𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨-𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ☾ 𝐥. 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

𝟕. 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐲

— CLEO.

I WAKE UP bright and early the next day— 7:23 AM, to be specific. Five minutes earlier than everyone else in the apartment. Yesterday, Jenn, our director, suggested that we go to the beach today and work on our "togetherness."

Apparently, someone tipped her on Louis' and I's rivalry and now Jenn has this idea in her head that she can get us to be friends by the end of the shoot. If it hasn't happened in the last three years by literally everyone back in New York, I don't really think she can change anything.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I meet everyone in the kitchen, and when I say everyone, I mean everyone: Louis, Millie, Sofia, Amybeth, and Joshua. They're eating breakfast at the island together.

"Oh, Cleo," Amybeth raises her hand as I walk out of the bathroom and head straight for the cereal box sitting on the kitchen counter. I turn around, facing her. "We were just talking about you!"

I chuckle. "I hope not anything bad."

"Don't worry, we were just talking about how you cried the last time we went to Coney Island," Louis smirks. I glare at him, throwing up my middle finger at him.

"It was cold and the wind got in my eyes. It's a natural reaction!" I respond.

Millie smacks Louis' arm. She rolls her eyes. "We were actually talking about our favorite ice cream flavors— Jenn's getting some for us later— and Louis told us that your favorite is Rocky Road."

I look at Louis and it's like he's refusing to meet my eyes. When we were 13, our parents suggested that we go on a trip to Coney Island.

"If Louis goes, I'm not going," I said, stomping up the stairs to my bedroom.

Mom walked in and she sat next to me on my bed. I clutched onto my stuffed bunny, Delia, at the time. She asked me why Louis was such a dealbreaker. She didn't understand that I needed to be away from him. I needed to be away from him because— I liked Louis.

I knew he threw the spelling bee for me. I knew the second I saw him in the school lobby, writing in his black notebook. I saw him from the other side of the room and his parents called him, telling him that they were leaving. He nodded and walked over. He left his notebook.

I ran to the notebook, about to let him know that he had forgotten it, but I had this urge— a bad one, I know — to open it.

He wrote the word— the word he lost. He confessed that he knew it, but he never said why he let me win. I was so confused. I still am. But after I found out, I was angry that he gave it to me. I wanted to win fair and square. I wanted to win because I had earned it, not because it was given to me.

I debated whether to give him back the notebook, but I ended up passing by him on my way out. I tapped his shoulder and held up the notebook.

"You let me win," I said. My arms were crossed and my brows were furrowed— visibly upset.

I watched the replies running in his head. He didn't know what to say. Either the truth, or a lie. I think he lied. "The game was running too long. I wanted to go home," he shrugged. "Plus, it would make me sad seeing you lose so badly."