by Ivy Fox
Like every swimmer, his body looks lean and strong in stature. Probably around six-foot-two, maybe even three, in height. Hard to be certain from up here, but he’s definitely jacked under all that color, and if my eyes don’t deceive me, nipple piercings, too.
I can’t help the smug smile I get, thinking of the demerits the asshole is going to get for both the tats and the piece of accessory. It’s not against the rules to wear jewelry during a race, but Pembroke High is stiff with their rules of immaculate decorum, both inside a classroom, as well as with their athletics.
In a classroom, you can hide tattoos and piercings under the preppy uniforms you’re required to wear, but it’s not as easy in swim trunks.
When Ash got his first ink, he knew the stakes and did it anyway. But I wasn’t worried because I know his worth. This guy, however, better be as good. Otherwise, he’s lost this race before even hitting the water. For every infraction, he’ll get tenths of a second applied to his time, and in a swim meet, every millisecond counts.
“No. He’s nothing I can’t handle,” Elle retorts after a long pause.
She crosses her arms over her chest while everyone sits back down in their seats, anxious for the race to begin. The minute the whistle blows, I understand straight away what all the fuss is about.
The guy is a machine, an underwater breathing beast.
“He’s impressive,” I mumble.
“Not exactly the word I’d use for him, but okay.” Elle rolls her eyes sarcastically as she bites at her thumbnail, a nervous tic she’s had since she was a toddler.
The worry lines creasing her forehead don’t help my anxiety any, either. I’m about to ask who the fuck this guy is and what he has done to my little sister, when I observe Chad nudging her side, chuckling away, seemingly not at all concerned at the ingrained scowl on her face.
“Now, babe, you got to admit, he is impressive. I mean, just look at him,” he exclaims excitedly, his eyes going back to the race, fascinated by the guy who is already making his way back to the other side of the pool when most of his competitors are still mid-lap.
The sparkle in Chad’s eyes troubles me. Not that I haven’t seen it before. It’s just because the stars in his forest-greens are usually directed at Elle.
Not at the moment, though.
“Who am I looking at again?” I ask, seething at the fact that the guy kicking major ass below is probably the reason why Elle isn’t with the guy she wants; okay, fine—that I want for her.
“We call him Saint. Short for Santiago,” Holland responds cheerfully next to me, seemingly infatuated with him as well.
Whoever this Saint character is, he just quickly made it on my shitlist. Big fucking time.
Of course, the asshole wins the race. No surprise there. And everyone goes crazy at the accomplishment. I watch as he steps away from the starting blocks, letting the other swimmers finish their lap, scouring through the audience cheering for him. When his dark eyes land on the two people to my left, Chad and Elle, he throws a smoldering, triumphant smirk, and a wink to boot.
“Cocky bastard,” Chad hushes under his breath, the twinkle in his green eyes turning them into fiery jewels. My chest tightens when Elle’s scowl turns into a deep frown, obviously saddened by their private interaction.
When Saint finally leaves the pool deck, I breathe just a little bit easier, hoping the next race will distract my mind off my sister’s apparent love triangle. Unfortunately, I’m sorely disappointed when the person who waltzes his way onto a block is none other than Reid Hurst. And where Reid is, his sister Addison isn’t too far behind. Like a cackle amongst hyenas, I instantly recognize her grating shriek.
I watch Reid give her a little nod after he hears the familiar shrilled voice yelling out his name. From the corner of my eye, I see her sitting with her usual crowd—Trevor Manning, the football captain, has his arm over her shoulder, and his airhead, cheerleader sister, Lace Manning, is whispering in her ear excitedly. Addison hasn’t seen me yet, but Lace has, so she doesn’t waste any time in letting her know of my presence amongst the audience.
When she locks her sight on me, a smug grin invades her face, as if returning to this school has, somehow, an underlying meaning to it. I guess I shouldn’t expect any less from a person who doesn’t do or say anything that hasn’t been calculated beforehand. I yawn, bored, snapping my eyes off of her and on to her brother’s race instead.
“You okay?” Elle asks in a low whisper.
“I’m fine.”
“She’s not worth it, you know?” she adds worriedly, catching the glowers coming from below.
“She never was,” I answer back, poking my knuckle tenderly on the tip of her nose, gaining a genuine smile from her.
I love Elle for being so protective of me when it comes to Addison, but she doesn’t have to worry. I’ve long overcome that part of my life. I won’t lie; it wasn’t easy. But after watching how the twins fell apart for their Snow and realizing I never felt the same heart-stomping love for Addison, it put things into perspective.
Addison was a user, but the thing is, she used me because I let her. And I let her because I needed to use her, too. I wanted so badly for someone to make the pain go away after my mother died, I let Addison in, knowing full well the kind of person she was. I honestly believed that I loved her, and maybe, in her own way, she loved me as much as she was capable of loving anyone aside from herself.
For a girl like Addison, love comes second to ambition, and she was always very tenacious and resourceful in getting everything she wanted. First it was me, then she moved on to bigger fish like my father, thinking him to be the better whale. I might not have paid attention to the signs that she was fucking him behind my back, but deep down, I knew our days were numbered. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.
“You’ll find someone who will be worthy of you, Rome. She’s out there. You just have to open yourself up to let her in,” Elle suggests optimistically, always the closet romantic.
The shivers that run down my back at hearing a small cheer from the gray-eyed girl next to me hints that I might have found her already.
Only she’s not mine to have.
She’s theirs.
“Want some ice cream?”
The question flies out of my lips the minute we step back into the manor after the swim meet. Apparently my mouth, like every other organ inside me, doesn’t like the idea of calling it a night so soon and finds a half-baked excuse to spend more time admiring my brothers’ ex-girlfriend.
“Ice cream?” she repeats, flustered, her dusky eyes wide in confusion.
“Yeah, ice cream.” I croak pathetically, trying to give off a nonchalant shrug that comes out just as dismal.
The fuck am I saying?
Ice cream!
Smooth, Rome. Really fucking smooth, jackass.
“You have heard of it before, right? Rocky road, mint chocolate chip, cookie dough—”
“Yes, Rome. I’m familiar with the concept.” She snickers at my rambling.
She continues to giggle, melting my insides with how the silky sound infiltrates the air around me so effortlessly, wrapping me up in a warm, soothing cocoon, one I know I have no business enjoying. I think it’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen her truly relaxed and content.
Shit!
I’m so fucking screwed if she’s going to do that again.
Why didn’t I just say goodnight and let the melancholic girl go up to her room and wait for Ollie to sneak in like he’s done every night this month? The only answer I can come up with that makes any sense to me, is that I must be a fucking masochist—a glutton for punishment—and my penance comes in the form of a 5’8, forlorn, silver-eyed girl, who is doing her best to pretend she’s got her shit together, like I’ve done most of my life.
“Well, come on then.” I bustle away from her, fleeing toward the kitchen while my mind berates me and lists every argument there is on h
ow this is a bad fucking idea.
Again, what the fuck am I doing?
I almost let out a girlish sigh of relief when I see Henrietta still in the kitchen, prepping for tomorrow’s meals. In any other circumstances, I’d be upset to see her still working so late, as it’s well past nine, but right now she’s exactly the kind of buffer I need to stop me from doing something moronic.
“Little late to be working, don’t you think, Avó?” I accuse her anyway, knowing Henrietta has been on her feet since six this morning.
Like my prick of a father, I don’t sleep much. Insomnia was quick to affect me as early as infancy, so knowing the ins and outs of everyone in this house—while I stayed up for hours fighting off my restlessness—became one of my favorite pastimes. Now it’s just second nature to me.
I know that Henrietta watches her recorded, Brazilian soaps until midnight, fawning over her favorite bad-boy characters like a fangirl at a Shawn Mendes concert. I know she checks on Carmen before she goes to bed, holding a rosary while praying in her granddaughter’s room, thinking she’s fast asleep—when most nights the depressed, fidgety girl has to use a couple of Ambien pills to do so.
I know Elle goes out like a light as soon as her head hits her pillow, snoring away the very next minute, while Ash needs to smoke a few blunts before he’s able to do the same.
And like clockwork, every night since it happened, I know that Holland sneaks out of her room, leaving a passed-out Ollie lying in her bed, thinking everyone else is sound asleep, too, being none the wiser. Every night she takes a late-night, barefoot walk downstairs, and stands in front of the music room’s door, breathing in and out with her hand clutched to the knob. Sometimes she stays five minutes, sometimes fifteen, others fifty. But each night, I see her resolve increasing. Holland is getting a little bit closer to opening the door and facing head-on the nightmare that awaits her inside.
She’s brave.
So fucking brave.
And the day she confronts her demons and walks in, I want to be there to witness her vanquish each motherfucking one, and bask in her glory.
“Leave me be, malandro. I’m almost done anyway,” Henrietta counters, snapping me back to the here and now. “You hungry, Roman?”
“No. I mean, yes. We just came to get us a snack, that’s all,” I rush to say.
Fuck, am I babbling? I think I’m babbling! The hell is going on?!
“We?” she asks, turning away from the counter to see who I’m with. When Henrietta’s eyes land on the girl behind me, a devilish smile crests her lips as she wipes her hands clean on a kitchen towel.
“You know what? You’re right. It is late. I’ll leave you kids alone,” she adds hurriedly, placing the towel on the kitchen island and skipping out of the room, but not before sending me a conspiring wink.
Shit, am I blushing? Why the fuck am I blushing?
Unnerved with my sudden return of prepubescence, I turn on my heel in the direction of the fridge to get the damned ice cream I promised. Behind me I hear Holland help herself to some bowls and spoons, and place them on the table. I take out two cartons, leaving the Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie alone—I value my balls and Elle would kick them in if she found anyone dared touch her precious comfort food.
I grab a seat across from Holland, thinking it best to have some physical boundary separating us from one another, and serve us both a scoop from each carton. We eat in blessed silence, and I begin to relax in my seat, no longer acknowledging the ten-pound weight of mortification on my shoulders.
“You’ve changed,” Holland lets out, biting the tip of her spoon as her eyes examine every inch of me.
“Have I now?” I reply, acting detached when in reality I’m anything but.
“Yes,” she affirms. I don’t say anything in return, afraid that my voice might narc me out. But Holland, the ever-persistent and stubborn girl that she is, doesn’t take my silence as the end of the conversation, and continues, “You no longer have the dark cloud above your head that makes you act like a total asshole.”
“Wow, thanks. Don’t hold back now,” I mock sarcastically, taking another spoonful to keep my mouth shut.
“I don’t intend to,” she deadpans, her heart-shaped face cold and mesmerizing.
“When I asked if you wanted to tag along with me to get my sugar fix, I didn’t think I’d have to worry about you giving me shit.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t count on you doling out threats when I first met you, either, or that you’d break up my relationship. I hardly think my little remark makes us even,” she scolds. “But it’s a start.”
“Fine. Do you want to have a run at me? Go ahead. Say your worst,” I taunt.
“Nah. I’d rather get you when you least expect it. Just how you got me.”
“And I’m the asshole?” I chuckle, trying hard to hide the small pains of shame and guilt I’ve been living with since I came to realize that the girl in front of me didn’t deserve my wrath.
“Yes, you are. You just haven’t been your usual dickish self lately. It makes me curious.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Is it a good change or a bad one?”
“Honestly.” She pauses with her brows pushed together in thought. “I don’t know yet.”
“You sound suspicious.”
“I am. A snake may shed its skin from time to time, but that doesn’t make it any less lethal, now does it?”
Smart girl.
She still sees the predator in me, itching to pounce. That’s good. It means she’ll be extra cautious and always have her guard up, with me or any other cunt like me—as she should.
I don’t state the obvious and tell her that she’s changed, too. Nor do I tell her that most of the people living under this roof have changed because of what happened to her. What would be the point? It would only draw light to something we are both busy keeping in the dark.
“Can I ask you something?” she ventures.
“Can I stop you?”
“No, not really,” she quips back unapologetically.
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
“That night, you believed me. Even when I wasn’t capable of defending myself by explaining what happened, you still believed me.”
“I don’t hear a question, Holland,” I rebuke, not entirely comfortable with where this conversation is going. I prefer her abrasive accusations to whatever this is leading to.
“Before that night, you painted me with the same brush as you did my mother and my father—a liar. You told me as much.”
And what a pretty little liar you are.
“Still don’t hear a question in there,” I reply arrogantly.
“Why?”
Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question?
“For me, there was never any doubt to what went down in that room. I might have been wrong about you, and had some preconceived notions about the person you are without giving you the benefit of the doubt. I admit that much. But I have never been wrong about him. I didn’t have to hear your side of the story to know what happened.”
The confession lies in front of us, dangling in the air, and I think neither one of us knows what to do about it. Not knowing how to move on from my confession, I stand up, taking our half-eaten desserts with me, and begin to wash our bowls in the kitchen sink.
“I’m turning eighteen in a few weeks. I can pack up my stuff and go home. No one can stop me. Not my mother. Not you,” she informs me steadfastly, while my back is still turned to her, concealing my pensive thoughts to her proclamation. When I’m sure she won’t be able to read me so easily, I turn around, grasping the sink behind me with both hands to keep me steady, and do the right thing—give her the out she deserves.
“Then go. I’ll deal with whatever happens here. If you want to go back to Brookhaven, I promise no one will get in your way.”
She scrunches her brows together, seemingly more confused.
“Every
time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me,” she rasps.
“Ditto.” I chuckle, defeated.
And like a bullet in the chamber, her crooked, lopsided grin shoots its way into my heart, making the fool bleed out for her. She takes one step closer to me, erasing most of the space between us, and looks deep into my eyes. What she sees in them, I haven’t the faintest idea, but one thing is troublesomely clear—I desperately want to find out.
“Rome, can I ask you another question?” she hushes softly.
“Sure.”
“Did you know?”
That one question sends ice water down my spine, robbing the very oxygen away from my lungs. My heart rate accelerates, although it feels like it stopped pumping blood to my brain, making it useless to gather my thoughts.
What can I tell her?
Describe torn-up memories from a scared boy that didn’t know what he was seeing? That his young mind didn’t understand it, couldn’t even comprehend it? How was one memory pushed so far to the confinements of my mind that I honestly believed I made it all up? How can I share with her the horrid musings of a small child, when I’m not even sure they are real? How I never once spoke up, thinking I was the one who was wrong? He had always been my monster. But how could I be sure he had been an even worse kind to her? She never kept anything from me. She told me all her secrets, all her dreams of freedom. She would have told me if she experienced such a thing. Right? It must have been just a dream. Not real. But with what happened to Holland, I’m not sure anymore. I open my mouth—with the buried memory on the tip of my tongue—when Ash coughs loudly, stopping any confession from leaving my lips.
“Doesn’t this take the fucking cake?!” he sneers, baked out of his mind, looking at the both of us like he wants to break us apart and scatter the pieces.
I clear my throat and slide away from Holland, creating a gap in between us large enough to pacify my younger brother.
“Thank you… for the ice cream. Goodnight,” she says to me, and then leaves the kitchen, head held high without once making eye contact with the boy she obviously still loves.