In Deep (4 page)

“Gotta stay in shape, right?” Gavin says. And I swear, it's
like his muscles flex a little when he says it. Even Linus looks as if he wants to roll his eyes. “Besides,” he goes on, “this is the only club in town with a coach who's medaled.”

And it's true. I didn't care that Van had swum in the Olympics when I first joined—I just wanted someone who was going to push me so hard my brain turned to mush and my body took over. But him having those credentials helps me a lot too.

“Well, we'll see if you can keep up,” I say, giving a quick we're-done-with-this smile to all of them. I tap Grier on the arm. She may want to chat all afternoon, but I've got Louis waiting for me. Besides, this is getting obvious, and therefore lame, which Grier should know, since prior to now she's the one who's taught me exactly how not to behave around guys.

“Who're you again?” Gavin says to me.

“Oh, this is Brynn,” Grier answers, like I'm not worth paying attention to. Like I'm not the best swimmer on the team. Or her best friend.

“Well, nice meeting you, Brynn. Grier.” Those molten chocolate eyes of his looking at both of us—interested, amused.

“Yeah, thanks.” I wave. “See you tomorrow.”

I figure Grier will be right on my heels, so when she's not, and still isn't in the locker room by the time I've got my clothes pulled on over my suit, I'm perplexed but also annoyed. I suck in a breath, hold it deep for a count of twenty, and then let it out slow. Oxygen always helps rejuvenate the brain. Fine.
Whatever. So she's got the hots for some new guy on the team. She'll flirt with him for a few days, and then she'll find out he's a douchebag or, worse, an actual person with feelings and opinions and problems, and then she'll get bored and drop him. I can deal with it. I've seen it before.

But on my way back out, I practically run smack into her. Her face is electric, and she's squealing.

“My phone, my phone, my phone,” she gushes, scrambling to her locker and rummaging inside, murmuring numbers.

“I've gotta go, Grier. And hey—nice show out there. Way to be subtle.”

But she doesn't even hear me. Instead she taps her screen and pounds her feet on the slick floor, squealing again.

“Grier, come on. Louis is—”

“Check it,” she pants, coming over. “Just read it and weep.”

She holds her phone up in my face. The contacts screen.
HOT G
it reads. That, and his number.

HOME. DUMP BAG. QUICK CHAT
with Mom, and then I'm out of the house again. It's a short walk between my place and Charlie's, but the whole time all I can think about is Grier. And Gavin. What the hell, about getting his number on the first day, acting so airheadish and dumb? What the hell about
Read it and weep?

The place between my shoulder blades hardens beyond the usual. I mean, of course he was into her. Who wouldn't be into some pixie girl with big boobs drooling all over him? It's just that, even only a month ago, Grier had the boobs
and
she had some guts. Guys would throw themselves at her, sure, but she'd chew them up for breakfast. It was one of my very favorite things to watch. So why now? Why this guy? What the hell is
happening with her—doing everything so gushy and wrong? He isn't that special. I saw his face. And, yeah, he was interested in her. Boring, obvious, fine.

Yet, if I think about it, he was also into
me
.

The idea makes me feel the sharp, intensely focused way I do right before a race. That, and a little turned on.

Charlie answers the door in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, hair still wet from showering after his own swim practice. I'm so revved up I want to jump him right then, but first we have to small-talk with his mom and sisters before we get to go upstairs to “study.” As soon as his bedroom door's shut behind him though, I grab his face and mash my mouth against his.

“Whoa, hey,” he says, laughing softly while I pull off his shirt.

I kiss him again, holding onto his ribs, pulling him close, kneading the ridges of his muscles with my warm fingertips. He kisses back slower, walking us both awkwardly over to his bed. We've only actually done it twice, though we've fooled around plenty. I think, after such a long and serious relationship with Sarah, Charlie doesn't know how to just do it yet. It's like he believes it needs to be special every time.

Or that we have to talk first.

“You feeling better about earlier?” he asks, absently stroking my chest. “Grade reports?”

I shrug, thinking of Gavin, not grades. And showing Grier
what a predictable bore he is. I pull off my shirt, press my mouth hungrily against Charlie's. His hand skims down the knobby line of my backbone to cup my pointy pelvis. I press my hands flat against his shoulder blades, pulling him down with me. I want him. I want him now, now, now. No talking. No thinking.

“I really will help out,” he says into my ear as I arch up under him. “We could actually, you know, study sometimes.”

“Not right now though.” I sigh, pushing out of my shorts and grabbing for him. His breath catches a little, and he smiles, burying his face in my neck. No, there'll be no studying—or anything else—just right now.

THE NEXT DAY, THANKS TO
time with Charlie (well, and the KFC Mom brought home last night), I wake up a little more refreshed, so it's easier to feel normal. I'm not any happier about grades or Grier being an asshole over Gavin, but at least I'm well rested. I'm alert in class, and I even let Charlie kiss me good-bye in the hall after lunch, though usually PDA like that gets on my nerves.

My not-great-but-not-sucky mood makes me remember Kate and that guy Connor. As soon as we're out of Enviro, I jump to the questions.

“So, what did you actually say when this guy asked you out yesterday? And remind me how you know him again?”

She scowls. “Who?”

I cock an eyebrow.

She sighs. “I told him I might already have something planned this weekend with my family. That I had to check.”

“So, wait—you haven't actually said no?”

Her eyes slide in my direction; mean little slits.

“He's in my math class, okay?” she finally deadpans. “I didn't know what to tell him.”

“And, so?”

“It's AP Statistics.”

My brain tries to figure out why that would make it hard to know what to say when someone asks you out.

“So?”

“So, he's probably going to end up being a CPA or whiz programmer or some dork job like that. He'll probably wear golf shirts the rest of his life.”

I want to tell Thrift Store Cardigan Queen that golf shirts might not be that big a problem, but I skip it. “And?”

“And, so.” Looking at me like I'm dumb.

“That doesn't make sense. Why does this make him unworthy of going out with you, exactly? Okay, so, yeah, maybe one day he gets a job that pays well, where he has to wear dork outfits, but maybe that means he's doing something he likes and that he's good at?” I think of my stepdad, who wears a lot of golf shirts but is generally happy. And definitely in love with my mother. “How bad is that? Besides, there's still, you know,
college in between now and your impending marriage, wherein he could turn into a real cowboy-shirt-wearer. You never know what'll happen. And college isn't until after next year. Though, wait. Are you admitting early?”

She ignores my joke and says something else from pretty much left field. “How do you know he's good at it? Stats?”

“Um, most people I know in hard-ass AP classes like that don't do it because they hate it.”

“I do,” she says quiet. “I hate statistics.”

I'm high with myself. I might actually be able to help her. Because I know all about getting through things you hate. “Is that why you don't like him?”

If she says yes, I will explain that conquering something you hate is an excellent motivator. An absolutely fantastic thing to make you stronger.

Her mouth twists down. “It's not like that.”

We're standing outside the classroom now.

“Well, is he ugly?”

“No.”

“Does he stink?”

“I don't think so. He sits two rows away.”

“Did he stink when he asked you out?”

She thinks about it. “No.”

“Does he have some kind of donkey laugh or something?”

She giggles. “No.”

“Excessively hairy knuckles?”

“Okay, cut it out. I get your point.”

“Eczema?”

She's really laughing now. “He might. He wears a lot of long-sleeve T-shirts.”

“Okay, so it's either eczema or a dangerous affection for Dave Matthews Band and hacky sacks.”

“Or surfing.” She points to the Ron Jon logo on my own long-sleeve tee.

I hold up my finger. “No, surfing isn't bad. I'm not sure where they'd do it around here, but those surfers are mad skilled.” I wink.

She blushes. Which makes me even more determined to get her to say yes to this guy. To get excited about something other than border collies for once in her life. I can teach this girl. I know all the right tricks.

“C'mon. Have you ever really talked to him?” I ask.

Shrug. “Not really. A little in a group project. Sometimes before class.”

“So how do you know how awful he is? You're a smart girl. And this is stupid. Just say yes to the poor guy, ball breaker.”

She smiles up from under those bangs. “I don't know.”

I give her a playful shove into the room as the bell rings and Woodham heads up to the board. “Well, it's all over your face that you want to, dummy. And if you don't say yes to
him, I'm going write him a note and do it for you.”

“Ugh . . . no, don't,” she growls.

I smile.

“Fine,” she says.

I win.

AFTER CLASS I'M SO JAZZED
about my little victory with Kate that I actually tell Louis about it in the car on the way to practice, surprising us both with my teenage daughterliness. Reminding Kate about getting through things you hate also makes me confident that I can totally put up with Grier's twitterpation for another day or week, or however short it lasts, because ultimately that's all it will be. And if I have to bounce her on the ass to speed up the process, so be it. We both know I'm stronger, and I can do anything.

Even when Shyrah comes up behind me saying, “New guys, huh?” in this cowed way, I just laugh.

“What about them?”

“I dunno.” He looks uneasily at some of the other girls.

“Don't worry about it, Shy. You're still our prince. Old guys like them hanging around just makes you look more studly.”

“You think they're any good?” Dylan says, coming over. Megan and Siena are also half-watching, pretending not to listen.

“Haven't seen enough of them to know. But could be a good challenge.”

“I just don't want extra dudes in my lane,” Siena grumbles, joining us for real.

Megan nods.

“So, tell Van you're on your period.”

Siena makes a face and moves off the bleachers. Whatever. Gavin and his friends are nothing to worry about.

“Look,” I say, “these are full-of-themselves college douchebags. They're not gunning for the same things you are anymore. You guys can totally smoke them. And if you can't, then I will.”

“True that.” Dylan nods, giving me a high five. I don't know for sure if Gavin and his friends are actually lazy, but it sure sounds good. And I will smoke them.

“So, come on, guys.” I jostle Shyrah on the shoulder. “Stop pouting like a bunch of pussies and get ready to show.”

Two seconds later Grier rushes in, hooking her arm over my shoulder.

“Did you get my message?” She's so close, I can feel her fluttering eyelashes on my cheek.

“What message?”

She squeals like an excited little pig. “Check it.”

She punches up the message she's apparently sent me and then waves it in my face. Because she's laughing, her hand's moving around too much for me to see anything, so I grab her wrist to hold the phone still. At first I can't tell what it is, because the image is blurred and there isn't a lot of light. But then Grier giggles again, and I realize it's Gavin's face, nestled between her boobs.

The cocky, bubbly feeling I had just a minute ago crashes to my stomach. I push her phone down so she doesn't see how bothered I am.

“When the hell did that happen?”
And why are you humping him so fast? And taking pictures? And seriously, what the hell?

“Last night.” Grier tells me quiet, eyes glinting.

Last night?
“How?”

“I texted him,” she rushes, putting her phone away because Megan's headed over with that nosy expression on her face. “I got bored, wasn't doing anything. He came over.”

There are about sixty things to say trapped behind my tongue, including how trashy and desperate that makes her look, but before I can decide which one to deliver first, Megan reaches us and goes, “Who came over?”

Megan is one of those unfortunate Hulk girls you often see in swimming. She can't really help it, but the way she compensates for her bigness by trying to be the most popular girl on the team is even more unfortunate than her size.

“Oh, no one,” Grier trills, looking pointedly at Gavin, who's just walked in from the locker room.

Megan hits Grier on the arm. “Shut up.” But her face is delighted.

“Well, I couldn't wait around letting him figure out how hot you are, could I?”

She's talking to Megan. I know she's talking to Megan. But it's as though, for a second, she's also talking to me. I'm speechless, but Grier doesn't even notice. She just gives us both a little wave and skips over to Gavin, who's watching her with sex-drunk eyes.