Hold My Breath(16)

“Yeah, I know, but it’s different when you’re scrawny and fourteen. I’ll leave you to it,” I say.

“Suit yourself,” he says. I take a few steps to the door, and my heart is pounding in my throat, when Will baits me. “If you’re afraid to lose to a boy.”

Goddamn him.

I hear the water splash, and I wait a second before turning to make sure he’s submersed. When I face the water, he’s treading in the center lane, a dozen yards out, moving backward. The deck light is only bright enough to see his profile.

“I’ve got nothing to prove to you, Will Hollister,” I say, taking more steps forward until I’m at the end of the deck.

“Yeah…I know,” he says, splashing as he pushes backward a few more strokes. “But I have a mountain of shit to prove, most of it to myself. Racing you always brings out the best in me, but it’s okay.”

The water moves with his strokes as he swims slowly to the other side. I watch as his form fades until the only evidence he’s in the pool at all is the ripples left in his wake. He doesn’t move for several seconds, and I know he’s waiting at the edge, watching me.

“Shit,” I say finally, kicking my sandals to the side.

“Ohhhh ho ho yes! I knew you couldn’t handle walking away from a challenge,” he says through cocky laughter.

“Turn around,” I yell.

“Oh I am, don’t you worry,” he says, nothing about his tone sounding honest.

“Will, you better turn your ass around or so help me God…” My hands are frozen on the button of my shorts, my arms and legs tingling with adrenaline.

“I’m turned; I’m turned! Pinky swear,” he says.

He’s never broken a pinky swear. Not with me. Shit, I’m really going to do this.

I tug my shorts down fast, then flip my T-shirt over my head, leaving my clothes in a pile by my shoes a few feet away from the water.

“You’re in my lane. Move over one,” I say, sitting on the edge and feeling the water. The heater hasn’t been working great, so the temperature is a little cooler than I’m used to.

“If you want the center lane, Maddy, you’re going to have to earn it,” he says, and I can tell he’s facing the other way by the way his voice echoes off the back wall. I stop swishing my legs in the water and look up, squinting in his direction.

“I always swim in the center lane, Will. Move. Over,” I grit. It’s a stupid thing to pick a fight over, but aggression has always been my friend in a race, so I let myself be childish.

“Tonight you don’t,” he says, and I hear the water splash with his movement. “And if there’s something you don’t want me to see, you better get your ass in the water now, because I’m coming back.”





Will




I catch her body slipping into the water just as I turn and begin swimming to the other side. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I know that my motives here—they’re dangerous. I should leave her alone. I should have just gone upstairs and changed and come back down when she left, but something in me just sort of acted.

She was here waiting for me. If anything, she was told the same story I told her dad, and yeah…maybe she didn’t believe it and figured I’d gone to hit up some bar, ditched my responsibilities to drink away my sorrows—like I’ve done in the past. None of that takes away the fact that she was still here, though. That she was waiting. Whether it was just to see me or to check on me, she was here for me. Not Evan, but me.

I look up for my last few strokes and see her holding onto the side of the pool, both arms stretched out along the deck, her chest puffed up defiantly and proud. Her absolutely perfect breasts both sexy and strong underneath a blue silk bra. It’s no different from the swimsuits I’d seen her in for years, but yet somehow, just knowing that this garment is not meant for the water makes it appealing as f*ck. I swim up next to her, gripping the side.

“Nice suit,” I smirk.

Her eyes narrow. She nudges her head to the right.

“Get in your lane, buddy,” she says. Her lips are tight, almost smirking, but not quite.

“I told you, you’re going to have to earn it,” I say.

I watch her breathe in, her eyes locked on mine, as she considers my challenge. I could easily just swim five feet to the right, but something about this feeling makes me not want to be so accommodating. It’s a rush—and I’ve always had a problem saying no to rushes.

“Fine. We’ll swim opposite. Go back over there, and when I say go, you give me your best two hundred,” she says. Her lip always gives her away. Maddy Woodsen has always had swagger, even when she was a kid. Her right upper lip is her tell, though—it lifts like Elvis’s when she’s holding a pair of aces.

“You go over there. I just swam back here, and you need a little warm-up anyhow,” I say.

Her brow falls and she huffs out a “fine.” I wait until she’s maybe fifteen yards out before I change the terms.

“And five hundred. I’m supposed to be making up for missing. Two hundred won’t make a dent on what I need to get in,” I shout. Maddy stops mid-stroke, twisting then treading in the middle of the pool.

I can see enough of her to know that her mouth is flat again, lips probably pursed, and her nostrils are likely flaring. I can read the silence between us, and I pissed her off. My mouth curves because God, I love pissing that girl off. I’ve missed it.