Limerence: Chapter 11

I can count the number of times I’ve ventured into Lionswood’s swimming facilities on one hand and zero fingers – a streak I am, unfortunately, breaking right now.

And not because I want to.

God knows the last thing I want is to waltz into the Lionswood Swim Team practice and deal with Adrian Ellis. After last night – after the way he looked me in the eye and confessed to cold-blooded murder – I’d be content to spend the rest of senior year never speaking to him again.

But he has my sketchbook.

And it’s more than just four years of sentimental value. I need that sketchbook if I’m going to put together a scholarship-worthy physical portfolio for the Pratt Institute.

So, here I am, treading the slick ceramic tiles that line the Olympic-sized indoor pool. I’m careful, mostly to make sure I don’t trip and fall belly-first in the deep end.

The pool room is massive.

Astronomically-high ceilings with springboards at least twenty-meters up and large, empty bleachers on each side of the water.

I’m starting to see why so many of my classmates choose to spend their Saturday afternoons watching the meets.

Well, that and the other obvious reason – the one currently making his way out of the locker room, a towel slung around his neck, and flanked by teammates on all sides.

And shirtless. Not that it matters.

“You’re going to kill it at the meet this weekend, Adrian!” The compliment comes from the Cam Buchan, a freckled red-head on Adrian’s right. “Seriously, your form is perfect. Mine on the other hand…” He shakes his head.

“You just need to keep your elbows up, Cam. You let your elbow lead the hand too much.” It sounds more like gentle guidance than criticism when it’s paired with Adrian’s charismatic smile.

Adrian proceeds to remind the team that they’re due for another practice at 5 AM tomorrow – an announcement that isn’t met with a single eye-roll or a groan.

I wonder what it’s like to speak and know that every single person in the room takes your word as gospel.

As the guys disperse to grab their stuff from the bleachers, I approach hesitantly. Cam spots me first.

“Hey, this is a closed practice!” He calls. “You can’t be in here.”

I feel the exact second Adrian’s gaze lands on me like a zap down my spine.

“It’s alright, Cam,” he interjects smoothly. “Practice is over, and anyway, she’s with me.”

I’m not sure where the nervous little flutter in my stomach comes from, but I pointedly ignore it – as well as the curious looks I’m now getting. They can believe what they’d like. I’m here for the sketchbook.

It takes a few minutes for the rest of the swim team to traipse out the door, bags in hand, but eventually, it’s just me and Adrian.

Alone.

Again.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says with a smile that suggests this is not a surprise. He knew I’d come for my sketchbook one way or another.

“Is it?” I keep my eyes lasered to his face, and not the water dripping from his freshly-showered hair down the expanse of his sculpted torso. “I want my sketchbook back.”

His eyebrows furrow in mock-confusion. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

I don’t respond to that, but I do straighten up and cross my arms.

He purses his full lips in the impression of a pout. “You know, you’re being a little rude, Poppy. No small-talk? You’re not even going to ask me how my day’s been?” He makes a tsk sound with his tongue. “I’ve got to be honest. I expected more after the way I opened up to you last night.”

He’s goading me, and I know he’s goading me, but I’m not in the mood to banter. “Let’s not do this, alright? You were right last night. I know when I’m beaten. I just want my sketchbook back, and you will never have to worry about me again.”

He studies me, as if trying to discern if I mean it.

I do.

As curious as I am to know why Adrian actually killed Mickey, our encounter last night proved that playing detective will get me nowhere. The Ellis family is too powerful and too resourceful, and the truth – the guilty, awful truth – is that I don’t want to die for Mickey, no matter how innocent or wronged he might’ve been.

And I realize this makes me a coward and a bad person and probably a whole list of other unsavory things, but I’ve survived self-loathing before.

I’m not sure I can say the same about Adrian.

“Well, beaten or not,” Adrian says, “You’re not really in a place to be making demands, are you?”

I sigh. Of course he can never make things easy. “What do you want?”

“Come to the swim meet on Saturday.”

It is, all things considered, a simple request – one that I could fulfill any other week but this one.

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “Next week is fall break, which means I’ve got an essay, three practice quizzes, and a PowerPoint due on Sunday.”

That History essay, in particular, is going to be brutal.

“And here I thought you were a prodigy who chose not to try,” he mocks me. “It sounds like you’re struggling.” There’s that look on his face again – the one prodding me to spill my secrets.

I suck in a breath. “I’m not struggling. I just have a lot to do.” I glance at the bleachers. “But I guess I could bring some homework to do during the meet.”

“No.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” he repeats. “What’s the point of coming to the meet if you’re going to spend the whole thing staring at a textbook?”

I scoff. “Alright. Well, I’m open to other requests. I just want my sketchbook back so we can be done with all this.”

And so I can be done with you.

He just blinks at me. “I’ve made my request clear. Come to the meet. Undistracted.”

Anger fizzes like a cracked-open soda can inside me.

This asshole’s bargaining with something I already own.

I rub my temples. “You know what? I’m not doing this with you. Keep the sketchbook for another week. We can revisit your ‘request’ when fall break is over, and I’m not swamped with assignments.”

Another week without my sketchbook is survivable.

I turn on my heel, nearly to the exit when he calls out, “Are you sure?”

Yes, I’m sure sits on the tip of my tongue as I glance back – only for every muscle in my body to go rigid.

“What are you doing?” I breathe, eyes wide.

He stands at the edge of the pool, my sketchbook in his outstretched hand, dangling it right over the deep end.

“Adrian!” Panic seizes me. “What are you doing?”

I hurry to close the distance between us, but as soon as I’m within a few feet of him, Adrian holds out a hand to stop. “I’m not sure your sketchbook is going to survive fall break,” he says, smirking.

“Adrian,” I plead. “Do not drop that. I need that for my portf –” The rest of it comes out in a choked gasp as he pulls back three fingers, leaving only his index finger and thumb to hold the spiral-bound sketchbook in place.

My heart leaps into my esophagus.

He’s still smirking at me, unfazed that he’s two fingers away from decimating my future. “You know, if I did drop it, you could probably still save most of your artwork…assuming you jumped in right away.”

I stare at the ceramic sign on the pool wall, the one that tells me this part of the pool is nine feet deep.

Four, even five feet would’ve been worth the risk, but all five-foot-seven of me is no competition for nine.

“I’ll come to the meet, alright? You don’t need to ruin my sketchbook. I’ll come.”

There’s a playful gleam in his dark eyes. “Well, when you say it like that, it’s almost like I’m forcing you.”

I take a deep breath.

I am calm.

I am zen.

I am not five seconds away from pushing Adrian – and my future – into nine feet of water.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Let me rephrase. My attendance at Saturday’s swim meet will be completely voluntary. No coercion at all.”

His smile widens. “And you’ll bring a sign in support of me?”

I stare at him. “You want me to make a sign?”

The shit-eating grin on his face proves that he’s enjoying every moment of this. “Well, you won’t be the only one if that’s what you’re worried about. I usually spot at least three ‘Swim Your Way to Victory, Adrian!’ at every meet.”

“And here I thought you were the kind of person who’d find all that attention more obnoxious than appealing.”

He shrugs. “I do, but it’s your discomfort I find appealing.”

I glance at my sketchbook, still dangling precariously over the water, and resignation settles in my bones.

If he wanted me to paint “Adrian’s #1 Fan” across my face, I’d do it. The sign, the mild public humiliation – none of it matters. In less than a year, I’ll have my diploma and my communication with all of these people will wither into the occasional Facebook stalking.

“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll bring a sign.”

Sweet, sweet relief rolls through me as he pulls the sketchbook away from the water and slings it at me.

I reach for it, stumbling forward – only to slip on the wet ceramic tiles lining the edge. There’s a brief moment where I’m airborne, limbs grappling for purchase.

And then I hit the water.

Freezing-cold chlorine water shoots up my nose and it burns, but I sink through the water like a stone, arms and legs flailing.

Panic claws at my heart.

Get to the surface.

Get to the wall.

I’m kicking every body part into the closest imitation of swimming I can – but my body doesn’t cooperate with the water the way that I want it to.

Get to the surface.

Get to air!

My head briefly breaks the surface and I open my mouth to suck in as much oxygen as possible, but I get a mouthful of chlorinated water instead.

I choke, submerging beneath the surface as the panic takes over my body.

Oh, God.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to drown.

It feels like an eternity that I’m stuck in that horrifying limbo: lungs screaming, eyes burning, and limbs that refuse to do anything but drag me down farther.

I’m going to die.

Someone is going to dredge my body from the pool like a piece of debris and use a bad yearbook photo at my funeral.

I am going to die before I even get the chance to make something of myself.

With all my flapping and flailing, I don’t feel the strong arms that slide around my waist – not at first.

But then I am being effortlessly hoisted out of the water and deposited onto wet tile.

My lungs can’t seem to decide whether they want to breathe air or cough up pool water so I end up doing both, looking every bit like a drowned cat trying to dislodge a hairball.

But I’m not dead.

The realization comes with a surge of relief as I lay flat on my stomach, thankful for the kiss of cold ceramic against my soaked uniform.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a full-grown adult who doesn’t know how to swim.” It takes me at least three seconds to compute that the person speaking to me is Adrian, who sounds entirely unconcerned for my well-being.

I muster the strength to peel my face from the floor and look at him, and it must be the loss of oxygen talking because the first thought that crosses my brain is: I’d like to draw him.

He is even leaner than I thought, with broad shoulders that give way to a pair of expertly carved pecs and abdominal muscles. His hands sit on his hips, showing off the strong, ropey biceps that heaved me from the water like I was weightless.

Yes, I’d very much like to draw him.

I could spend hours on the veins that curl down his forearms or the shadows that indent his abs, I could –

“See something you like?”

He shifts on his feet, and the light catches several thin scars that mar his left ankle. They criss-cross over each other like he’s been cut in the same place more than once, all of them faded with time.

I drag my gaze back to his face. “Not particularly.”

The smug smile on his face suggests that he doesn’t believe me.

I stand up, scraping what little dignity I have left off the floor, and glare at him. I’m still shivering, though I’m not sure if it’s from my drenched clothes or the shock of almost drowning.

Probably both.

Adrian considers me. “You know, this might be the part where you thank me for saving your life.”

Teeth chattering, I say, “You waited at least a minute before jumping in.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’ll admit that I did consider letting you drown, but…” He shakes his head. “It would’ve been such a hassle. Finding an alibi, talking to the police…I have better ways to spend my night.”

“You’ve really got a bleeding heart, don’t you?”

“I’ve been told so.”

And the worst part is that he has.

Probably at least a thousand times.

I’m too exhausted – or maybe too traumatized – to be anything but relieved to be alive, so I remove my waterlogged shoes, grab my thankfully dry sketchbook, and stomp towards the exit.

Behind me, Adrian calls out, “I’ll see you Saturday!”

***

I’ve heard that near-death experiences make some people more prone to risk – life being short and all that – but I find the opposite to be true for me.

It is a sad, terrible thing that the world will never know what actually happened to Mickey, but I am not going to throw myself into the path of a dangerous psychopath so they may find out.

I am full-heartedly embracing my cowardness.

The rest of senior year is going to be quiet and uneventful, and ten years from now, I’ll donate a kidney to a stranger and tip the Karmic scales back in my favor.

However, I have one last Saturday to sacrifice before the quiet and uneventful part starts.

The morning of, I shimmy into a pair of old jeans, stuff my hair into a ponytail, grab the obnoxiously large poster I made last night, and set off for the pool.

The meet is packed.

The excited chatter is almost infectious, even if the sight of the pool sends an uncomfortable shiver through my body.

I am never touching water again.

Half of Lionswood’s entire student population has crammed themselves onto the home bleachers, and I spot at least a handful of faculty among them. No parents as far as I can tell, considering most of Lionswood’s student population is not local.

There are, however, plenty of signs. I see five Swim Your Way to Victory, Adrian! signs, three Go Adrian! posters and one I’ll Marry You if You Win, Adrian! held by a freshman.

At least I’m in good company.

I perk up when I realize the away bleachers are crowded with kids from the closest public high school, Cedarsville High.

I’ve had very little interaction with Cedarsville kids since arriving at Lionswood, but they look…

Normal.

Like jeans and t-shirt normal.

A lot of them are busy gawking at the designer athletic wear and track-suits that line our side, but I have the urge to throw my hands in the air and wave: Look! I’m one of you. I’m not like them.

Instead, I find an empty seat at the top of the home bleachers.

The meet hasn’t started yet, but the Cedarsville team seems to be warming up in the pool while the Lionswood boys lounge on pool chairs.

Adrian is impossible to miss.

He sits with his back to our bleachers, his hair tucked into a swim cap. He turns to tell something to Cam, the red-headed boy from the other day, and his toned back muscles ripple with the movement.

“God, Adrian looks so good shirtless!”

I’m not sure which girl makes the comment or where the sighs of agreement come from, but I can’t say she’s wrong. At this point, Adrian’s attractiveness is as irrefutable as admitting the sky is blue.

“You know, you really shouldn’t objectify the players, Marcie,” sneers Sophie. She sits on the first row of bleachers, surrounded by her friends, clad in an olive-green workout set. “They’re here to compete, not serve as your eye-candy.”

Why am I not surprised that Adrian’s actual number one fan showed up to his meet?

Marcie – the dark-haired girl who spoke up – clamps her mouth shut, looking vaguely embarrassed to be called out.

As if he can sense he’s the subject of conversation, Adrian twists toward our bleachers and searches the crowd.

Sophie stands up abruptly, nearly toppling over Penelope, to wave at him, but his gaze jumps right over her and to –

Oh.

He’s looking at me.

Here, in front of everyone, it sends a strange flutter through my stomach.

His eyes meet mine, the corner of his mouth curling up when he sees the rolled-up posterboard lying in my lap. He tilts his chin, gesturing for me to unfurl the sign.

For a moment, my mouth goes dry, anxiety spiking.

I felt a lot braver penning this childish act of rebellion in my dorm room, but now that I’m here, I wonder if I was a little too brave. Or stupid.

Still, I take a deep breath, swallow down the nerves, and hoist the sign above my head.

His smile drops.

Because I am not holding a Swim Your Way to Victory, Adrian! sign.

There, in big, swirly letters, my sign says: Adrian Ellis is a killer

Some people sitting nearby glance at my sign, confused, and something dark that chills me to the bone flashes over Adrian’s face.

Heart pounding, I wink and give him my cheesiest smile as I flip the sign over and reveal the back: …in the pool!

The darkness clears from his expression, but his eyes narrow.

I hold his gaze.

You wanted to humiliate me, I want to say. Did you think I wouldn’t try to drag you down with me?

Our moment is disrupted by a whistle, coaches on both sides wrangling their swimmers and separating them. A handful of swimmers line up at their diving blocks, and most of them look to be underclassmen.

Adrian isn’t among them.

The heat begins with the chime of a bell, and the swimmers dive for the water. I lose interest by the end of the first lap, and it doesn’t look like I’m the only one.

The Lionswood students are happy to talk amongst themselves or stay glued to their phones, oblivious to the actual race.

Clearly, the green-looking freshmen are not who they came to see.

My eyes wander to the other side.

The Cedarsville kids don’t look much more interested than us. A number of suspicious Arizona Tea bottles are being passed around, the recipients looking a little too stoked to be drinking plain sweet tea.

A group of three Cedarsville kids head for the exit, and I squint, the girl in the middle looking awfully familiar.

Wait. That’s –

It was dark and crowded the last time I saw her, but the more I study her, the more I’m sure it’s her.

She’s crying – just like she was a few weeks ago when she attended Mickey’s vigil and left halfway through.

My heart thumps.

She’s local. She’s a Cedarsville girl.

And she knows Mickey.

I watch as she disappears through the exit with her friends, and before I’ve even made the conscious decision to follow her, I’m on my feet.