Page 131 of Whistle

But I didn’t. I felt like I was shattering all over again. “I want out!” I spat, whirring toward the edge. But God, the distance between me and the wall seemed insurmountable. Like a journey I’d never survive.

My chest heaved so violently it was nearly painful, and the cold water seemed to leech what little warmth I had left, turning the blood in my veins to ice. Forgetting I used to be a D-1 swimmer, I paddled sloppily in an attempt to get to the side. My wobbly arms and legs failed me, and I slipped under, water rushing up my nose and burning.

Em cursed and wrapped an arm around me. His hold was tight, almost crushing, but it served a purpose, proving I wasn’t as fragile as I felt. He kept us both afloat while towing me to the side where I scrambled out with a newfound burst of energy.

I flopped onto the pool deck with a shudder, pressing my cheek against the cold, wet tile, and waited for my heart rate to return to normal. I didn’t know how much time passed, but after a while, I rolled onto my back, stared up into the dark ceiling, and scowled. “You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?” He feigned innocence. He was lousy at it. There wasn’t an innocent thing about him.

Pushing up onto my elbows, I glared at him sitting close by with his feet hanging into the water. “Lured me into the pool with your trauma and then brought up mine.”

“I wanted you to know I understand how it feels to lose someone. How trauma takes a lot from a person. But you don’t have to let it take this, Goldilocks. You can swim again. I believe it. I believe in you.”

I will not cave. I will not cave. “You still shouldn’t have said all that.”

“Why?” he pressed. “Because it worked for a little while? Or because it’s the truth?”

Yes. “Because we’re talking about you.”

“We can talk about us both,” he refuted.

“I’d rather talk about you.”

A silent battle of wills fell between us. I was well trained in battle, though, and while I might have had a few strong moments before, I was now utterly drained. Maybe Em sensed it because he was the one who spoke first.

“Pretty sure his parents suspected,” he confided.

I pushed into a sitting position but kept myself away from the edge. “Why do you think that?”

“Because after our fight, I left all those messages on his voicemail. Sent texts. Not to mention the photos he had of us. If they went through any of his things, they would have seen.”

“You think that’s why they wouldn’t let you come to the funeral?” I asked.

Emmett nodded. “Kinda feels like I betrayed him that way too. Like I let his secret slip and ruined his parents’ memories of him.”

“What about you?” I demanded. Fuck those parents. Fuck them denying him the closure he needed by saying goodbye.

At least I’d been able to attend my sister’s memorial. At least I was able to grieve openly. But Emmett? What had he done? Suffered in silence.

“What about me?” he echoed.

“You’ve just never talked about this?” I pressed. “To anyone?”

He shook his head. “No. I called my parents. Told them he died. They knew we were friends, but that’s all. A couple friends from high school knew about us, but we’d all gone to separate colleges and hadn’t kept in touch.” He paused. “I did mention him once, about a year later, to a roommate. I’d been drinking. When I sobered up, I made him promise not to tell anyone.”

The picture he painted was so grim. So lonely. “So you just suffered by yourself?”

“It’s what I deserved,” he said simply as though he were talking about something as mundane as the weather. “I put too much pressure on him.”

And again, I asked, “What about you?”

Confusion clouded his features as if he truly didn’t understand. As if it never occurred to him that his feelings mattered too. That he was allowed to hurt. He had truly just pushed it all deep, locked it away, and told himself what he felt didn’t matter.

Em didn’t answer, and I sighed. I understood not wanting to talk about feelings, so I tried acknowledging them in a different way.

“What was his name?” I asked. Even though I was jealous that this other man had Em’s heart at one time, he still had a name. An identity. It bothered me when Brynne’s name was sometimes forgotten.

Emmett paused, the energy around him thick with emotion. “Lance.”

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