Holden is sprawled out on the lounger we were sharing earlier, hands tucked behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. I glance up, wondering if there’s something to see besides white plaster. There isn’t.

I walk over toward him slowly, scanning the space like everyone else might be hiding and about to leap out. “Uh, where did everyone go?”

“Game got old. They went out to a club.” He keeps his eyes on the ceiling as he answers.

“A club?”

“Yep. New York has a lot of them, I hear.”

I’m expecting a mocking, sarcastic edge, but instead he just sounds matter of fact. “And…you didn’t want to go?” Nothing about his answer explained why he’s still here.

“No.”

I consider that. Stick my hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt and rock back on my heels. “Okay. Well, I’m gonna…” My voice trails when Holden suddenly stands, still shirtless, and now he’s tugging down his sweatpants. “What are you doing?”

He straightens, tossing his sweatpants on top of the hoodie he shucked earlier. I force my eyes to stay north. “Relax, flower. Nothing you haven’t seen before, right?” And then he walks over to the edge of the pool and jumps in.

Whatever expression I’m wearing when he surfaces makes him smile.

“Water is warm,” he comments, spreading his arms.

My front teeth dig into the soft flesh of my lower lip. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, and yet I’m embarrassingly tempted. There’s no one else around to wonder or speculate. I don’t have to worry about what anyone is thinking about me—what judgments they’re making about me—except for him.

Maybe that’s who I should be most concerned with. I’m giving him more and more ammunition against me. Providing more and more evidence that he still has power over me—lots of it. When—and I’m sure it’ll be a when, not an if—he breaks my heart again, I’ll only have myself to blame.

But I know I’ll agree anyway. “They’re not coming back?”

“They’re not coming back.”

I exhale. Step out of my shorts and toss them on top of his clothes. It’s an unexpectedly intimate sight, seeing our clothing mixed together in a discarded heap.

I grab the hem of my sweatshirt next, maintaining eye contact the whole time. He’s seen me naked before, same as I’ve seen him. But twice feels more momentous than once. Smart people don’t make mistakes twice, and I like to think I’m a smart person. Not an intelligence that’s measured by your grades, but simple sensibility.