Never Ever

3| All to yourself

Noah sets a date for our practice by cornering me after class. I walk down the steps to see him leaning on the wall, one foot resting on the old, weathered bricks like he's posing for the cover of GQ. I'd hoped, prayed, in fact, that he'd forgotten about our little arrangement, but clearly, no such luck.

I stroll down the walkway, convinced I can slip right past him undetected, but he matches my fast, even steps. "Coach canceled practice tonight," he says as we walk across campus, "so you've got me all to yourself, Blue."

My eyes flit to his and narrow slightly. He's got this way of making everything he says sound so dirty, but from the subtle yet telling arch of his brow, he knows it. I look away, convinced the heat in my cheeks means I'm blushing, and I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

"Sorry," I say as I pick up my speed, "I'm busy tonight." As desperately as I want to return to the water, I don't trust Noah for a second, nor do I want to be held at the mercy of his schedule. Whatever game he's playing right now, I refuse to play any part in it.

"Yeah?" His eyebrow furrows. "Doing what?"

"Things," I say, because admitting to the kind of Friday night I have planned sounds pathetic even to me. While high-school me hoped college would be a conveyer belt of parties and clubs, my nights consist of homework and Netflix.

Noah frowns as if he sees straight through me. "You're not backing out already, are you? 'Cause tonight is the perfect time to swim. Warm night, heated pool–" his eyes take on this husky glint like he knows I'm tempted, and god help me, I am. If there is one thing I love, it's swimming outdoors late at night. 

"Look," he says with a voice of reason, "give me your phone, and I'll message you the address." When I make no effort to move, he rolls his eyes and gets out his phone. Several seconds and a few clicks later, he looks up. "There, I've sent you my address on Instagram – just in case you change your mind."

Good lord, this boy really is used to getting whatever he wants. "Don't hold your breath," I say, but he's already walking away.

"Don't forget your swimsuit," he calls and dashes across the lawn.

With my mouth hanging open, I watch as he crosses the grass to his friends, who are sitting by the picnic tables. He slaps Pax's back, the walking epitome of a typical-looking jock, but for the tiniest, briefest moment, I'm hopeful. To be able to swim again would mean everything to me. 

Maybe it's stupid, but as soon as I get to my dorm, I raid my closet as if another, less raggedy swimsuit will jump out at me. When it doesn't, I sigh and pull it from the rail before laying it on the bed. This is stupid, and I know it. Noah Atterwood aside, the thought of getting in the water again is terrifying. What if I have another panic attack? What if I drown? It's been over a year, and I'm still not ready; maybe I never will be.

In sinking defeat, I make myself a light salad for dinner – I've never been one to swim on a full stomach – and pull on my swimsuit. There's no sarong to mask the tightness around my thighs this time, so if I'm not careful about angles, Noah will be exposed to a wedgie. But that's what happens when you bring a two-year-old swimsuit to college, and maybe said wedgie will put Noah off me for good.

I hope.

Addy walks in as I'm getting ready to leave. She flops face-first onto her pink satin covers, blowing a curly strand from her face, and says, "What possessed me to take English Lit? Seriously, repeatedly slamming my head into a desk would have felt less like torture than Mr. Tarmac's ramblings." She cranes her neck at a thirty-five-degree angle in order to meet my gaze. "Are you going out? I thought we were going to watch Selling Sunset tonight."