Finley doesn’t divert her gaze. She swims to where I settle on the side of the pool, my feet in the water.
I study her face up close—heart-shaped with featherlight freckles peppering her cheeks and plump pink kissable lips. Her hair’s wet, but her makeup remains intact. I swallow hard, praying every thought bouncing around my mind doesn’t give itself away in another part of my anatomy.
What does she see when she looks at me? Her beautiful face is frustratingly blank and unreadable.
“So why were you in that closet?” I ask.
She perches her arms on the side of the pool and rests her cheek on them. “Oh, I was lost. I’msoglad you found me.” Her words drip with sarcasm.
I ignore her attempt at deflection, too curious for my own damn good. “I thought you might be hiding.”
“Who would avoid a party?”
“You and me, apparently.” I gesture between us.
“Who says thisisn’ta party, Zach?” She kicks off the wall, swimming backward until she reaches the center of the pool, where she treads water. “You going to join me or what?”
I hesitate. I didn’t work my way into the NHL only to throw it all away by doing something reckless.
“If you’re worried about drowning,” she adds while I silently sift through my thoughts, “you should know I can hold my breath underwater for two minutes.”
“How doesthathelp me exactly?”
“In this situation, I’ll be able to reach you if you sink to the bottom.” She flashes a suggestive smile. “In other situations… I’ll let you use your imagination.”
Fucking hell. I cough, choking on nothing other than the image those words bring to mind.
I shrug off my jacket and fumble the buttons of my shirt open. I fling the clothing toward the chair, then cannonball into thewater in only my boxer briefs. My body adjusts quickly to the warmer-than-expected temperature.
I shake my head when I break the surface, my hair whipping water in her direction. “I feel safer already.”
“If you want safe,” she says, “you should stay away from me.”
Prologue #2: Finley
Two Years Ago
I’ve felt nothing allday, a lovely side effect of my bipolar disorder medication.
My doctor said it takes time to find the medication and dose my body needs, but once we discover the right combination, the emptiness will pass. He also said feeling nothing for someone with my condition is better than the alternative.
But after the energetic highs of hypomania, moving through ordinary life is akin to a car stuck in mud. Still not as bad as a depressive episode. During those, everything takes constant, conscious effort, including actions most people take for granted. Getting out of bed. Exercising. Social interaction. I’d argue this nothingness, this sleepwalking through the day, isn’t much better.
It took a herculean effort to get through the wedding, hours of hair and makeup, endless conversation with the other bridesmaids, and my sister-in-law Gemma’s bubbly personality.I’m happy she’s joining our family, and she should effuse happiness on her wedding day, but I still struggle. Watching other guests cry during the vows while I experienced no emotion made it blatantly obvious how different I am from everyone else.
I retreated to that closet so I would stop comparing myself to other people. No one tried to talk to me there. Not until Zach burst through the door, rambling about the restroom in this self-conscious way that made me want to smile for the first time in so,solong.
“What makes youdangerous?” Zach asks, swimming toward me.
His flirting sends a thrill through me. I like his rambling too. The way my mere presence melts his mind to the point he can’t form sentences. I like the way I unnerve him, this cute guy who probably has no shortage of women interested in him. There’s a power in it—a sense of control—that grounds me.
“Clearly, I influence you,” I tell him with a half smile. “You followed me here, to the pool. Aren’tyouworried about what I might make you do next?”
The water shoves my burdens from my shoulders. I’m free from my family’s concerned expressions. From the heaviness of my tired limbs. From the acute awareness my life will never look like it used to. From the fact that I’ll always have to deal with something most people will never understand.
I hate self-pity, but I can’t stop it. I haven’t been able to since my diagnosis, not with the constant reminders of myotherness.
“I might like it, I think.” Zach’s gaze darts away from mine, breaking eye contact first. His nervousness kicks my heart into overdrive. I want whatever this emotion is to swallow me whole. I want a break from the void. I want this adorable boy to make me forget myself.
