Chapter One
I hate water.
Not drinking water, of course. I love my kidneys too much for that.
I’m talking about bodies of water. Oceans, seas, lakes, rivers, ponds, and pools. Most people don’t consider swimming pools to be bodies of water, but they should. They’re disgusting.
Spring semester of my junior year is three days away. According to the law of college, a blowout bash to bring in the New Year and spring competition season is justified. The hotel’s indoor pool is filled with athletes from various sports, their howls echoing through the stale wooden beams above. The basketball team’s hoop is fished out of the pool for the fourth time in the last hour. The track team huffs along the pool’s edge, catching their breath after another relay race. Chicken fights are in full swing, people gripping handfuls of slippery skin in hopes the other will topple over.
I, on the other hand, am as far away from the dirty pool water as one can be. I probably look a little bored and sober, which I definitely am, but my favorite pastime activity is in full swing—people watching.
Blocking my view of the pool, blinding bands of metal against pearly white teeth fill my vision. “Did you miss me?” Shay, my best friend and roommate, asks, placing her wet hands on my thighs.
I tug an earphone out and shove her away. “Don’t touch me!”
Shay gives me a look I’d describe as lovingly annoyed. As much as she wants me to swim with her, water and I will never get along. When I was five, I was stung by a jellyfish. When I was nine, a turtle bit my ass. But the worst experience was my thirteenth birthday party when Nathan Dooley pooped in the pool.
That floating, brown lump still haunts me.
“Relax, Mally. It’s safe! I checked it out myself. No turtles, jellyfish, or poop.”
I stare at the gray water in disbelief. There are bound to be at least ten band-aids floating around. I’ll pass.
“Pools are essentially public bathtubs, Shaylene. You willingly submerged yourself in a cesspool. You could get sick!” I pull my shirt over my nose. “We need to get you to urgent care right now.”
Shay snatches the unused towel from my lap to dry her hands. “Are you ever not dramatic?”
I shrug. There are three well-known things about me: I’m competitive, I’m inflexible, and I’m emotional—which apparently makes me dramatic.
“If it weren’t for me, your life would be dull. I keep you on your toes, Shaylene.”
Ignoring me, she releases the bun at the top of her head. Box braids fall down her short torso and curl at the ends. Ebony skin glows like midnight under the fluorescent lights, contrasting perfectly against her pale pink bikini. Her eyes match her skin, surrounded by equally dark lashes. Shay is utterly gorgeous.
I, on the other hand, look just as tired as I feel. Tomorrow is wash day, which means my dark coils are frizzy and wild from North Carolina’s humidity. A Clear Lake University Soccer shirt hangs to mid-thigh, showing the strong curve of my legs while hiding bikini bottoms that should have been donated years ago.
“Really?” She snorts. “Then why are you hiding away and being nosy? You’re listening to Prince at a college party.”
“Don’t say it like that. Prince is acceptable for all occasions.” I pull out my other earphone and twirl the cord around my finger. “And I’m not hiding away.”
“You didn’t deny the nosy part. At least you’re self-aware.”
Add that to my running list of traits. I’m nosy as hell.
The rickety chair heaves as she curls into my side, her skin cool and damp from the nasty water. “So, what have you learned so far?”
I nudge her shoulder with a smirk. “Who’s the nosy one now?”
“Still you. Now get going before I throw you into the pool.”
Shay may be six inches shorter than me, but I’ve learned to take her threats very seriously. So, on that note, I begin. “Brock and his girlfriend broke up. By the look of it, she ended things. There’s a sea of blue texts in the reflection of his glasses, and I don’t see one response in sight.”
“Sunglasses indoors?” Shay sucks in a sharp breath. “Probably to hide his tears.”
“Nice catch.” I tip my head toward the captain of the tennis team and six-time loser of slap-the-bag. His torso is in the chair while his legs are splayed across the tile. “Marcus still can’t handle his liquor, but him and Jenny? They’re on again. Caught them making out when I went to get my charger.”
“At least they didn’t ask you to join them like they did last time.”
To our left sits a duo taking shots. The women could pass as twins with their pale blonde ringlets and sun-kissed skin. “Aubrey and Letty made up. Looks like they’re done fighting.”
