyfriends grew up totally out of the spotlight.

  I don’t want the loss of privacy or Negative fucking Nancies to take a toll on their mental health either. But fear of the danger ahead isn’t depriving me of the greatest love I’ve ever experienced.

  Fuck fear.

  Fuck the media.

  Fuck the dirty mole.

  My stopwatch goes off, jolting me from my thoughts.

  I see the time and Garrett Winthrope still swimming the backstroke in his lane. His flutter kick has improved since day one, but his body roll from side to side has major issues. His head should be steady and still, and right now, he looks like a bobblehead dunked in water. On a clipboard, I jot a note next to his name.

  Needs to isolate head while shoulders and hips rotate – backstroke sucks.

  He’s definitely not in contention to qualify for the Olympic team.

  Being fucking frank, only two people here are good enough to make it. Frankie Hansen taps the edge of the pool and pulls off her goggles. A Warwick swim cap hides her platinum blonde hair. “How’d I do?” she asks Coach Reed, who’s keeping track of her times.

  “Four seconds faster than your last lap. Good work.”

  She frowns, water dripping down her fair, white skin. “Yeah, but how far from the record?”

  He winces. “Still fifteen seconds behind.”

  She blows out a frustrated breath. Know that feeling. Her eyes flit to me, catching me staring.

  “Oh hey, you’ll get there,” I encourage. That’s what coaches do after all, right?

  She smiles a little. “Really? You wouldn’t mind me beating your record?”

  My stomach flip-flops. Yes, I would very much fucking mind all my hard work being destroyed in just a few years. Those words stay at the back of my head. I’m a coach now. Encouragement over pride. That’s what my dad told me when we chatted at the cottage.

  The two days I spent there, we actually had good talks…about swimming.

  Yeah, I was a fucking coward and we avoided all conversation about Banks and Akara. I just really wanted him to know that I was doing well on my own. Boosting up my independence felt more important. Like a steppingstone into him being cool with my boyfriends.

  “If you can beat my record, you’ll qualify without a doubt,” I tell Frankie, skirting around her question. “So it’s a good goal to fucking shoot for.”

  She smiles wider. “Thanks, Coach Meadows.” She hops out of the pool to take a start again on the block.

  I suck in air tightly through my nose. Why does it feel like baby rhinos are kicking me in the gut? My eyes graze the blue water, the lanes, and empty stands. Chlorine floods my senses in such comfort and familiarity. I remember Disney’s The Thirteenth Year and the weekend Moffy and I watched the swim movie five whole times.

  While Luna couldn’t wait to turn eleven to be sorted in a Harry Potter house, I couldn’t wait to be thirteen and see if I’d grow gills and a fin.

  Taking in Warwick’s aquatic center for another moment, I imagine people filling the stands, chatter echoing off the glass dome, the sound of “take your mark” and the beep, the cheering and splashing, and I almost feel like I’m back home.

  The pool tries to beckon me closer like I’m starved for an unquenched feeling. Being so close to the water and not swimming is harder than I expected.

  I’m stuck here. On the sidelines with a clipboard in hand.

  Also, the wild animals kicking my gut keep on kicking. Literal pain cramps my lower abdomen, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Please don’t be menstrual cramps.

  Please don’t be cramps.

  After seeing a new gynecologist, the doctor prescribed me a new brand of birth control, and I’m banking on this being the magic fucking pill.

  I blow out a measured breath and try to ignore my contracting muscles.

  Where I stand, another swimmer pops up from their lane. I click my second stopwatch, and my eyes bug at the time. Holy fuck.

  “You’re fast,” I tell the twenty-one-year-old. Ravi Chawla climbs out of the pool, water beading down his reddish-brown skin and lean abs. He pulls off his goggles to try and read my stopwatch, but water gets in his eyes. He rubs at them.

  “Yeah, but how fast?” Ravi asks. “Like Kingly fast or qualifying fast?”

  I snort. “Qualifying fast. No one is faster than Kingly.”

  He lets out a heavy breath. “Come on, someone has to knock him off his throne.”
/>
  “You think it’s going to be you?” I size-up Ravi. He’s tall with a good-sized wingspan for swimming, but he lacks Kingly’s size 15 flipper-like feet.

  “Yeah, it’s going to be me, Coach Meadows. Watch it happen.” He stomps towards the starting block. Coach Reed watches him and then rotates to me.

  Shit.

  Ugh, I might have fucked that one up.

  I back up a little and bump into Akara. “Sorry, Kits.” I tap the clipboard to his arm.

  He smiles, and I notice Banks right next to him, a shadow of a smile playing at his lips. I start to smile back, but cramps come knocking full-force.

  “Banks,” I whisper into a slight wince.

  He rests a hand against my shoulder blades. “You feel alright?”

  Akara studies the way I cradle an arm around my lower abs. “You have cramps?”

  “Yeah,” I say tightly in pain and try not to draw attention from the swimmers or Coach Reed. “Banks, do you have any pain meds on you?”

  He digs in his pocket and hands me a bottle of travel-sized Advil. Their concern bears down on me, and I wish I could draw into them. I wish I could hold on to Akara’s arm and sink into Banks’ chest. Imagining that physical comfort is good enough for now.

  Akara goes and grabs my water bottle.

  Banks keeps that comforting hand on my upper-back. “You need to go home early?”

  I shake my head, watching Akara hurry back as I say, “I might be too unfiltered to be the best at coaching, but I can’t bail on my job. It’ll give the locker room a reason to call me a princess.”

  “They call you a princess, just tell them you’re the fucking Icebox. No one messes with you.” He almost, almost affectionately draws me in, his hand nestled in my hair for a blip before he lets go.

  My heart soars. Becky the Icebox. Our Little Giants talk in Yellowstone Country comes crashing back into me.

  “What’s the Icebox?” Akara asks, handing me the water.

  Banks makes a confused face at me. “You never watched Little Giants with Akara?”

  I go red and throw back the pills with a big gulp of water.

  “What’s that look for, Sul?” Akara asks, scrutinizing me with his playful smile. “I know you couldn’t have been embarrassed to watch a kids movie with me.” He tells Banks, “She made me watch The Little Mermaid a hundred times until I said mermaids are real.”

  “It wasn’t a hundred fucking times,” I refute, trying to keep my voice down. “It was eight times, and you mumbled the words.” I shove the water back in his chest.

  Hard.

  He grunts.

  I grin.

  He shakes his head, smiling. “Tell me. If you like this Little Giants movie, why not let me watch it with you? I’ve seen all of your favorites.”

  I shrug tensely. “Maybe I was afraid.”

  His smile begins to fade. His eyes flit up and down me. “Afraid of what?”

  I never intended to tell Akara this, but maybe I should. “That you’d love the part where Becky the Icebox drops her football gear and becomes a cheerleader. That you’d want the cheerleader,” I say hushed, “and I guess I never wanted to know the answer…because then it felt like you would never be attracted to me.”

  He looks confused, shocked, and he glances cautiously to the swimmers in sight, then whispers, “Sulli, you’re hot.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I know you think that now, but back then, if we watched Little Giants together, who would you have picked? The football player or the cheerleader?”

  His gaze cuts along the pool.

  I go cold. “Yeah.” This is why I never fucking wanted to know. I’m about to leave, go back to work, but Akara catches my wrist.

  “Sulli—”

  “It’s fine, Kits. You can like girly girls. I’m not trying to bash them or anything.” They’re just not me.

  “Back then, I would’ve chosen the cheerleader,” he admits, “but not because I would’ve liked her more.”

  I frown, not understanding.

  He explains, “If this Icebox chick even remotely reminded me of you, I wouldn’t have picked her in front of you. I wouldn’t have wanted to tempt anything there, between you and me.”

  He wanted us to just be friends.

  He liked it that way.

  Our friendship meant too much to Akara to put it in jeopardy, but I can see now that he’s glad we rocked the fucking boat.

  I look between Akara and Banks, smiling. And fuck, I need to stop chitchatting with my boyfriends while I’m working.

  Swimmers really will start calling me a princess for paying more attention to my bodyguards than to them.

  Luckily, no one has tried to haze me after the Sasquatch plushies. A hazing that I was not a witness to. Banks and Akara must’ve really intimidated them.

  “I have to get back,” I tell them, waving the clipboard.

  I love having Banks on my permanent detail, and I cherish the times where Akara joins him. Having both guys on my duty at the same time doesn’t happen as often as I’d hope (I’d want all the time—I’m fucking greedy), but Akara has attended every swim practice so far.

  I think he has flashbacks from my Olympic training days, and he doesn’t want to miss this.

  “If you feel any worse, let us know,” Akara says.

  “Aye aye.” I fist-bump him, then bump Banks’ knuckles. Right when I turn towards the lanes, Coach Reed approaches.

  Oh fuck.

  I’m usually 100% concentrated.

  Knowing my focus slipped at work is embarrassing. My face is hot, and I flip fast through my pages of notes for the swimmers.

  “Sullivan,” he says.

  “Sulli,” I correct like I have since Day 1. “Do you need my critiques?”

  “Later, I’d love to look over them with you.”

  “Great.” I let the pages fall flat on the board.

  “That was amazing work with Ravi.” He jabs a thumb towards the lean-cut swimmer who dives off the block.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I haven’t seen him that motivated in months.” He hugs a binder of his own. “We should talk about strategies for Ravi and Frankie. I know you have experience when it comes to qualifying, and since the Olympic Team Trials are in June, we’ll need a rigorous training schedule to make sure they both make the team.”

  “Agreed.” I can do this. Maybe my goal isn’t to land on the team, but helping someone else make the cut has to be equally rewarding.

  Coach Reed smiles, absentmindedly touching his black gauges. “How about Michelangelo’s Pizza at nine?”

  “Works for me.”

  “See you tonight, Sullivan.” He leaves for the office just as practice ends.

  I’m in charge of giving out more pep talks (shitty ones) and then I hand out a workout plan for each swimmer, modified personally by me to focus in on their weaknesses. Pain meds kick in, my cramps milder and easier to push aside.

  “Do these at home before the next practice,” I tell the team.

  Ravi reads over his sheet. “Seriously? Flutter kicks?”

  “It’ll help your core and boost your endurance, which you’re lacking.”

  “My endurance is better than everyone’s here,” he refutes. “I’m not lacking anything.”

  He’s being a cocky a-hole, but I get his complaints. He’s the hardest working male swimmer at Warwick. Stays late, comes in early. But if he wants to be the fucking best, he has to realize he’s not the best. There is always someone behind him, chasing after his records.

  I try not to glance at Frankie, who’s chasing after mine.

  “Your endurance isn’t better than your competitors outside of Warwick,” I tell Ravi. “You want to swim the 1500 meter freestyle? You can’t gas out after five-minutes, which you did today.”

  He studies the sheet more.

  “Any other complaints?’

  He mumbles, “No.”

  Frankie smiles brightly. “Looks great, Coach
Meadows!” She practically hop-skips to the locker room. That’s unsettling.

  The team departs, and Akara and Banks follow as I grab my gym bag off the stands. I’ve already asked my boyfriends not to carry my bag for me.

  Not because of secrecy or anything. Bodyguards often do carry shit, but at work, I want to stay professional and as normal as possible.

  Most people don’t have bodyguards at their beck and call. And I want to be treated like a coach and not like the famous Olympian.

  I sling the strap over my shoulder and spin to them. “Is it weird I relate to Ravi more than Frankie?”

  “No, because you are more like Ravi,” Akara says while we all walk to the exit. “Motivated by tough love.”

  “I wish I could understand her though. She’s going to be on the same women’s Olympic swim team that I was on…if she makes it.” I shake my head. “She will make it. Of course she will.” Why does that toss my stomach? I’m her coach…a horrible coach.

  A jealous coach?

  Akara pushes open the doors.

  Unlike my cousins, no hordes of paparazzi wait outside of my workplace to pounce on me. There’s just Earl from a sports blog. He frequently shows up to catch me leaving.

  “Hey, Sulli! How was practice?” he calls out, notepad in hand.

  Akara and Banks both sidestep and block him from approaching too close.

  “Pretty good,” I reply, walking a short distance across campus to the nearest parking lot. “Top secret though.”

  “One of these days I’ll get that interview!” Earl yells because he doesn’t ever follow me to my Jeep. He stays a respectable distance.

  I don’t know…I kinda like Earl.

  I smile as I climb into the backseat of Booger. Only when the doors shut—Banks behind the wheel and Akara in the passenger seat—do I sense a long, drawn-out silence.

  Weird, awkward silence that has no origin.

  Does it have an origin?

  Did I miss something?