It’s from Marcel: You’re welcome.
I wait for more, cringing in anticipation, but it doesn’t come. No flirting, no suggestion to watch the sunrise together, or any other thinly veiled booty call invite.
I text back: Why are you awake?
His response is fast: I’m a vampire. Why are you awake?
Me: Just because.
Him: Ask me what I’m wearing.
Me: No.
Him: Ask me.
Me: Absolutely not.
Him: Do you swim?
Swim. The sound of the word makes me weightless, sends my brain into a free float, and for a second my body feels the pulse of the ocean. I’m swaying against the pull and push. My arms want to slice through waves. I want to fly.
Me: I don’t have a suit.
Him: No worries.
I sigh. The booty call was not even thinly veiled.
Me: I don’t skinny-dip with strangers.
Him: Ouch. I’m a stranger? Borrow a suit.
Me: Where are you?
Him: My place.
It takes me a moment to realize that he doesn’t mean Lucien’s apartment, but his parents’ house. Of course. Lucien said that Marcel would be going back home once his parents returned, and why would Marcel ever go back to that apartment now?
Me: You have a pool?
Him: Yeah. I’ll pick you up in an hour.
When Estelle arrives minutes later, I’m ready to go. She mutters at me in French as I slip my phone into my pocket, grab the mandolin, and leave.
“Why all smelling like bleach?” she barks after me, but I pretend I don’t understand.
I don’t analyze what I’m doing as I hurry home, or as I’m rifling through Nanette’s drawers looking for a swimsuit, or as I’m standing at the curb waiting for Marcel. Scrutinizing why I’m looking forward to this is unnecessary. It’s been too long time since I’ve swum.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
TWENTY
In a thousand ways Marcel’s house is cold. Every detail is acute, every space is stark, but the absolute coldest thing about it is the light. It’s so white it’s blue. The pool house—connected to the main house by a thin corridor—is the bluest of all.
It’s nothing like my home in Miami. The decor there is white as well, but sunlight streams in and paints everything warm and yellowy except where the stained-glass windows bleed rainbows.
“This pool is hard-core,” I say, sliding into the freezing water. Nanette had two suits to choose from: a crocheted purple bikini and a navy one-piece with a plunging back. I went navy for coverage.
Marcel is floating on his back, staring at the roof, his swim trunks ballooning around him. “What did you say?” he asks, pulling his head up. There is no shallow end, no place to stand, so he treads in place. His chest and shoulders glow like marble.
“This pool.” I stroke cautiously, gliding across four lanes to the other side. “It’s huge.”
My legs feel strange, the muscles both wobbly and stiff at the same time. I don’t think I’ve ever swum in water this cold. He’s watching me, so I don’t let on how my body is shrieking in shock and pain.
“Twenty-five meters,” he says. “My dad used to swim competitively.”
“Really?”
“He almost made the Olympics one year.”
“Impressive.”
“He’s been pissed off ever since,” Marcel says. “That’s what my mom says, at least. I have a hard time imagining him not pissed off before, but whatever.”
“You swim a lot then?”
“Used to. He tried to coach us, but he stopped fighting that battle when he realized we were both average.”
“I swam in high school,” I say, amazed at how easy it is to tell him something that is true. There’s no danger in that. Just one true thing.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You can swim here anytime you want,” he says. “Nobody uses it. I don’t know why they even bother heating it.”
“Wait, this is heated?”
“It’s not an ice rink, is it?”
I survey the entire pool. It’s a thin rectangle, carved into lanes by sharp black lines. There’s no slide. There’s no diving board. I can’t even imagine a crowd in here, and I’m sure nobody has dunked anyone or done a cannonball. The sterility is eerie, but there’s some comfort in knowing girls probably aren’t routinely felt up in here. Bodily fluids are not exchanged. Thanks to Lola’s world-famous parties, the same can’t be said of the Cruz family pool.
“So you must come out here and do laps all the time,” I say.
“No. Not until this last week.” He swims to the opposite side and rubs his hand over his face. He’s not what he looks like in clothes, not emaciated at all.
I look away.
“I’ve been out here every day since the funeral,” he says.
I stare at the huge digital clock on the wall and search for something to say as the seconds and tenths of seconds and hundredths of seconds whir by. “And your parents?”
“What about them?”
“I don’t know. How are they taking everything?”
“My dad is in New York on business, and my mom has spent the last week sleeping. So they’re taking things exactly how I’d expect them to take things.”
Picturing Marcel alone in this echoing, blue-lit palace makes me shudder. “Swimming must be a good release, then,” I say.
“I’m out of shape, but yeah. It’s something to focus on.”
I dip the back of my head into the water and let the cold envelop me. Floating feels nice, even if I am bracing against a shiver. I get it. He’s alone, and he’s trying to stay clean, and I’m strangely proud of him. “Are you sure your mom doesn’t mind that I’m here right now?”
“She won’t be coming out of her room,” he says. “And she wouldn’t care even if she were lucid enough to care.”
Above me, a grid of black beams holds up the ceiling and frames the skylight. It’s still pitch black and starless out there. The cold isn’t biting anymore, and I’m starting to think I could float here forever when Marcel’s hand touches my arm.
I flinch and jerk upright.
“Holy startle reflex,” he says.
“You snuck up on me.”
“You were going to hit your head.” He points to the concrete ledge I was drifting toward.
We’re nose to nose now. Water drips down his face, and his skin shines satiny under the cold lights. He’s like a Renaissance sculpture I swear I’ve seen before, but I can’t quite remember the name or the artist or the museum.
He’s looking at me uneasily, undoubtedly wondering why I’m examining his face like we’ve just met.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. Want to race?”
He smiles. “For real?”
I barely know what I just said. I was only trying to cut the awkward. “Let’s race,” I try again, more convincingly this time. Maybe I do want to race. Maybe I want to beat somebody at something.
“How about I only use my arms,” he suggests.
“A little cocky, don’t you think?”
“It’s called chivalry.”
I swim away from him, positioning myself at the head of the second lane. He swims to lane three. Facing the pool, he spreads both arms out behind him on the ledge, stretching his shoulders and chest. The way his arms are bent makes him look like a bird of prey. Soaring. Ready to kill.
“Chivalry is boring,” I say. “Besides, you said you were out of shape.”
“I am. Goggles?”
“Please.”
He turns and pulls himself out of the pool. I hoist myself onto the edge and watch him walk to an equipment cupboard and pull out two pairs.
I’m going to lose. I’m a pretty good swimmer for my size, but unless his form is terrible, this race is
already over. The laws of mathematics and aerodynamics say so—the muscles in his back and the length of his limbs are undeniably superior.
He comes back and sits beside me, handing me the silver pair. His are black.
“What stroke?” he asks.
“Whatever you want.”
“What’s your event?”
“Five hundred freestyle.”
“Ugh, really?”
“What?” I say. “You don’t have the stamina for it?”
He fits his goggles onto his head. “You did not just question my stamina. Screw chivalry. I’m using my legs.”
“No cheating. And no letting me win.”
“Deal. We need a wager.”
I fit the silver goggles onto my head and test their suction. Perfect. “Sure.”
“The loser has to perform CPR on the winner.”
“Nope.”
“The loser has to swim an extra lap naked.”
“You’re going the wrong direction here. I change my mind. No wager.”
“Don’t pretend you’ve never swum naked.”
“So, ten laps, freestyle, right?”
“What do you think I was wearing when you texted me earlier?”
“Stop talking.” I stand up and put my hands on my hips.
He stands too.
“Are you ready to be humiliated by a girl?”
He smiles.
I step up onto the starting block, place my left foot out front, and bend down so my chest touches my thigh.
He joins me.
I grip the edge of the block, and when I glance in his direction, all I see is the slope of his shoulder covering his face.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Who counts?”
“Me.”
“No, me.”
“Then why’d you ask me if you already knew you were going to do it?” he grumbles.
“Okay, we do it together.”
“Five . . . four . . . ,” he starts.
I join him on three. By two my muscles are burning with excitement, dying to uncoil. I’ve never been so psyched to get pummeled. I just need to try so hard it hurts.
“One.”
We spring. His body is beside mine in the air, but when we slice through the water, he’s already beyond me. Underwater I’m a missile, but when I surface for that first breath, he’s even farther ahead. For a while I keep up, or not quite keep up, but hold a respectable gap between us. But by the fourth lap his half-pool lead becomes three quarters, and every muscle in my body is exhausted. I’m getting sloppy—my arms are chopping through the water with more violence, but I don’t see him again until he laps me. And then laps me again.
When Marcel pulls his body from the pool, I still have three lengths to go, but I don’t stop or slow down. He’s watching. The least I can do is lose with style. My whole body screams for oxygen, but I force myself to sprint the final stretch. But only a few strokes from the wall, I suck a mouthful of water into my lungs. It feels like fire burning me from the inside out, and I collapse sputtering against the end of the pool, too disoriented by the exhaustion to even pull myself up.
Hands grip my arms.
They squeeze too tight, and my mind falls back into memory. Why is someone always grabbing and pulling and pushing me? These hands pull me out of the water and onto the ledge, but they don’t let go of me right away, so I use my last ounce of energy to twist away from them. “Get away from me!” I yell, and wrench myself free.
Marcel lets me squirm away.
I sit on the ledge, sputtering until I’ve stopped coughing up pool water. When I finally open my eyes he’s sitting on the bench, staring at the clock. Hundredths of seconds, then tenths of seconds, then whole seconds disappear as we both stare at it.
It feels like one of us should apologize. But not him.
“What’s the matter with you?” he finally asks. He sounds more curious than angry, so I don’t come back with an insult.
“Lots of things.”
“I was just trying to help you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I got a little water in my lungs, that’s all. I’m fine. I’m sorry,” I say again. “I was just startled and a little oxygen deprived.” I stand up and everything spins, but I don’t sit back down. “Good race,” I mumble.
“Good race? A couple of seconds ago you were screaming at me for trying to help you.”
“I didn’t want your help.”
He stares at me and I shrink. “What happened to you?” he asks.
“Lots of things.”
My chest still hurts. If I could just catch my breath and calm down, I’d deflect his questions, but I can’t. Weak, out of shape, tired—I don’t know what I was expecting when I dove in. My diet of chocolate and water can’t be doing much for me, either.
“You look pale,” he says. “You should sit.”
I don’t argue, but I don’t go sit by him on the bench either. I sit back down by the pool and let my legs dangle. I try leaning back on my palms, but my arms are too shaky to support my weight, so I slump forward instead.
My legs have changed color. It’s the light. I look up to the skylight and see that the sky beyond has turned from black to purple. There’s a hint of orange at one edge.
Marcel sees it too. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
We stare at the new sky for a few seconds before I say, “Thanks for not letting me win.”
“You’re welcome. I think the loser is supposed to give the winner CPR, but if you’re not up for it, I’d be willing to reverse that.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Are you sure? I’m really good at it.”
The purple is being bled out of the skylight frame, and the orange is surging. “This would be a nice way to watch the sunrise if it wasn’t so cold,” I say.
He gets up and grabs two towels from the equipment closet. “At the risk of getting myself shoved again, here you go,” he says, tosses one to me, and sits down beside me.
“Thanks.” I wrap it around myself.
He lies back to see the sky better, and I do the same. We watch the battle of orange and purple. Orange wins, and then a splotch of pink appears, threatening to spill over the whole skylight.
“Sort of gory,” I say. “For a sky, I mean.”
“I guess.”
We watch a little longer before I decide to say it after all. “I wish you hadn’t paid my rent.”
He pauses. “Okay.”
“I mean thank you, but I wish you hadn’t. I can’t pay you back.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to.”
“I know,” I say, “but it put me in a weird spot.”
“There’s no weird spot. It’s forgotten. If you want to feel weird about it, fine, but I’m not going to.”
“I don’t want to feel weird about it. I—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupts. “I won’t do it again.”
I take a giant breath, feeling better and worse.
The pink is fading. It’s not being forced out by anything else, but a warm yellow behind it is waiting for it to dissipate entirely.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“I need you to answer honestly. I don’t want the answer you think you should give.”
I shiver beneath my towel. What’s one more promise I can’t keep, one more lie? “Okay.”
“Did he ever talk about me?”
I hesitate. Telling him yes would be the nice thing to do. But the truth? “Not a lot, but sometimes.”
“Did he hate me?”
“He didn’t kill himself because he hated you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I sigh. “Why would you think he hated you?”
“You won’t answer. That means he hated me.”
“No. Brothers fight. They piss each other off. I don’t think he hated you.”
I count sever
al of Marcel’s measured breaths before he speaks again. “Then why did he do it in my bathroom? Why didn’t he do it in his bathtub?”
I turn my head. He’s only inches away, still staring up at the sky, and from this angle his cheeks are sunken. His features look even sharper, his lips bluish.
He saves me from answering. “So I would be the one to find him.”
The snapshots of memory—Lucien’s bloated body crusted in filth, the stench of vomit, the pain-twisted features, the plop of the water—pile up and fan out like photographs tossed onto a table before me, a montage of horror. “Did you?”
He turns his face to mine. His eyes are bloodshot from the chlorine. “Yes.”
I should have realized. I should have thought about it longer and seen that someone had to find him after I left, and that someone would, of course, be Marcel. Pity and guilt sit on my chest. My head is too heavy to lift, and I have to blink back tears, but even blinking is too much effort.
Heartless. It’s cruel not to tell him that I don’t even think Lucien killed himself, but I have to be heartless.
Except maybe I can be a little less heartless.
I roll onto my side, pull my arm out of my towel, and rest the back of my hand on his cheek. It’s soft and cold. I pretend I don’t notice him shudder, but it makes me wonder how long it’s been since anybody touched him.
Beyond that shudder, he doesn’t respond, so I don’t have to pull away. He just lies there, glowing under the yellow satin sky. I wipe the drop of water from his jaw with the backs of my fingers, and he doesn’t flinch or reach for me.
His not reaching for me—it makes abandoning heartlessness okay. It’s only temporary. I prop myself on my other elbow, lean in and press my lips to his cheek. It isn’t stubbly like Emilio’s, but smooth and smells like chlorine. The kiss is long enough to feel his jaw clench beneath my mouth, but he doesn’t pull away.
Without a word, I stand. He watches me wring the water from my hair and rewrap my towel, then sits up.
“I’m going to change,” I say.
“Me too.”
I’m standing naked in the first of two changing rooms in the pool house, shivering as I pull underwear and bra over goose-pimpled skin. I was slow in the shower, but it was so gloriously hot and the steam was so saturating, I couldn’t make myself get out until I felt sure I could never be cold again.
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