But he never looks up. When he’s in the water he’s completely focused, and when he’s out of the water he concentrates on his teammates, encouraging them, calling out their names.

“Go, Kayla!” he screams during one of the girls’ races. “You’ve got this, Kayla! You’re killing it, Kayla! Go!”

I wonder if the swimmers can even hear what people shout at them, or if their ears are full of water. I guess it doesn’t matter. The point is that people are cheering them on.

I feel proud when Leo wins first place in his division, like my presence has brought him good luck, like that day on the boardwalk. I’m happy for him, of course, but I’m also happy because now tonight’s sex can be a celebration of his awesomeness. If he lost, it might feel like consolation sex, which sounds like less fun. The only problem is that I can’t stay the night. My family is leaving for Hawaii at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.

Hawaii is turning out to be a major inconvenience in my life.

I wait until the meet is completely over—the medals handed out and everything—before approaching Leo. Outside the men’s locker room I pause a moment to reapply my lip balm. I want my lips to be soft and smooth against his when we kiss. My heart is beating fast again. But good fast.

“Hello there,” I imagine myself saying as he comes out. Or maybe I’ll try to come up with something bold like I said that first day in his mother’s gallery, like, “It must be exhausting, being that good at swimming.”

This is it: I hear his voice from the hall that connects the men’s and the women’s locker rooms. He’s talking to someone. He’s laughing. This is my big moment.

I adjust my braid and check my breath: minty. The strappy sandals looked amazing. My toenails are gorgeous. This is as good as it gets. My body tenses. My feet start to walk around the corner to reveal myself.

“You know,” Leo’s saying, “my mom’s out of town until Tuesday.”

Something about the way he says it freezes my breath inside me. It’s exactly the same—the same cadence to his voice, the same words, the same undercurrent beneath them.

My mom’s out of town until Tuesday.

But my body is already moving around the corner, and I can’t stop it, so I keep walking, and instantly get an eyeful of my boyfriend—my miracle, mine—leaning in to kiss another girl. They are both angled in perfect profile: Leo’s sharp straight nose, his full lips, his cowlick. The girl’s delicate chin. She’s one of the swimmers, her hair still wet, leaving damp trails across the shoulder of her sweatshirt.