* * *
Lyla
* * *
I shouldn’t have listened to him.
That’s the part that won’t stop replaying in my head.
Fabric over my eyes. Rope gliding across my hands. His voice, low and steady, even when my heart couldn’t stop pounding in my ears.
You’re going to have to trust me.
And during that challenge, I did. The worst part? It felt right, and I was drawn to follow. But at the same time, I couldn’t. There was no way of knowing if I’d drop, no way of knowing he’d get me from point A to B without falling. I just kept thinking, if I could sense for myself where I needed to go, what was in front of me, I could get myself across safely. But in the end, I fell.
I spent the rest of that day and through the night, talking to the other girls. I even entertaining the idea of Sean, though his idea of a conversation was more of a booty call than anything else.
Scott must have gotten the message because he didn’t say a word, either.
I ended up tossing and turning all night, restless. And when I finally woke up to the gray predawn light, I could see his silhouette. One arm flung over his eyes, the other hanging off the narrow cushions.
This is the second night he’s slept on that god-awful couch and not once has he complained. I hate that I notice. Hate that the sight of him cramped and uncomfortable twists something in my chest like guilt I didn’t ask for and don’t owe him.
Throughout the day, I’ve reminded myself what he did, to not give in to lingering feelings. They’re residual from a painful past and nothing more. But even so, my body still hums from yesterday. The way he’d touched me, the desperate hunger in his kiss, how easily I gave in.
His words especially keep circling like vultures that won’t land until their prey has died. I can’t process this. I can’t make it make sense.
“Okay, but seriously,” Emily says, sprawled across my bed while I pretend to organize my already-organized suitcase. “How much longer are you planning to avoid that man? We have another challenge.”
“I’m not avoiding him. I’m…giving myself space.”
She snorts. “That sounds exactly like someone who’s avoiding their ex.”
I shake my head.
“Girl,” she continues. “You’ve practically been doing elaborate gymnastics to stay on the opposite side of whatever room he’s in at any given moment. It’s impressive, actually. Like watching a very attractive game of human Pac-Man.”
I throw a bikini top to her. “Here, you can borrow this one. And I’m simply regaining leverage.”
“Regaining leverage over what? You can’t avoid him forever.”
My stomach knots into a fist.
After yesterday, I’ve been furious. Not just at him but at myself. For how fast I gave in to his kiss. How much my heart fluttered when he held me close to his chest as he swam us to safety. How much afterward I felt a craving for more.
For so long, I’ve learned to be on my own. Sure, there were times I was lonely and gave in to the occasional date or hookup, but I took care of myself. Yet all it took for me to melt into him was a kiss. He still knows every button to push, every weak spot I have, and the fact that I gave in so completely makes me want to punch something—preferably him.
Avoiding him is the only way I can find control again. Can feel like I have power over whether this breaks me. If I let him close again, like before, I’ll only be repeating history. And I refuse to make those same mistakes.
So I’ve been moving like I’m walking through a minefield. Pool time when he’s in the gym. Breakfast and lunch positioned so other people act as buffers between us. Every strategic step is a deliberate fuck you to the part of me that still responds to him.
“There’s a difference between regaining leverage and hiding,” Emily says from the doorway.
“Enlighten me,” I snap, folding the same shirt again, harder this time.
“If you were regaining leverage, you’d be facing him head-on, setting boundaries, taking the reins. Right now, you’re just pretending he doesn’t still have the upper hand.”
“For such a confident, intense man, he’s being very patient,” she adds.
