by Seven Steps
I looked in to his eyes, so blue and warm despite the cold.
“You loved me?”
“From the first time I saw you.”
He brushed his thumb over my cheek, smoothing away the icy tears. I leaned into his touch and closed my eyes. Could it be? Could there still be a chance for us?
I opened my eyes and gazed at Cole. He was so beautiful, inside and out. No other boy lit a spark in my soul like Cole did. I knew in that moment that no boy ever would. Cole had loved me once. It was time to stop being afraid. It was time to finally take the one thing that I wanted.
“I love you too, Cole.”
My chest tightened, and my body flushed.
Cole looked taken aback and fluttered his eyes.
“Can you, uh, say that again?” he asked.
I took a deep breath, saying it louder this time.
“I love you, Cole. Even if you don’t feel the same, I want you to know it.”
And there it was. My heart was laid out in the snow, ready for him to receive or stomp on it. I had never been so vulnerable, so open, in my life. It was terrifying but at the same time, freeing.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. A little hum escaped his throat. Then, his eyes opened and he looked at me with such emotion that it made my heart race.
“I have been waiting so long for you to say that. I just had to hear it twice. I love you too, Bella. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
And then his lips swooped in to cover mine, stealing what little breath I had in my lungs. My entire body glowed with happiness. With the joy that came from being loved and loving in return.
He kissed me until our toes froze in the snow. Then we climbed in his car and he kissed me some more. Each press of his lips was like pure light. A dream that I never wanted to awake from.
He held my hand and kissed me at every red light and stop sign. I was so happy that I thought I’d burst!
When we pulled up to the front of my apartment, he unhooked his seatbelt, pulled me toward him and kissed me some more.
“We have a lot of time to make up for,” he whispered against my lips. “Two and a half years of missed kisses.”
“How much time did we put in tonight?” I asked, my smile wide.
“Not even a day.” I closed my eyes and fell in love with him a little more. Cole’s kisses were quickly becoming my new favorite thing.
“But there’s something that I have to ask you first,” he said.
“What?”
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
I chuckled against his lips.
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
“I just wanted to hear you say it.”
“Okay. I’ll be your girlfriend, Cole. Forever and ever.”
He stilled.
“Say it again.”
My smile widened.
“I, Bella French, take you, Cole Winsted, to be my boyfriend.”
He smiled against my lips. “I love it when you say it twice.”
I laughed out loud and pushed him. He dramatically fell backwards, though he was so strong, I knew it wasn’t because of my push. Then, he climbed out of the car and walked around to open my door and to my surprise, walked me in to my lobby.
“Are you going to be valiant and walk me to my door?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m going to go upstairs and meet your dad. He’ll need to know who his daughter’s new boyfriend is.”
I snorted. “Seriously?”
He squeezed my hand. “Seriously.”
I smiled. I was bringing home my first boyfriend. It was a little nerve wrecking but I had learned an important lesson. With Cole by my side, nothing really bad could happen. He made everything better.
We stepped off the elevator and walked toward my door.
70
The following weekend, Cole and I had our first official date.
A musical called Dear Evan Hansen.
Cole didn’t usually flash his money but this night he gave me money for a new dress. I picked out a long yellow number with sequins and low shoulders. At seven o’clock, he knocked on my door, shook my father’s hand, gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked me to an awaiting limo that took us to dinner and to the show.
Through the entire play, which I loved, he didn’t once let go of my hand. Afterward, we went for hot chocolate at a little sweets shop by the water which, I was told, he’d asked to be opened up especially for this occasion.
“This was the best night ever,” I said, sipping my drink. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He kissed my shoulder, his smile bright and happy.
“I knew you’d like it,” he said.
“The songs were amazing. That Waving Through the Window one was fantastic.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, my band is covering that song at our next gig.”
“Your band, huh? I’d heard tales that you had a band. I’m not sure that I believed it, though.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not? I’m musically inclined.”
I laughed. “Yes, but I didn’t know you were that musically inclined. What’s your band named?”
He thought a minute.
“How about you guess?”
I sat up straight. I loved playing guessing games with Cole. It was one of our ‘us’ things.
“First clue,” he said. “It’s named after a clothing item.”
My brows pressed down as I thought.
“Too vague,” I said. “Next clue.”
“The item is something you wear on your feet.”
“Heels? Sandals? Boots?”
He laughed and waved my guesses away.
“No. You’re on the right track, though. Okay. Here is your final clue. It’s something that you wear on your feet every day.”
I smirked. “Sneakers?”
Cole raised an eyebrow and pulled out his phone. His thumbs glided over the keypad, then he looked at me.
My phone dinged and I pulled it from my purse.
The words were like cupid’s arrow to my heart. I read it out loud.
“I love red sneakers.”
A lump formed in my throat. I put down my phone, threw my arms around Cole’s neck and kissed him long and deep. I loved kissing Cole. It was probably the best ‘us’ thing we did.
“If I had known you liked the band name, I would have told you a long time ago,” he said with a grin.
“What do you play?”
“Lead singer.”
“And?”
“Guitar. Piano, if I am feeling so inclined.”
“Can I see you play?”
“You’ve already seen me play.”
“No. I mean your band.”
He sighed dramatically. “I don’t know. Girls usually fall for drummers. Not sure if I’m ready to risk that.”
I kissed him again.
“You’re the only guy that I could ever fall for,” I said when we pulled apart.
“And you’re the only girl I could ever fall for.”
We smiled at each other, two crazy kids in love.
“I think it’s time to take you home before your dad grounds you again.”
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t want the night to end but I knew that there would be tomorrow and the next day. And the day after that. I wasn’t letting Cole go. Not now. Not ever.
The limo drove us back to my building and Cole walked me up the stairs to my apartment, hand in hand, heart in heart. When we arrived at my floor, we spied someone standing in front of my door. The boy turned to us.
“Eric? What are you doing here?”
He shoved his hands in his jeans pocket, his face looking pale and sad.
“Bella. Cole. Hey.”
“Uh, hi,” Cole said, squeezing my hand again.
Eric’s head bobbed and he snatched off his black hat and ran his fingers through his midnight hair.
“This is a little weird but I
came here to ask for your help.”
“Um … okay,” I said.
“Ariel was the best thing that ever happened to me. I want her back. No. I need her back. Will you help me?”
Eric and I stared at each other. In his eyes, I saw the same pain that radiated through my heart. The loss of a fiery red-headed girl that gave color to both of our lives.
I nodded.
“Okay.” I walked forward, putting the key in to the door and let myself inside. “Let’s get her back.”
To be continued…
Thank you for reading. Please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads.
Click HERE to download Part 2 - Chasing Mermaids
Chasing Mermaids
1
I’ve spent most of my life chasing mermaids.
Well, not actual mermaids.
Mermaids as in goals. Aspirations. Ambitions. Things people dream about but never achieve.
Like being a rock star, or a professional athlete, or a billionaire.
Most people will never attain those things.
But I’m not most people.
My name is Ariel Swimworthy, and I’m going to swim in the Olympics. That’s my dream. My mermaid. And I’m not just going to chase it.
I’m going to catch it.
I keep these thoughts in focus as I fly through the water, arm over arm, legs kicking hard, body stretched. If I touch the wall in time, I’ll qualify to compete in the Tri-State Swim Competition in Orlando, Florida—the first step on my road to being an Olympian. All I need is twenty-five seconds and fifty meters in the blue.
I have to touch the wall in time.
My swim team’s loud shrieks echo throughout the gym. Their cheers make me push harder.
One.
Two.
Breathe.
One.
Two.
Breathe.
My arms slice through the water like hot knives through silk. My feet flutter powerfully behind me. My heart hammers in my chest. The wall is almost in reach. I launch myself toward it, swimming harder than I’ve ever swum before.
Almost there!
My fingers stretch forward, inch by inch by inch until, finally, I touch the coolness of the tiles. My palms press against the flat surface, and my body slows to a stop.
Instantly, a sense of triumph fills my chest.
I’ve done it! I’ve touched the wall!
The pride only has a second or two to penetrate before doubt shows up and kicks me in the shins.
Yes, I’ve finished my fifty-meter freestyle swim. But was it enough?
My heart beats hard. Half of it is from exertion, but the other half is all nerves.
Everything I’ve done has led me to this moment. I’ve worked my butt off for it. Sweated for it. Bled for it. If my time is even a fraction over twenty-six seconds, I can kiss my Olympic dreams goodbye.
That thought alone devastates me.
I jump out of the pool, sending white foam splashing onto the tiled floor.
Vanessa Uma is already sitting there, legs crossed at the ankles, feet dangling in the water. She slowly pulls off her goggles and gives me a condescending smile.
I hate that smile. I hate Vanessa. She has what I call a punchable face. She shares this trait with her stepsister, and my cousin by marriage, Ursula Meyers. They have the same dad, my uncle, but different moms whom I’ve never met.
I roll my eyes and turn away from Vanessa, instead choosing to focus on Coach Fish and his clipboard.
His forehead is sweating, and his warm up suit—complete with Olympic rings on the back—crinkles as he scribbles words on a scratched and faded brown clipboard.
My heart pounds against my ribs so loud I’m sure people can hear it in New Jersey.
Coach Fish doesn’t say anything at first. He simply looks from me, to Vanessa, then back to his clipboard. The silence tightens my nerves to torturous levels.
He has to say I made qualifying time. He just has to!
My eyes drift shut.
Please God, please.
I’m not a religious person. Before today, I was an annual prayer at best. I’m not even sure if God cares about what’s happening to me right now. All I know is I want this so badly I’m shaking, and I need to know I’ve covered all my bases.
I hear Coach Fish’s voice, and my eyes pop open.
“Vanessa Uma swam a twenty-five twenty-eight,” he announces. “Impressive.”
Twenty-five seconds and twenty-eight milliseconds. Olympic qualifying time for the women’s fifty-meter swim. Figures. After all, she is an Olympic champion. A freaking national hero. That still doesn’t negate the fact she’s a terrible person who makes everyone around her feel like garbage. No amount of medals can fix that kind of attitude.
“And Ariel Swimworthy swam a…” He pauses. My heart beats so hard I’m sure I’m about to go into cardiac arrest. “Twenty-five twenty-eight.”
My heart stops cold. Did I hear him right? No. I couldn’t have. It’s impossible. Vanessa is an Olympic champion. I couldn’t have tied her time. I’ve never outswum her before. Ever.
“Twenty-five twenty-eight?” I ask.
I wait for him to correct me. To tell me there’s been a mistake. That he accidentally read Vanessa’s time twice. Instead, he smiles wide.
“Twenty-five twenty-eight. Olympic qualifying time.”
A scream of pure joy bursts from my lips. “No Running” signs blur past me as I race to the other side of the pool and join my teammates, who have gone from shrieking to what looks like euphoric seizures.
I’ve made my time. My dream of being an Olympic swimmer is one step closer to reality. I’m so overjoyed I can barely breathe.
Five girls tackle me, and we all tumble onto the floor in a giggling heap of arms, legs, and swimsuits.
Claire Vonnegut’s butt slides down my back and, in typical Claire fashion, she farts. Not a girly, it just slipped out kind of fart either. This thing is loud, hot, and completely unapologetic. Farting has been Claire’s contribution to all our victory piles for the last three years. I love her to pieces, but there’s no denying that this habit of hers is super gross. I try to move away, but I’m trapped beneath five other people. All I can do is squirm and hope the smell doesn’t melt my nose hairs.
Did I mention how classy our team is?
“Yuck! Come on, swamp butt!” my best friend, Sophia Johnson, cries. She squints and pinches the bridge of her nose with three fingers. “That smells like dead raccoons!”
Claire wiggles her blond eyebrows at Sophia, taunting her. “Nope, it smells like cheese pizza. That’s what I had for lunch.”
“Was it cheese pizza with skunks on top?”
Claire winks at her. “Maybe.”
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. It’s amazing to me that Sophia still gets mad about Claire’s farting even though Claire does this every day. Literally. Every. Single. Day. It’s gross, but funny too.
“Ms. Swimworthy,” Coach Fish bellows.
His commanding tone sends us all scrambling to square our shoulders and straighten our spines like we’ve been conditioned to do since he started coaching us.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Ademar Fish used to be a marine. Then he was a five-time Olympic champion. Now, he’s our swim coach/drill sergeant. He runs our team like we’re preparing for war. He has a hard edge, but his encouraging words and good nature make up for it. Mostly.
He stands directly in front of me, his hazel eyes taking me in. I look back at him, examining the crow’s feet around his eyes, his tanned skin, and his downturned mouth. He takes a single step forward and crosses his arms loosely over his broad chest. For a man who must be in his fifties, he still has a swimmer’s body. Strong. Lean. Tall.
“Twenty-five twenty-eight.” His French accent is still strong, even though he’s been in the United States for nearly forty years. His arms uncross, and he leans on one hip. His clipboard taps against his leg, and the sound echoes through the now si
lent room like a drum beat.
“You have one of the fastest times of all the girls here. You should be proud of yourself.”
I am proud of myself. Even Vanessa’s condescending smirk can’t diminish that.
“You don’t know this,” he says, scratching the side of his head, “but I’ve been talking to your teammates. They’ve made an almost unanimous decision. One I wholeheartedly approve of.”
Decision? What decision?
My brows knit together, and I hold my breath.
What could the girls have said about me?
Coach Fish holds out his hand to me, pride written on his face.
“Let me be the first to congratulate the new captain of the St. Mary’s Academy All Star Women’s Swim Team.”
My breath catches in my throat and my eyes are about to pop out of my head.
Captain? Me?
My head spins so fast I can barely process what the coach has just said. Then, piece by piece, my body rejoices. First my feet bounce off the floor like I’m doing high knees in gym class. Then my stomach trembles with delight. Next, my lungs fill with warm, chlorine-scented oxygen. Finally, my mouth opens wide, and I scream my freaking head off.
A million dizzying emotions explode within me at once. Joy. Excitement. Relief. Disbelief. Before I have a chance to process them all, I’m on the floor again, Claire is farting up a storm, and I’m so full of happiness I can barely hear Vanessa screaming in fury.
“But that’s not fair!” she argues.
Sorry, Vanessa. That’s life. And, for me, life is sweet.
The five girls on top of me celebrate as if we’ve all just been pronounced captain. In a way, we have.
Amid my celebration, tingles break out along my shoulders. The sensation runs up my neck and down my back.
Someone is watching me, and, somehow, I know exactly who that someone is.
I frown and, almost automatically, look in the direction of the observation box above the pool.
There he is.
Eric Shipman.
My gut fills with a weird ache, some mixture of hostility and something else I can’t describe. The emotions are painfully sharp, but unfocused and confusing. I hate the feeling.