Page 118 of Ghosted

For a long second, she doesn’t move.

Then she looks back into her apartment, and whatever she sees there makes her face fold for half a second before she forces it flat again.

“Where?”

“The pool.”

Her eyes cut back to mine. “The pool?”

“It’s quiet.”

“That’s your pitch?”

“It’s all I’ve got.” I drag a hand over the back of my neck, hating how stupid it sounds before I even say it. “Water makes sense to me. It doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t care what kind of mood I’m in. I get in, go under, and for a while, all the noise shuts the fuck up.”

Alice stares at me.

I shrug, jaw tight. “Cancer shit, I guess.”

Her mouth twitches, barely. “You’re blaming your zodiac sign right now?”

“I’m blaming everything I can.”

She looks tired enough to argue and too tired to bother.

I soften my voice. “It helps. That’s all I’m saying. When everything feels too loud, I go there.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m lying, whether she’s stupid for even considering it, whether there’s any version of tonight where this doesn’t make everything worse.

Then she exhales, tired and shaky, and reaches behind the door.

Keys jingle in her hand.

“Fine,” she says. “But if this turns into some macho murder-speech bullshit, I’m leaving.”

I nod. “Fine.”

She steps into the hall and pulls the door shut behind her.

The lock clicks into place, and she turns to face me, but I don’t touch her.

I just wait while she pockets the keys, wraps her arms around herself, and starts down the stairs ahead of me.

This time, I follow.

****

The university pool is dark when we get there.

The building feels abandoned after hours, all cold tile, buzzing lights, and the sharp bite of chlorine sitting heavy in the air. Emergency signs glow red at the end of the hall, throwing dull color across the floor as Alice follows me inside with her arms wrapped around herself, close enough that I know she doesn’t want to be alone, far enough that I know she still doesn’t fully trust me.

I don’t blame her.

The side door sticks the way it always does. I lift the handle before I pull, and it gives with a low metal groan.

Behind me, Alice watches. “Should I ask?”

“No.”