Back on campus, I swing back and forth between questioning what the hell I’m doing with Jack and floating on an emotional high unlike any I’ve experienced before. Total bliss. It’s real too, not a fleeting sensation I’ve tricked myself into believing for a short time. With Jack, I’m vulnerable. Each moment together settles something inside of me, warms me from the inside out. Makes me both stronger and closer to breaking at the same time. I’ve never been happier in my life. Or more terrified.

We’re in the pool practicing turns for the I.M., or individual medley. I’m trying to keep my focus but can’t help glancing at the clock every few minutes. Jack’s meeting me afterward for lunch with his mom and sister. It’s only been two days since I’ve seen him, but it’s the longest we’ve been apart since StageFest three weeks ago. He’s been recording with the band, and with my practice schedule, we haven’t been able to connect. I miss his easy smile, the way he bites his lip when he’s uncertain, and the weight of his eyes on me. He’s always watching me, and not in the way that most college guys do, but like he’s trying to see right into me, figure me out. It might scare me, but it also gives me a different kind of power than I’ve ever experienced before. Like I’m worthy of his efforts to peel back my layers, even as I know that once he gets to the inside, he’ll see the rot and run in the other direction. A tiny piece of me hopes he’ll see that those pieces aren’t rotten, but I haven’t looked closely enough myself to know the truth of what’s in there.

“You’re up, Kick,” Beatrice says from behind me. I blink a couple times behind my goggles before realizing the lane is empty ahead of me. We’re resting on the lane lines between turns, and I slide off before kicking forward.

My foot accidentally collides with Bea’s hip. Turning around, I call out, “Sorry Bea!” and try not to laugh. I’m a disaster. She holds up a middle finger with one hand, clutching her side with the other.

The back to breast turn is the trickiest of all. If the timing and technique are off, it’s possible to lose a ton of time. I know I’ve put in the work when I nail the turn, even as my head is off in Jack Kingston land. My body has completed this motion so many times in the past few months, it’s nearly on autopilot as I calculate the distance between the flags above me before diving back underwater. As soon as my fingertips touch the wall, my abs contract hard to throw my legs up and over my head into a backward flip, and I push off the wall. It took awhile before I was able to do this and maintain enough breath in my lungs to continue into a solid breaststroke pull-out, but now I’ve got it down.

People call it the “suicide turn” and I used to think it was because of the oxygen deprivation to get through a pull-out. You lose one last breath by diving backward into the turn early. Really, it’s called a “suicide turn” because if you time it wrong by just a fraction of a second, you could get disqualified for being on your back during breaststroke or vice versa.

After completing the turn, I take my place in a line of six other swimmers in the middle of the pool, resting one arm on the lane line. One of the top high school swimmers who trains with the club team turns to stare at me.

“How do you do that?” she asks. It almost sounds like awe in her voice, but that can’t be right. She’s the state record holder in the I.M.

“Do what?”

“That turn. It’s like, a full second faster than all of ours, and you don’t even look like you’re trying.” Okay, maybe not awe. She actually sounds a little annoyed.

“It’s not a second faster.”

“Yeah. It is. I’m watching the clock.”

That’s news to me. “Yeah, well, I am trying.”

So maybe I wasn’t totally focused going into that one, but I’ve been pretty diligent in fine-tuning my technique. I know Shay’s always been amazing at turns, and I see how practicing the movement over and over again can make the difference needed to win. Instead of zoning out when we do turn repeats like this, I’ve been working it. Today, even as I count the minutes to see Jack, it looks like my work is paying off.

But the girl just scoffs before turning back around. It’s a weird feeling, realizing the girl might be jealous of me. Usually I’d feel undeserving of such a sentiment, but instead I’m a little smug. I kind of want to race Shay on the suicide turn to see if I’m faster at it now. Maybe tomorrow. Today, I’ve got somewhere to be.

Jack’s leaning against the wall in the fitness center lobby when I come out of the locker room. His arms are crossed and a baseball cap is pulled low over his face. If he thinks he’s succeeding at going unnoticed, he’s mistaken. In the summer, we trade off practices between campus and at a pool in a nearby fitness center with dozens of non-college swimmers. Today we’re off-campus and the lobby is buzzing with people coming in and out from workouts, or hanging around socializing. While most people here probably won’t recognize his face, even if they would recognize his music on the radio, he’s gathering plenty of stares. Women are starting to circle when he looks up and spots me.

His face breaks into a smile and I don’t hesitate to walk right up to him and throw my arms around his neck. After taking him in a long kiss, I pull back to say, “Hi.”

Jack’s eyes dance in amusement. “Fireball,” he says, his voice low with a hint of warning.

“Are you embarrassed by PDA, Jack?” I ask, half-teasing.

His hands grip my hips and pull me closer. “With you? Hell no. But it’s been forty-eight hours since you last kissed me and my mom and Gracie are waiting for us at Margie’s Diner.”

“So?”

“So now I won’t be able to think about anything but kissing you more while Gracie tells me about her new floor routine.”

My eyes widen. “Oops.”

He smirks. “I forgive you. Come on. Let’s go.”

Jack tugs my hand and I follow eagerly, starving as usual after practice. He’s wearing what I now view as his signature black jeans and black tee shirt, and I always have to suppress a giggle when we hop into his minivan. A motorcycle would be more fitting. Occasionally Jack substitutes dark jeans or a dark-colored tee shirt, and on hot days he’ll wear athletic shorts. But no matter what he’s wearing, he has a badass edge emanating from him. The minivan should at least be black to try to blend with the image, but it’s a faded red. I like to tease him that it almost looks pink.

“Kick!” Gracie’s voice cuts through the diner when we open the doors. Even in the summer, it’s mostly filled with college students who are on campus for one reason or another. Gracie loves it here though for the Belgian waffles.

She hops up from the booth she’s sharing with her mom and runs at me, nearly knocking me over with an enthusiastic hug.

Jack tries to pry us apart as I swing her around. “Whoa. What is this? You’re giving Kick the Gracie greeting after knowing her only two weeks? Where’s the love?” He pretends to be angry.

She giggles and relents, throwing her arms around him too. “I changed your diapers, you little stinker,” he reminds her.

“Ew. Gross,” Gracie says, pushing off him.

Heather smiles at us. We just saw her a few days ago at her house, so she only waves as we slide into the booth next to her. Gracie insists Jack get out so she can sit next to me instead, and he grumbles on jokingly about her betrayal.

I think I expected Heather to be a little more suspicious of me, but she’s welcomed me with total openness. Jack tells me he hasn’t brought a girl home to meet the family before, outside of Addy and Cassie from the band, who have been around since high school. With his recent rise to fame, I assumed it’d take some time to prove my loyalty to Jack before his mom warmed up to me, but she must trust her son’s judgment. I envy that.

We order Belgian waffles, and Gracie tells us that her new floor routine is choreographed to a song from Moana. She shows us videos from her practice earlier on Heather’s phone, and I’m a little blown away by her tumbling abilities. Gracie revels in my genuine praise before drilling me about swimming. I tell her about the suicide flip turn, and she looks up underwater videos on YouTube to see what I’m talking about it, claiming she could probably do one. The cocky attitude in that tiny, bouncy body is adorable. When our waffles arrive, I glance up to find Jack and Heather beaming at the two of us from across the table.

It’s weird how easily we all hang together, like a little family. There’s no awkwardness, no uncertainty. When I’m with Jack, the high is easy to ride. It’s only when we’re apart that the doubt creeps in, and I wonder when it’ll come crashing down.

Jack and I spend the afternoon lounging at my place. We snuggle in bed, do some work on our computers, and he watches me dance around the kitchen as I try out new tapas recipes. We finally come out of our cocoon later in the evening to meet up with Townie and some of their friends. I’ve been going out at night a little more since returning with Jack. He has a lot of friends from growing up in the area, and when I’m with him, it’s nothing like the partying I used to do. So far, it’s only been little get-togethers at people’s houses.

As we turn onto the street where we’re meeting Townie, I hear the party before I see it. Tonight, it seems, will be a little different. Jack parks in an open spot a block away and we walk hand in hand in the direction of the music and voices. A strange sensation overtakes me as we get closer. My skin feels hot and cold at the same time. My hands are so clammy that I have to pretend to search in my purse for something in order to release my hand from Jack’s.

I’ve walked down this sidewalk before. Two weeks after meeting Jack, on a night when I’d had way too much to drink, I stumbled along this same street. Leaned on Nolan as I made my way up the steps to the front porch of the house. Now it’s Jack I’m leaning against as I try to keep my breaths steady.

“Kick? You okay?” Jack’s voice sounds a little distant as I shake my head, trying to clear the fog.

Memories from that night seep into my head even as I try to push them out.

I want to tell Jack I’m sick. I want to tell him to take me home. I want to run. But I can’t. My throat is too tight to speak. But mostly, I don’t want Jack to ask questions. I don’t want to lie. And even more, I don’t want to tell the truth. So I give him a weak smile as Townie swings open the front door and greets us with his usual jovial smile.

Jack’s attention is swept away from me as we’re pulled inside and friends crowd around him. He’s a celebrity here too, amongst the friends he grew up with, who knew him before he played at StageFest and toured the world. I let Jack get sucked into the crowd instead of trying to stay at his side.

My eyes wander around the space. I know this is the same house, but I don’t recognize much. It’s possible that different people live here now, and the furniture and decorations have changed. Most of the houses in this area are off-campus college housing with frequent rotating tenants. I was so out of it that night, I don’t remember much about the time spent in the house before Nolan brought me upstairs. Why did I go with him? Why didn’t I leave? I wish I had been stronger. Smarter.

I search for familiar faces from that night, but I don’t see any. Without even realizing what I’m doing, my feet take me away from the crowd spilling from the living room/kitchen area into the backyard, and down a hallway until I find myself staring at the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. My eyes squeeze shut and panic fills me as visions of that night flash in my head.

I could have stopped him. I could have tried harder to stop him. Why did I feel like I couldn’t? Why did I think I had no choice?

“Kick?”

I spin around and find Carson looking at me curiously.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Oh. Um, yeah. Headache,” I say quickly. My fingers had been on my temples after all.

“Uh, were you going upstairs?” He shuffles his feet, looking around.

“No.” It comes out sharp, and Carson’s eyes widen.

“Right. Well, can I get by?” He gestures with his hand. I’m standing in the middle of the staircase, blocking access.

When I take a step back, he moves to go past, but then turns so we’re inches apart. “Oh, hey, I have something that will help your headache if you want,” he offers.

It takes a moment before I understand that he probably isn’t talking about ibuprofen. I’m both tempted and repulsed by the possibility. Curious, I ask what he means.

He pulls out an Altoids tin and shakes it with a wink, letting me know it’s not filled with mints. Then he tilts his head to the side and responds, “Come on up with me. I’ll show you.”

A tightness seizes my chest at his words. He’s standing much too close, and when I take a step back, the railing behind me nudges into my lower back, preventing movement. I’m completely frozen. I don’t want to go anywhere with this guy, least of all back up those stairs where the worst night of my life happened.

But the idea of forgetting everything for one night, being reckless in a different way, it’s got a pull on me that I haven’t felt in a long time. The pull to escape the flashes of memory I don’t want, the feelings I want to keep ignoring, the fear threatening to pull me under. The realization hits that most of all, there’s a pull to self-destruct, a strange need to sabotage myself, my training, my relationship with Jack. With that realization, I find myself shaking my head.

“No, that’s not my thing,” I manage to get out.

Carson shrugs and jogs up the stairs, and I release a long breath.

I’m rattled, my hands shaking, when I return to the crowds. I need Jack.