Never Ever

8| I see London, I see France

The first thing I do before my afternoon class is shop for a decent swimsuit. I try on a selection, settling on a plain black one-piece that is so boring even Noah won't be enthused. I grab the same style in a deep azure blue before heading to checkout.

As the woman behind the counter folds up my items, it feels like I'm finally in control. After my accident, the story of my downfall spread to the news, and life, as I knew it, spiraled. In the space of a week, I lost my swim team, future, and the respect of everyone in Maybury. Even Peter, who had checked on me regularly in the aftermath of the accident, succumbed to the pressure; I was utterly powerless. 

The end result was that I spent my senior year as a hermit, throwing myself into studying and volunteering, but no matter how hard I tried to forget, my town wouldn't let me; now, I have a chance to start over.

My steps feel lighter as I flounce out of the shop. I have class in thirty minutes, so I walk the few blocks back to campus, put away my swimsuits, and grab myself a mocha before heading to Business Management.

I feel my heart flutter as I head up the lecture hall's steps. I still don't trust Noah, but if my nightmare taught me anything, it's that I can't keep ignoring the issue anymore. I can't keep hiding. I have the chance to return to the water again, and I refuse to let my distrust of him jeopardize that. Today, I'm going to be pleasant.

I slip into one of the seats near the back and pull out my Ipad, placing it on my desk before glancing at the clock. It's almost two, and Mr. Walter is already at the podium, testing his microphone, but there's no sign of Noah. I face the front, ignoring the knot of disappointment in my stomach, and focus on Mr. Walter.

He's halfway through his passionate spiel about financially savvy branding when the doors to the hall fly open. Noah stands like a towering giant in the archway, his gym bag slung casually across one shoulder and his hair slightly damp from practice.

Even though Mr. Walter is waiting, Noah takes a moment to scan the lecture hall, looking for someone in particular. His eyes find mine in the crowd of impatient faces. With an apologetic wave to Mr. Walter, he slips into the empty seat beside me, dropping his gym bag by his feet.

"Hey, Blue."

I force myself to look over. "Hey."

Even after a morning of practice, he still manages to look effortless. There are none of the side effects of too much chlorine, like red eyes or dry skin. Every inch of him is smooth and envy-inducing. Whenever I'd have practice, I'd head back to class looking like a half-drowned rat.

I turn to the front, thinking maybe that's it for conversation, but without a word, he slips his phone in front of me. I frown and glance at the screen to find the sign up sheet for the local swim team tryouts. 

"Figured it might help you to have a goal to work toward," Noah says. "Given how anal you are."

I ignore his emphasis on anal and pass him his phone back without telling him I'd already seen it. The tryouts are in less than a month, so I'll doubt I'll be ready, but maybe he's right; having something to work toward is exactly what I need. "What makes you think I'm anal? You hardly know me."

He leans closer, letting our shoulders brush. I breathe in his aftershave, its light, crisp scent intertwined with the slightest hint of chlorine. Casually, as if fully aware of what his proximity does to me, he reaches over and points to my Ipad.

"You color code your points by importance," he says. "You're constantly annotating your schedule. If the highlights you draw aren't perfect, you spend half the class redoing them."