Page 12 of Perfect on Paper

There was nowhere to sit in the hallway, and honestly, I’d never been overly fussy about getting a little dirty, so I plopped right on the linoleum floor with my back against the lockers and settled in to scroll through my phone while I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Three lifetimes later, I was perfectly done with waiting, thank you very much. Fucking Alexander Brougham.Meet me at three forty-five,he’d said. Well, here I was. And he was where, exactly?

Muttering a few choice insults under my breath, I got to my feet and stomped down the hall, through the double doors, and into the aquatic center. I didn’t love it in there; the air always felt sticky and humid, thick with chlorine, and sound echoed in a way that didn’t feel quite right. Like it weighed more, somehow.

It was quieter today than I was used to, which made sense, given I usually came in here when I was dragged induring swimming blocks in gym class. While the acoustics were usually choked with screams and splashes and the squeak of shoes on nonslip rubber flooring, today it was eerily calm. Just the steady drone of… something—the HVAC, I guessed—and the rhythmic slap of water from a single swimmer.

Brougham didn’t notice me walk to the edge of the pool. His head was mostly submerged, and when he tilted it to the side to breathe, he faced the wall. His body moved down the length of the pool with impressive speed. I tried to walk along with him, but had to break into a jog to keep up. “Brougham,” I called, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Or, if he did, he ignored me. Which I wouldn’t put past him, to be perfectly honest.“Alexander.”

He hit the end of the pool, then flipped underwater. The change of direction made him tilt his head my way when he took a breath now. He stopped short after one stroke and shook his head like a dog that’d been dunked. “Is it quarter-to already?” he panted, treading water and pushing his wet hair back out of his face. He didn’t even bother greeting me, which didn’t do wonders for my patience.

“It’s four o’clock.” I gestured at the clock on the wall behind the starting blocks. His eyes followed where I pointed.

“Oh. So it is.” Without apologizing for keeping me waiting, or thanking me for giving up my afternoon, he paddled over to me and lifted himself out of the pool with his arms in one smooth motion, causing his lithe muscles to bulge. Show-off. If I tried that maneuver I’d end up flopping on my side like a beached whale.

I scuttled backward to get out of his way, and he nodded at me. Apparently, that was my greeting. He strode over to the benches where he’d stashed his crumpled uniform,backpack, and towel, pulling his skin-tight, above-the-knee swim shorts so they loosened their grip on his thighs. “I still need to shower real quick,” he said to me from an upside-down position as he haphazardly scrunched the towel around his hair. “I’ll meet you outside in ten?”

“Ohsure,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could inject into my voice.

If my sarcasm was noted, it wasn’t acknowledged.

I stomped back to my waiting spot in the hallway, pulled my half-ponytail out lest it contribute to a stress headache, and plonked myself down on the floor. Might as well start to make my way through this week’s questions, I figured.

The first letter I picked up was written on flower-bordered, pink notebook paper in handwriting that was refreshingly easy to read. Scanning the letter, I instantly caught an issue with the way this writer kept using the word “need.” They “needed” texts from their boyfriend. They “needed” his attention.

I didn’t adore the word “need,” because it carried this heavy sense of expectation, and it made any letdown so much worse. I’d gotten a few bullet points into the Notes app on my phone, jotting down thoughts for my response email, when Brougham came out into the hall. He’d ditched his uniform for a clean pair of pants—black, although just as ankle-hugging as the tan ones he wore with the uniform—and a simple white T-shirt, his damp hair towel dried and sticking up at every angle. At least he was semi-dry today.

“Ready?” he asked, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He was unsmiling, as usual. Now that I thought about it, I’d never seen any expression more cheerful than “careful nonchalance” on his face.

“I’vebeen ready for about forty minutes.”

“Great, let’s go.”

He started walking down the hall, and I had to scramble to catch up with him while simultaneously folding the letter back in its envelope. “Brougham?” He ignored me.“Alexander!”

He stopped short. “What?”

I reached him and stood still, folding my arms. I had to tilt my chin to face him down; I might have been tall, but he was taller. “I’m not your employee.”

“What?”

“Just because you’re paying me for my time doesn’t mean you get to boss me around. And if you’re late, you should apologize.”

“Oh.” He looked taken aback. “I’ll still pay you from the time we agreed?”

“That’s—Alexander, that’s not the point.”

But he still looked puzzled. Well, money did not buy common decency, that was for sure. “Um, what’s your point then, sorry? And it’s Brougham.”

Well hesaidit was Brougham, but “Alexander” clearly got his attention. “My point is, don’t be a dick. And it wouldn’t kill you to say hello to me when you see me. I have other things I’d rather be doing right now, so a little friendliness wouldn’t go astray.”

Iswearhe almost rolled his eyes. I could practically see him fighting with his eyeballs to keep them in place.“Hello, Phillips.”

His sarcasm game was as strong as mine. “It’s Darcy.Hello,Brougham,” I shot back, my tone equally as terse. “How was yourday? It’s good toseeyou. Where would you like togotodothis?”

---