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Why would he hurt me? I thought he was good. Even after our breakup, he had been nice. I could look back at that first kiss and not hate it.
He scuffs his shoe on the ground. “I can’t…I can’t talk about this…”
“Why?” Pain blossoms everywhere. “I just want answers.”
He lets out a defeated sigh. “There’s a really intense legal battle going on between my family and yours and if I say anything to you—”
“I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” I interrupt him with this promise. “That’s not why I’m here.”
When I first confronted my ex, I wanted revenge.
But Beckett is right. Revenge is pointless, and I want to be able to look in the mirror and be okay with who I am. I always knew the steps that I’ve been taking would change me.
The media will change me in my lifetime.
People will change me.
My love for Banks and Akara will change me.
Having a baby will change me.
But I can’t let anything change me for the absolute worse.
Especially not an ex-fucking-boyfriend. So this is different now. I want closure for myself. I want to feel like I wasn’t fucking stupid by trusting him.
Maybe I won’t get that today, but I have to try.
“You’re not going to tell anyone?” Will reiterates.
“I promise,” I emphasize. “This is just between us.”
Will nods a few times. “My brother…” He winces. “He came up with the idea for The Royal Leaks. Pitched it to our parents like a business proposal. They were all over it.”
“Which brother?” I wonder.
He laughs, but it’s a sour laugh. “Which do you think?” He avoids casting a glance in the direction of the fountain, but I know it’s Wesley. “I didn’t want to do it at first, Sullivan. I tried to stop it. But once it started…” He frowns. “And it felt kind of good, I’m not going to deny that. You can tell me every day you didn’t cheat on me. You didn’t have a thing for your bodyguard when we were together.” He briefly looks at Akara’s back. “But I saw what I saw. I know something was going on. You’re not all innocent in this.”
Heat gathers in my heart. “So I deserved to have my private life blasted to the world?”
He lets out a rough breath. “Maybe, yeah. Actions have consequences.”
I glare.
He breaks our gaze first, eyes to his loafers. “It may have gone too far.” His guilt ripples off him, and I wonder if that’s why he’s confessing. To absolve himself of some of the blame.
If he is telling the truth, and I do believe he is, then he wasn’t the fucking mastermind behind The Royal Leaks. He was just a son of a powerful family and he got swept up in a chess move.
I don’t want to play those fucking games. I’d rather be in the water. In the woods. I’d rather be free from the Rochesters and their grasp. So I let it go.
“We should never talk again,” I tell him.
Worry catapults his eyes. “You’re not going to say anything—”
“I won’t. Because, unlike you, I want to be the kind of person people can fucking trust.” With that, I turn to my boyfriends. “It’s time to swim.”
35
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Here it is.
The start to the finish.
Goggles on.
Swim cap on.
Arms stretched, blood running through my loose muscles. Mind awake. Focus on the Olympic pool.
I’m ready.
Bare feet on the block, one in front of the other—I bend my knees and wait to grip the platform. Fingers tingling in anticipation. Pulse thumping to the beat of the cheering crowd. Enthusiasm howls around me and my competitors, and I let the Olympic fervor ignite my spirit.
My fucking hopes.
My determination.
My dream.
I mutter under my breath, “It’s you and me, little champ.”
To my left, Frankie adjusts her goggles, untiring gaze staring down her lane.
Don’t think about her.
This last individual swim isn’t about beating Frankie. It’s not about Kingly. It’s about proving to myself that I still have what it takes to be the best swimmer I can be. Whether that means I’m the best in the world, I don’t know.
But I’m about to see.
Panic tries to surge, but I blow out a controlled breath.
Crowds roar, “MEADOWS!”
“HANSEN!”
“JONES!”
“NONAKA!”
The chants fade in my mind. My eyes land on the pool, and nerves start to wash away. The water already ripples, and I’m five again.
Slipping goggles over my eyes, glancing to the sidelines of the Hale’s backyard pool on Fourth of July. “Daddy, look!”
My dad stops the flip of a burger to clap. “Go, Sulli!” His scruffy, broody features lighten with a smile.
I’m six.
“This was you once,” my mom says to me, teaching Nona how to swim at the lake house. “When you were just a wee itty-bitty little thing.”
Hi, squirt.
I’m seven.
Positioning myself on the starting block at the stuffy Philly Aquatic Center. I look to the noisy aluminum bleachers.
