When my hoodie and tank top drop onto the lounger, I drop eye contact. I run toward the edge of the pool and leap, taking a deep breath before oxygen disappears. Warm water saturates my hair and surrounds my skin, sliding over me in a sensuous glide.

I remain underwater until my lungs begin to burn, breaking the surface and facing him.

For seconds—minutes, maybe—we stare at each other. Water drips out of his hair in small streams, traveling over the bridge of his nose and the angle of his cheekbones. Our strokes are lazy, just the bare minimum necessary to stay afloat. The pool isn’t very deep; I brushed the bottom easily when I jumped in. But the motion of treading water is something to focus on, rather than him.

“Why didn’t you answer?” That’s all he asks, but I don’t need to ask him to clarify what he’s wondering about.

I drag my fingers through the silky water, focusing on the smooth glide instead of his intense gaze. “Doesn’t seem like any of their business—who I’ve kissed.”

“Is it mine?” One corner of his mouth tugs upward. “You know, as someone you’ve kissed.”

It’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged it happened. He’s made comments or references to the past here or there, but he’s never outright stated what immediately predated the end of our friendship. I’ve always assumed he was worried I got the wrong idea. That he kissed me on a whim—as a dare, maybe—and regretted it right away. That he panicked and put as much distance between us as he could—an impressive amount, honestly, considering my friendship with Sydney and how we live across the street from each other, not just in the same town.

I stare at the wall of windows, wishing they displayed something besides foggy darkness. “You.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the answer. You. I didn’t answer because I didn’t think you’d want everyone to know.”

There’s a long pause following that confession. I’m not brave enough to look over and try to read his reaction.

“So…”

“I haven’t kissed a guy in four years. Yeah.” I tilt my head back. Partially because the sensation of warm water soaking my scalp feels really good. Mostly because I don’t want to meet his gaze when I admit that.

“Why?”

“Herpes, mostly.”

His laugh echoes across the surface of the water. But then it fades, and we’re left in oppressive silence again. “You said it was a regular occurrence. Made it seem like there were other guys.” His voice is quiet, not accusing. But there’s no mistaking the undercurrent of irritation.

“Yeah, I lied. You might have heard of it?”