Limerence: Chapter 13

As Liz predicted, we make it back to the swim meet just as the last batch of swimmers are preparing to race. I slip back into the bleachers like I never left, my empty seat and rolled-up sign still waiting for me.

I’m a little nervous that Adrian might’ve noticed my absence, but when I scan the pool, I realize he’s in the middle of a discussion with his coach, and entirely too focused to pay any attention to me.

Good.

“Good luck, Adrian!” Sophie shouts from the front row. She hasn’t missed a moment of the action, I see.

“Finally,” Penelope sighs, “Adrian always races last.”

“That’s because he’s the best,” Sophie retorts, “The fastest swimmers always race last.”

Well, the swimmers lining up at the diving blocks now certainly look fast. These aren’t the scrawny, wide-eyed freshmen that took to the water a few hours ago. These guys climb onto the diving blocks like they’ve done it a hundred times, toes pointed and fingers extended.

The coach gives Adrian what looks like an encouraging pat on the back before he heads for his own diving block.

The chatter in the room lulls to a stand-still.

Phones land face-down in laps.

Snacks are put away.

This is the race that everyone’s been waiting for.

The buzzer goes off, and in a blink, they’re in the water, already meters ahead of the wall. Whoops and hollers for everyone’s preferred competitor float from both sides of the bleachers, but naturally, my eyes are drawn to Adrian and…

Holy shit.

As fast as the others may be, each fluid stroke separates him further from the pack. His body cuts through the water with so much sheer power he doesn’t even look human, and I lean forward to get a better look.

By the second lap, it’s apparent the others stand no chance of catching up to him, let alone winning. His arms form a perfectly symmetrical arc, his head only popping above the surface for quick breaths.

Is there anything he’s not perfect at?

The buzzer sounds again just as Adrian touches the far wall for a second time, signaling the end of the race, and the crowd goes wild. Screaming, cheering, shouting – the excitement is so contagious that even I break into a clap.

Adrian heaves himself out of the water, giving everyone a peek of the lean, toned body that brought him to victory as he removes his goggles.

“Adrian!” Sophie shouts. “You were amazing!”

Several whoops follow in agreement.

Adrian peers up at our side of the bleachers with a smile, but it’s not Sophie who draws his attention.

It’s me.

He’s smiling at me.

And I hate the wide grin he’s giving me. I hate the way his cheeks flush from exertion. I hate his dark eyes, twinkling with victory.

Because when he looks like this and he smiles like that, I almost forget he’s a killer.

***

The sun is already making its trek toward the horizon by the time I exit the swimming facilities, and though I’ve done nothing but sit all day, my conversation with Liz and the chronic anxiety that comes with being in Adrian’s presence are finally taking their toll.

I’m exhausted – and I’ve still got a myriad of practice quizzes and a history essay to write before Monday.

Looks like I’ve got an all-nighter in my future.

I’m making a mental tally of how many practice quizzes I can miss before my grade tanks when a familiar voice calls, “What’s the hurry?”

My stomach sinks.

So much for a quiet exit.

Thanks to those long legs of his, it only takes a few steps before I’m staring up at Lionswood’s freshly showered, freshly changed swim team captain. And I’m trying very hard not to think about the way his black long-sleeved compression shirt clings to every muscle.

“You didn’t stick around to congratulate me,” he pouts.

“Well, I didn’t want to have to wait in line all night,” I retort, thinking of the students who’d chosen to stay and linger by the locker room. “But, if you must hear it, congratulations. You –”

“Were a killer in the pool?” He finishes, an edge to his voice that makes me second-guess any snarky replies.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “You did say to bring a sign.”

“I suppose so.” His eyes narrow, but he looks more amused than upset, which is enough of a positive sign for me to relax.

A couple of chattering students walk by, shooting us – or more like me – curious looks as they go. I can almost hear the questions forming in their heads.

I straighten up. “Alright. Well, I should get go –”

“Is that all you have to say to me?” He interrupts playfully. “No ‘you were amazing, Adrian’ or ‘I’ve never seen someone swim so fast, Adrian’?”

How about: why was Mickey trying to blackmail you? What did he have on you that he thought he could extort you for set-for-life money?

I push my interaction with Liz deep into the recesses of my brain – afraid that Adrian might read the newfound realizations on my face – and instead say, “I doubt you need to hear it from me. I’m sure you’ve heard it all at least a dozen times from a dozen different people by the time you walked out of the locker room.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

I’m not sure what sparks the words that come out of my mouth next. “You know, you were great today, Adrian, but you know who was amazing?”

A raised eyebrow. “Who?”

It’s all I can do to conceal a teasing smile. “Your teammate. Cam. I mean, seriously, I could not look away from him. He was amazing. A real budding Michael Phelps if I’ve ever seen one.”

And also the only member of the swim team whose name I can match to a face.

I’m expecting Adrian to call me on my bullshit or spout off his own sarcastic quip, but his smile drops into a disbelieving frown. “Cam? Cam Buchan? You thought Cam Buchan was amazing?” He crosses one arm over the other, his biceps straining against the mesh material.

I get that feeling again, the one that tells me I’m treading a very thin line, and decide to trample over it anyways.

“Yeah, I mean…” I reach for something that sounds believable. “The way he swam that butterfly stroke. Unbelievable.”

His eyes narrow. “He swam freestyle.”

“Well…he was so fast it was hard for me to tell.”

“His finishing time was 3:40. Mine was 2:20. In what world does Cam Buchan’s very average, very unremarkable time make him ‘amazing’?” He looms over me, and I’m cognizant of every inch of his impossibly tall frame.

Still, I shrug. “I don’t know…there’s just something about him in the water. Something…”

“Amazing?” His jaw ticks, and his lips are compressed into a thin line.

He’s pissed, a realization that should scream Danger! Turn back now! but sends a slight thrill through me instead. Because I’ve found a soft spot. A sensitive nerve to be poked.

Adrian plays modest whenever he ends the quarter with another string of straight-As or has the fastest finishing time, but the humility is an act. A show for the crowd.

I’m starting to think he can’t stand being anything but the best – even in the eyes of someone like me.

I turn, content with the knowledge that I’ve gotten under his skin the same way he insists on getting under mine, and head for the messy dorm room and all-nighter that await me – but not before calling out, “Tell Cam congratulations for me, will you?”

He doesn’t respond.

***

According to my mother, life’s all about sacrifices – a lesson usually followed by a guilt-trip on the woes of single motherhood and a very pointed: “I was only nineteen. I could’ve gone to college and met a nice guy. I could’ve been an actress. I could’ve lived in a nice, big house on the coast had things turned out differently for me.”

Things being me – the crying, needy baby she delivered in someone’s kitchen, who whittled her prospects down to guys with neck tattoos and brought her future to a screeching halt.

But it’s an important lesson – learning to sacrifice.

This weekend, I sacrificed two nights worth of sleep to catch up on homework, the evidence of which no amount of coffee or drug store concealer seems to be able to hide.

And this morning, I’m sacrificing my History grade.

Even with back-to-back all-nighters, there hadn’t been time to write the History essay Professor Ayala plans to collect this morning – but as long as I do well on mid-terms, I’m pretty sure my grade can survive the hit.

“Alright, everyone,” Professor Ayala’s baritone booms. “Please take out your essays, and I’ll come around and collect them.” He’s one of the few teachers left at Lionswood that still requires paper copies of assignments, so I can’t lie myself into an extension with excuses about computer glitches or spotty Wi-Fi.

The room fills with the sound of zippers and rustling paper as my classmates take out their essays. I fidget with my pencil.

Ayala makes his painstakingly slow descent down the aisle, the scent of his bergamot cologne more potent with every step.

Anxiety settles like a rock in my gut.

Sure enough, he pauses by my empty desk, weathered fingers pushing his eye-glasses past the bridge of his nose. “Poppy.”

I cringe. “I’m sorry, Professor –”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he cuts me off softly. “I’ll admit that I’m not one to give extensions, but I understand you’ve had some extenuating circumstances.”

I just blink up at him.

What?

He’s giving me this pitiful smile that’s soft around the edges, and not at all like the stern, no-tolerance policy professor he’s been all year.

Is he mixing me up with someone else?

I’m not sure how else to explain what’s happening right now, but if it helps me avoid a zero, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Right. Yes. Those extenuating circumstances I have.”

He nods. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. Adrian’s already spoken to me about it. You can get the paper to me the Monday after break.”

He’s moved on before I have time to respond, and I’m left with my jaw on the floor.

Adrian?

Like Adrian Ellis?

For a brief second, I run through the list of every Adrian I go to school with. There is a pencil-thin freshman named Adrian who does the school announcements, but I doubt he could pick me out of a line-up.

Which means…

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as sandpaper.

I remember mentioning that I was overwhelmed to Adrian at the pool, but the thought of him doing this…

As confused as I am about what might’ve spurred this good samaritan act, it leaves another odd emotion curling through my chest – one that I didn’t think I’d ever feel toward Adrian Ellis.

Gratitude.

***

The proximity of fall break has everyone in good spirits – even me, who will not be spending the next six days sunbathing on a yacht in the tropics but catching up on my sleep. I’m too tired to be envious that a large percentage of my classmates will be doing the former.

After the last class of the day, I brave the crowded hallways to deposit some textbooks in my locker, which happens to be in the thick of the chaos. Amidst the chatter, one voice demands more attention than the rest.

“I need this break. You guys have no idea,” Sophie tells Penelope and Ava as the trio strolls through the halls. “I had to send a picture to my dermatologist this morning. She agrees my skin is on the verge of breaking out. She recommended that I eliminate all stressors in my life. And glycolic acid.”

“Well, Paris is about as stress-free as you can get. I’m so jealous your mom’s taking you,” Penelope replies. “My parents want to spend break at the lake house, which is going to be boring as hell.”

“Your family’s Lakehouse is so pretty though,” Ava says. “Perfect for pictures.”

“Pictures I won’t be able to show anyone since the service is so shitty,” Penelope shoots back and turns to Sophie with hopeful eyes. “You should just take me with you. I bet I could convince my mom to buy me a ticket if I begged hard enough, and I’d take a week in Paris over a nice view of the water any day.”

Even across the hall, I can see the slight downturn of Sophie’s lips. “Oh, I would, Pen…but you know how anal my mom is about family time. Plus, we might see Camilla while we’re there, and a non-family visitor…we can’t risk the Duchess’ security like that.” She sighs. “Honestly, I don’t even really want to go to Paris…but I have to. I need a dress for the St. Benedict’s dance, and you know nothing compares to the shopping in Paris.”

I think I would give up my life savings – a whopping $305.28 – to watch Sophie try to clothes shop at the Thrift-N-Save in Mobile. When I was younger, I’d stock up on new (or new-ish) back-to-school clothes whenever they had a five-dollar bag sale.

That was my Paris.

Even the thought of Sophie trying to sort through the store’s big bins – only separated by gender, not size – has me cracking a smile.

“Don’t remind me about the St. Benedict dance,” Penelope groans. “I have no date and no dress.”

“My mom is working on the latter,” Ava chimes in, “And I’m sure I’ll secure the first come Monday.”

“Do you think Adrian will ask you, Soph?” Penelope asks.

Sophie rolls her eyes. “Of course. I expect to have a single rose in my locker the moment I return from break.”

“Please,” Ava says. “Knowing Adrian, he’ll probably buy you an entire bouquet.”

They continue speculating over what impressive grand gesture Adrian will pull out of his hat, their theories ranging from expensive bouquets to diamond-studded roses.

The St. Benedict dance, reserved for Lionswood seniors or those lucky enough to be invited by a senior, has a simple tradition: if you want to ask someone to the dance, you leave a single rose in their locker.

It’s the Lionswood version of a ‘promposal,’ but with a little more class, less poster board.

I have no doubt that Sophie’s locker will be a rose garden come Monday morning, though I can’t say if Adrian’s rose will be included.

A year ago, they would’ve made perfect sense to me. Two beautiful people carved from the same elitist, old-money stock. In another life, they’d be popping out dark-eyed, red-headed babies with curly hair and a sense of entitlement.

These days, I’m pretty sure the darkness lurking beneath Adrian’s pretty smile would grab Sophie Adams and swallow her whole.

As if he can sense that I’m thinking about him, Adrian turns the corner and strides effortlessly through the hall, our classmates parting like the red sea – and headed straight in my direction.

My stomach flip-flops, a sensation that’s becoming more and more familiar these days.

Is he coming to tell me why he went out of his way to get me an extension on a paper?

Before he can reach me, Sophie intercepts him with a tug on his navy blazer. “Adri!”

He looks down at her, annoyance flickering across his face for a millisecond, before he masks it with a crooked smile. “What’s up, Soph?”

Sophie doesn’t see the momentary annoyance – nobody does – but I’m beginning to become an expert when it comes to recognizing the cracks in Adrian’s mask.

“I just wanted to see you before the start of fall break,” she tells him. “And you haven’t told me where your family is going for break yet. Don’t tell me it’s Dubai again – I’ll be so jealous.”

He shrugs. “No, not this time. I believe my mother is currently deciding between the estate in Nola and the brownstone in New York.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Sophie simpers. “You know, you’re always welcome to come to Paris with me if you’re interested in spending break somewhere a little more exotic.”

“That’s quite alright,” Adrian politely declines, “My mother would kill me if I missed out on her sanctioned family time.”

Sophie laughs, and I use every precious moment she holds him up to disappear into the mass of students heading for the exit doors, most of whom will probably be on planes and trains within the hour.

If I squint, I can spot the empty campus and six chaos-free days just within reach, and I can’t wait.