THE SWIMMING POOL WAS glowing. Actually glowing.

       I could see LED lights lining the rim of the pool, flashing from red to orange to yellow to green. A rainbow. In the light of a bright purple, I saw Monroe sitting on the edge, her legs dangling into the water.

       She was wearing . . . oh, God. God. She had already changed, and she wore a deep, knitted-green bikini that stood out against her tan skin. Her black hair had been twisted into a high ponytail, and the slender curve of her neck, the sharp edge of her jaw . . .

        What was that song called again? Heaven On Earth?

        "Hey," I called out. When I closed the door behind me, the bang echoed throughout the room.

        We were the only ones here, it was midnight, and I was on the verge of making some bad decisions.

       "Hey," said Monroe, grinning crookedly.

       "You're . . . here."

        What a stupid thing to say. But she didn't make fun of me. She just said, in that teasing voice, "I am. Are you coming?"

        Am I . . . my breathing quickened. Coming as in going into the pool, not coming as in . . . coming. Right. 

       "Yeah," I said, although my voice must have been shaky or nervous or too high, because she laughed.

       And slowly, with her eyes on me, I pulled up my shirt, tossing it into a ball on a nearby deck chair. Then I slipped out of my pants, sliding the loose fabric down my thighs. And when the material puddled on the tile, I stepped out of it.

       She watched me, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth, and stayed relaxed back against the pool's edge. When I approached, she slid in completely.

       My heart was beating fast. Too fast. I was worried she could hear the sound echoing, bouncing around the room—

       After a matter of seconds, Monroe resurfaced. Wet strands clung to the sharp line of her jaw, water beading on her tan skin, her long lashes. With both hands, she slicked back her dark hair—and her green eyes were so vibrant, so piercing, it forced me back just a step. She didn't even look human. 

       If someone had told me then that she was a goddess come down to earth, here to fool around and impregnate a mortal or two, I would have believed them whole-heartedly.

       "Talia?"

       "I'm coming," I squeaked. And winced at the word choice.

       I'd been expecting chill water, but the waves were so warm a soft sigh escaped me. Monroe watched me, eyes never leaving mine, as I settled into the pool with a splash.

       On opposite ends, neither of us moved.

       "Why—" I cleared my throat. "Why don't you use bandages or—or gauze, or whatever it's called? For your knuckles, when you . . ." Beat people unconscious in alleys. "Get into fights?"

       Fire, the colour of jade, blazed in her eyes. "I like it," she said, a bit roughly. "The pain. Reminds me."

       "Of what?"

       "Everything," she breathed, and I moved closer towards her. Bridging the pool-sized gap. "My parents. Who I was before the accident, and who I am now. I know some people like using pain to forget, but I . . . I guess it helps me remember. Keeps the wound raw, so I don't forget."

       The water felt silky against my skin. The waves rippled between us. I moved slowly, but every step towards her was deliberate. "What don't you want to forget?"

       "That it was my fault."

       "The car accident?" I said. Except—fuck. I wasn't supposed to know.

        Her jaw flickered. "Yeah. Aaron told you?"

        I tried to backtrack. I didn't want to get Aaron in trouble. "He mentioned that your parents were on a business trip. Driving home from another state, and there was a drunk driver. He . . . they . . . Aaron said no one knew about it because your dad covered it up. And that you . . . disappeared. Afterwards. That's all."

       Where did you go?  I wanted to ask. But did it even matter?

       "They were driving home that night because of me," Monroe said. "I . . . I'd submitted a creative writing piece for English class to the state. And I won. When I found out, I called them. Told them I'd gotten the National Award, that there was going to be some kind of ceremony the next day. They . . . I should have known they'd want to come home. If I'd never told them—"

       "No," I whispered. Because how—how—could she blame herself for that? "No, that's not even close to being your fault. They loved you, and they wanted to come see you win. How could you have known not to tell them?"

       "I don't know." She dragged a hand back through her hair. From up close, her skin shone with water. Luminous. "Maybe a bad feeling. A stupid fucking sixth sense. If I had just kept my mouth shut—"

       "No," I repeated. "It's not your fault. They loved you. That was why they came. Not just because you told them. They loved you, and they were proud of you, and . . . I never knew them, but I bet they'd hate it if they knew you were blaming yourself for this."

       I'd crossed the distance of the pool, and now we were only an arm's reach away from each other. The lights glowed blue.

       "You're pretty wise," Monroe said, and the faint teasing had returned to her tone.

       "Thanks," I whispered, not daring to look away. "I have a Fairy fucking Godmother."

       Finally, from the edge of the pool, she cut through the water towards me. 

       "So," she said, her eyes on my lips, "what do friends do, exactly?"

       "I thought I already—" But then her arms were sliding around my waist, my head was tipping back, and her mouth was soft, taunting, over my collarbone.

       "Do friends do this?"  she murmured, trailing her lips from my collarbone to my shoulder.

       I was pressed against her, flush against her chest, and both her palms cupped my hips. My whole body had arched into that touch, curved backwards as if this was a dance and I was preparing for her to dip me.

      "Friends." I swallowed.

      Her breath was warm on my skin. If I could see myself now, I imagined I'd be a thousand shades of blush-red. 

      And as her lips drifted again, feather-light over the juncture between my shoulder and neck, something escaped me. A moan.

      My eyes slid to hers. Through her lashes, she peered at me. A wicked look spreading across her face.

      "How about this?" she breathed, against the place where my pulse beat erratically. "Do friends do this, too?" Her mouth brushed upwards, against my jaw. 

       It wasn't a kiss—not quite. Her lips never settled, never stayed. There was warmth in the space where our skin met, but it was fleeting. There and then gone. Meant to leave me wanting. Hungry.

       "I'm starting to think," I bit out, "that you and I have very different definitions of friends."

       She pulled back, her mouth leaving my jaw. It was as far as she'd gone, and I almost regretted it. Almost reached for her again.

        Did that qualify as cheating? We hadn't kissed, but . . . I didn't think this encounter was hitting any faithful scores. Something that sensual . . . maybe I had cheated on Aaron.

        And thinking his name . . . it was like ice-cold water. I shivered, and Monroe withdrew further.

       "I can't," I breathed. Five days. Five more days. 

       "Come back to my room," she suggested. "Skylar won't be there tonight. You can shower, dry off."

       "It's—against the rules," I mumbled.

       The edge of her smile sharpened. "I think we're breaking a hundred just by being here. I know you're not scared of a little thrill, Tal."

        Tal. Just like her mouth on my skin, hearing her use my nickname felt borderline erotic. Sensual. Shit. 

        And I agreed. Because how could I ever dream of saying no when she was looking at me like that, like we were the only two girls in the whole damn world?

       UNLIKE AARON'S SHOWER, WHICH had contained about two bottles total—a seven-in-one and a three-in-one—Monroe had a whole array of products.

       I knew for a fact that they weren't Skylar's, because hers had the little labels that advertised dye-friendly ingredients.

      So I took way too much pleasure in opening the conditioner bottles, until I found the scent that I knew was Monroe's. Sea salt. A faint hint of lemon. And I may or may not have used it, knowing I'd probably smell like her for the next two days.

      Once I got out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me, I tentatively opened the door into the hotel room. Monroe was sitting on the bed closest to the window, but her back was to me. Just like my suite, hers was beautiful, too: cool shades of grey and gold, silk and resin. And—my breath caught.

      I hadn't noticed it when I'd come in, but unlike Claudia's view of the parking lot, and mine and Olivia's view of the ski slopes, Monroe had something entirely else.

       The mountains.

       Mist clung to the glass, but beyond, I could see the black sky. The stars that crowned the peaks of those white-tipped mountains. Even from a distance, they were enormous—breathtaking. I couldn't look away.

       "Talia, you're dripping," Monroe said.

       Immediately, my mind went to the dirtiest place possible. But she was referring to my hair, the towel, the shower. "Oh. Sorry."

       She had left clothes for me folded on the bed. With her back to me, I quickly changed into them, using the towel for my hair.

       It was just me and Monroe. Me and Monroe. 

       I said, "You, um—" She turned, and I had to look away quickly, or she'd know I'd been staring at her back. "You never told me. What scissoring was."

       "That," she replied, "would require a demonstration."

       I suddenly wanted to hop onto a motorcycle and drive into the night, as far away as possible. Because if I didn't leave now, I'd do something very, very regrettable.

       Self-discipline. Didn't I have self-discipline?

       I changed the subject. "So . . . I should probably get back to my room."

       Lit with the glowing white of the mountains in the distance, I thought—again—that she looked otherworldly. "Leaving?" she teased.

       "Or," I said. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up right now, Talia. "We could do face masks? Or bath bombs? I mean, I did tell you that's what friends do."

       It had to be close to one in the morning. But who gave a flying fuck when Monroe was here, was looking at me like that?

       Fuck, I was in deep.

       "Then I guess we'll have a sleepover tonight," Monroe said. "As friends."

       The way her eyes narrowed on my mouth—God. Warmth rippled through my body, between my legs. What if we fucked, right now? Nobody was here. Nobody was watching. And I—

       Couldn't do that to Aaron. 

       "Let me text Olivia," I said quickly. "I'll ask her to drop some stuff off."

       Luckily, Olivia was still awake. She answered back within thirty seconds—like she always did. On my way! :)

      When she knocked on the door a few minutes later, I flung it open. She stood there, brown skin glowing as if she had just taken a shower, too. Her curly black ringlets were defined, sleek, bouncing over her shoulders. She thrust a bag at me and, with a wide smile, said, "Bath bombs, face masks, the works!"

       "Thanks." I paused. I knew she was a senior, but— "You'll be fine by yourself?"

       "Yeah." In a lower voice, she added, "I have a boyfriend. Randall. He's waiting for me. We're both Christian, so we're waiting for marriage, but . . . he likes to call what we do Everything But."

       "Oh. Um, wow. So, you have fun tonight?"

       Olivia's eyes skated behind me, into the room. "Hi, Monroe! And yes, Tal, I think we'll both have fun tonight."

***

Imagine actually sitting in a bath with a cute girl. Why is that such a vibe?

From the moon and back,
Sarai