He turns me toward him and tilts my chin with his pinky finger. “Careful, people might hear or even get confused about why we’re so close right now.”

He purposefully pulls me into his arms and lowers his head like he’s going to kiss me, then whispers in my ear, “Want a drink?”

“Or a bottle,” I mutter, my nerves on edge; every part of my body comes alive as I feel his breath against my neck. It’s hateful to want him the way I do when he’s the worst, when he’s blamed me for everything when I’m the one who tried to help.

Both my brain and heart are misfiring, and I have no way of stopping them as he grips my hand and leads me to one of the tables where at least forty bottles of alcohol are placed.

He doesn’t ask what I want. He just makes some random thing and hands it to me in a small red cup, then I swear, looks around at his kingdom with a smug grin as if to say, I own this. I own you.

I take a sip and nearly choke. “No mixers?”

“You’re tough enough, right, Cinderella?” He grins. “You don’t need it.”

He makes a drink next and tosses it back.

Things aren’t going to end well if he keeps drinking.

Is he smoking too?

High?

He has nobody looking after him. He only has me, the girl who can’t remember if the eyes dilate or not when you’re on weed. The last thing I need is for him to pass out and fall into the pool, drown, then get accused of murder.

Twice.

Wouldn’t that be a great Lifetime movie?

I grab him by the arm. He jerks away instantly and then, as if realizing that people are watching, takes my hand in his and holds it, like everything…

Perfect.

We stare at one another, and I suddenly don’t know what to do. Do I say something cheeky? Does he caress my cheek? Do we pass it off as something that’s normal? He leans into me.

I don’t back down,

I’m done doing that.

He looks up at me, and I know this is the moment that will define us.

Is he brave enough?

Am I?

I step up on my tiptoes and press a slow kiss to his mouth, waiting for him to respond, and he does right away. He pulls me into his arms, and then we’re falling, falling into the pool in what feels like slow motion, our lips still touching, our arms embracing.

A splash sounds.

Cheers.

And I know I will never come back from this.

Neither will he.

And I’m okay with it.

I’m okay.

Even if I hate him while I kiss him.

Even if he resents me while he kisses me back.

We’re in this.

Friends.

Roommates.

Lovers.

Haters.

Us.

Chapter Eighteen

Ambrose

I wonder what would happen if I never woke up. If the last moments of my life were spent kissing her and falling into my own pool. I wonder, I wonder so much, what would transpire in those last few minutes, seconds… I remember watching my life pass me by, the window, the birds, going, what does freedom actually feel like? And then I fell into a pool with her.