Two hours later, I have a great buzz going from taking full advantage of the bottomless mimosa special. The thing I love about Coco is she lets me be. She knows something is up, but she trusts me to figure it out my way. Sure, other college students at the restaurant are drinking at brunch too, it’s a Sunday tradition for half the sorority girls, but for a Division I swimmer, I know it’s dumb. Especially since I’ve got tons of homework and this is my only day without swim practice to actually catch up. Whatever.

“So, didn’t sound like last night was all that great with Jack,” Coco muses.

I should’ve known she wouldn’t let it go. “It was, and then it wasn’t. It’s like he was trying really hard to make it as impersonal as possible, kind of took the fun out of it.”

“You like it when it’s personal, but on your terms, right?” Even though it’s a harsh question, she’s not accusatory, just curious.

The alcohol running through me makes me respond honestly. “Yeah. I like feeling the connection. I need to know someone a little, or at least pretend I do, to really want them. It makes it better. More exciting.” I open up just enough to get them to want more than only my body, and I want them to open up just enough to have the illusion it’s something special, could be more. It’s a little twisted, but it works for me.

“Yeah, I’m like that too. Except I think you like having the control more than I do. I don’t mind sharing it. Sounds like Jack flipped everything around. He might have agreed to do it your way, but he didn’t really. He still took control.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. He really did,” I respond with wide eyes, remembering how he slammed into me almost angrily, like he was pissed I’d made him do it that way. It was hot. That’s for sure. Hot, but not totally satisfying.

“I think you should call him,” she says.

“Why would I do that?” I ask the same question I asked earlier. Because seriously, why would I?

“He tried it your way. You didn’t like it. Try it his way. Maybe you guys can figure out a way that works for both of you.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.” But she’s planted the idea, and the possibilities roll through me. I mean, I don’t know exactly what he had in mind, but I could hang out with him a couple times, get to know each other a little better. We obviously have chemistry. He’s going on tour soon. It’ll be an easy out if he starts to think we can have a relationship.

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Chris Sweetwater, wondering where I disappeared to last night.

Or, I could forget about Jack and hang out with Chris. Yeah, that sounds way simpler. Less risky. Less complicated.

Coco hugs me goodbye after brunch, heading back to Santa Monica. I don’t tell her I’m going back to Alpha Chi Beta to meet Chris.

Chris is the kind of guy I can have eating out of the palm of my hand within minutes. He’s like most guys. Boost his ego by showing interest, take the reins and lead him in a direction he’ll like, and he’ll want to follow me around like a puppy. It’s not that I think guys are brainless or anything, but most of them think with their dick. At least, they do with me.

Chris is waiting for me at the door of the frat when I get there. He’s wearing basketball shorts and nothing else. A crew of people are walking around with trash bags, picking up empties and God knows what else from last night’s party.

“Those the pledges?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says with a grin. “Mostly for other frats though, only a couple from Alpha Chi.”

The whole fraternity thing is so weird.

“Come on, let’s go to your room. It’s not trashed like the rest of the place, is it?”

“Cleaned it this morning,” he tells me proudly.

I admire his muscular back and butt as he guides me through the house and up the stairs, down to the end of the hallway. He really is fine. But there’s no stirring in my belly, not even with the buzz from the mimosas. Instead, it’s that empty feeling again from this morning.

I swallow hard as we enter his room and he closes the door behind him. This is when I should take charge, show him how it’s going to go down. But instead, I’m frozen, uncertain. It all feels so pointless.

“I’m glad you came over, Kick. I’ve been wanting to hang out with you forever, but you always slip away before I get a chance to really talk to you.” He takes a seat on his bed and I follow him, sitting beside him.

Get control, Kick. Do your thing.

“Chris, I’ll be honest. Right now, I don’t really want to hang out. You’re not wearing a shirt, I had a few mimosas, and I really just want to straddle you.”

He huffs out a surprised laugh. “Now there’s some honesty I can appreciate.”

I stand up, turn to face him, and push his shoulders until he’s lying on the bed. My legs go around his waist and I run my hands down his chest and chiseled abs. I’m waiting for that stirring in my core, but there’s nothing. Even as I feel his hard length rising beneath me, I can’t bring myself to get in the moment. Instead, images flash of Jack looking at me from above when I went on my knees, Jack’s head between my legs, Jack’s hair flopping over his face as he fucked me with clenched jaws.

Closing my eyes, it’s Jack I picture as I start to roll my hips, eliciting a groan from Chris. But I can’t do this. The urge to use Chris for my own pleasure, even if he’s doing the same, it’s simply not there. It’s not Chris’s body I want underneath me right now. Shit. A rush of anger and frustration hits at the realization. I run a shaky hand through my hair, suddenly off-balance, and pull away.

“Chris, I’m sorry. I just, I changed my mind.”

He sits up with hazy lust clouding his face. “Huh?” Poor guy.

“I know it’s not cool but my head is screwed up right now. I thought this was what I wanted. But I guess, um, now’s a bad time.”

He shakes his head, trying to keep up. “Right, yeah. Bad time. Okay.” He doesn’t hide his frustration with me, and I don’t blame him.

I walk to the door, once again feeling embarrassed for my actions. “You have my number if you change your mind,” Chris says, and I stiffen at his words.

Oh, the irony.

It’s a struggle getting through the next couple weeks of practice. Half the time I want to skip, go find a party and try to lose myself. The other half I want to call Jack, and find out more about his minivan and his baby sister. And kiss his dimples. And take my time touching him. Or just sit in my bed eating popcorn and watching YouTube videos of Kings of Sound performing.

But I show up, doing the workouts, even if my heart’s not in it. It keeps me from going crazy, or should I say, crazier. It gives me a purpose. I’m good, the best breaststroker on the team, one of the best in our conference, and on the edges of the national scene. I like being good, I like the rush of winning a race, killing it in a workout at practice, or breaking a record. But I’m afraid to really throw down. I’m scared to set goals only to fail to meet them. Terrified of trying to be as focused and determined as Shay, when I know I’ll fall short. So I just show up, go through the motions, let swimming be what it is – a source of consistency in my life. Something I’m good at, that gives me a sense of belonging. But nothing more.

It feels like there’s a weight on my body dragging me down in the days leading up to our first meet of the season. I’m sluggish in the pool, my head replaying my moments with Jack, my body seeking a high I fear I won’t find in casual hook-ups anymore. It’s like Jack ruined it for me. This careful balance I’d found over the years that was working just fine for me. I got what I wanted, what I needed, and it wasn’t messy.

There’s another concert at the Happy Hollow the night before our first meet. The band’s okay, not good enough that I would normally bother going to a show, but the bass player is hot. I wasn’t planning on going. Partying the night before a meet is a big no-no, even for me. But somehow, after Beatrice has gone to bed and Shay has gone over to Jett’s for the night, I find myself heading over to the show, hoping to find something to release me from this horrible ugly thing festering inside me and growing each day. The thing in my gut that started out as emptiness after Jack left that night, it’s transformed, taken over. It won’t let me ignore it any longer, but maybe I can destroy it by replacing it with something different. A guy, someone I can make fall for me and make myself fall for, just for a night.

When I get to the Happy Hollow, it’s a bluegrass band playing but it’s Kings of Sound that fills my head. Jack’s voice that I hear. I go straight for the bar, ordering two shots of tequila and downing them quickly. I start to make my way into the crowd, but Jack is everywhere, suffocating me, so I turn around and march back to the bar, ordering two more shots. The bartender gives me a wary look, but it’s a dude so I just smile and he hands over the shots without question. To guys who think with their dick, I raise a silent toast, before slamming the shots back.

The night is a blur of drinking, dancing, music, and trying to find something out of reach. When the band wraps up the final song of the night, I’m barely holding myself upright. I should just go home, crash, and struggle through a hangover that’s sure to hit at the meet tomorrow. Instead, I do the same thing I did two weeks ago. Only this time, as I walk outside and turn toward the alley, I’m not feeling so steady, and I’m not even sure which guy in the band I’m going for, if any. The bass player was all right, cute enough, a guest they had come up on piano was a little cuter, but too skinny. And not Jack. Nope. Jack’s the one I really want. Should I call him? Maybe he’s around.

Pulling my cell out of my purse I start to scroll through, looking for his number, before remembering it’s not in my phone. It’s on a piece of paper in my sock drawer. I’m rolling my eyes at myself, muttering something, when I walk right into someone. Ah, the piano player.

He smiles. Yeah, pretty cute.

“Whoa there,” he says with a laugh, holding me steady. “Where you goin’, sweetheart? Lookin’ for someone?” He has a southern accent. No wait, Australian. Not that they’re anything alike, but whatever it is, I like it. Accents always ratchet the hotness of a guy up a notch.

I point at him. “You play piano. Are you from Australia?”

“I am,” he says with another smile. “Want a smoke?”

He holds out a packet of cigarettes and I look around. No one else is outside. “No, I don’t smoke.”

When he lights one with a shrug, I decide that smoking isn’t entirely unsexy. Sometimes, on a piano player with an Australian accent, it’s not a deal-breaker.

We talk, about music mostly, though I think I just ramble and he lets me. Others join, and the next thing I know, I’m not going home to crash after all, but headed off to a bar, a club, someone’s house, I’m not really sure. I just know that going off with strangers, when I’m this drunk and feeling off, is a bad idea. I should go home, but even thinking about it makes me feel lonely. I’m craving that rush of power and excitement, even as I know I’m likely too far gone to get it.