Falling For My Nemesis

Ethan held out a handful of silverware, which I took from him. He opened his mouth to say something before he stopped, and I tilted my head. Arching a brow, I asked, “What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m sure you’ll get in though.”

“I hope so.” I began separating the silverware. “Do you want to sit in on our little brainstorm sesh? It’ll be fun,” I promised. “You can be the buffer, so we don’t kill each other.”

“As exciting as that sounds, I was headed over to the girls’ basketball game tonight. I heard Beth was going to be there, so I thought I’d scope it out.”

I deflated a little, then pumped myself up. I was his best friend, so I needed to act like it. “Ooh, so somebody’s trying to make this about more than just a dance.”

“Maybe,” Ethan said, and his cheeks pinkened.

I felt an instant pang of sympathy. While Carson was the life of the party and a pot-stirrer, Ethan was painfully shy and kind of nerdy. The only thing cool about him by high school standards was the fact that he played football. He hadn’t done much more than go on a few group dates in the past, so pursuing a girl was huge for him.

“Well, she’d be crazy not to go after you,” I said, reaching out and squeezing his arm.

“Thanks.”

From the entrance to the kitchen, someone cleared their throat. I glanced over to see Carson’s gaze, homing in on us as Ethan blushed.

“You ready or what?” Carson said, his tone tight.

I frowned at him. Did he have to be so rude? I threw the kitchen towel down on the counter and sighed.

“Ugh. Whatever.”

I stepped forward and gave Ethan a hug, whispering, “Go get the girl,” in his ear before giving him a squeeze and stepping away.

“Take me to your dungeon,” I said, but instead of finding the joke funny, Carson scowled the whole way upstairs toward his room.

???

I wasn’t sure what I expected Carson’s bedroom to be like. Maybe painted black, quiet like a tomb, with little pint-sized voodoo dolls sporting strawberry-blonde hair and pins sticking out of them. I expected something cold and slightly sinister, booby-traps around every corner, a book of spells he liked to inflict on his nemesis (me). He was always so careful when I hung out with Ethan, room sealed up tight as a drum. I tried to break into it once when Ethan was in the bathroom. It was as impenetrable as Fort Knox.

Instead, my jaw dropped at what I found.

Ethan’s room I knew as well as my own. Where his room was slightly messy, practical, dark, and masculine, Carson’s was surprisingly bright and tidy. And it was one giant ode to swimming.

In short, it was incredible.

Scanning the room in awe, I stepped further inside, taking in the shelves above his desk showcasing trophies and medals he’d been awarded over the years, mostly swimming, with a smattering of cross-country. When I inhaled, the same masculine scent of body wash from outside filled my lungs.

I turned and smiled at the giant poster above his bed that read, “Eat. Sleep. Swim. Repeat.” Next to it, another framed photo read, “Chlorine, the breakfast of champions.” But as I approached his bed—a bed made for a giant—the cheeky artwork wasn’t what caught my eye. What made me pause was the large canvas next to it, above his nightstand. It was a massive photograph of a swimmer, his arms raised, poised above the water. The detail was so incredible, you felt like you were there watching. The muscles in his shoulders tensed, flexed in the still-life photo, ready to power through the surface, his face only partially visible as he took a breath. And even with the water, goggles, and the swim cap partially obscuring his features, I recognized the man in the image in an instant.

In that single photograph, you could see the raw power in Carson’s arms, his love for the sport. You could sense his speed, his drive. I could feel the icy water sloshing in the pool and taste the chlorine.

“My mom took it and had it blown up,” he murmured from behind.

Of course. Mrs. Brooks was a photographer.

I glanced back at him to see his dark hair was messy like he had been nervously running his hands through it as I had wandered through his personal space, making my assessment. Did this make him nervous, I wondered? Me invading his privacy, staring at his things? Maybe he had secrets. The thought stirred my inner villain.

“It’s amazing.” I meant it. To say anything else would be pointless. He’d know I was lying.

His eyes met mine for a moment, rounding in surprise. Then the flicker of light from a car passing outside slid across the ceiling, drawing my eye. I glanced to it and gasped. It had been painted to look like his room was underwater. Somehow the artist had perfectly captured the pale shade of blue and the rippling surface, along with the way sunlight bounced off the cool water during the summer.

“Incredible, right?” he asked, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Who did it?”