The first time I saw Luke Carter cry, he was half-naked, drunk, and trying to drown himself in a pool we weren't allowed to use after hours.
It was midnight. Maybe later. The sky was bruised black, and the moon looked like it was watching with one blind eye. The pool area was fenced off behind the school, silent except for the soft lapping of water and distant traffic. The air smelled like wet concrete, chlorine, and the cigarette already burning between my fingers.
I'd been walking aimlessly, hoodie up, trying to outrun my own thoughts when I spotted him, Luke Carter, golden boy, face down in the deep end.
His back was to me. Shoulders shaking. Knees sunk beneath the surface. I didn't say anything. Just watched him. Watched him stand. Dive. Stay under longer than someone should. Each second passed like a scream that couldn't find its voice. He came up gasping, hair plastered to his face. Didn't notice me. I leaned against the chain-link fence, letting the metal bite into my shoulder. Lit another cigarette.
"You suck at dying," I said. He flinched. Whipped around. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
"Jesus Christ."
"Wrong guy," I said. He laughed, or tried to. It cracked halfway through, like something broken.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you." He dragged himself out of the water, slumped onto the cracked tile beside me like we were teammates again. We weren't. Not anymore. "Don't tell anyone," he said. His voice was raw gravel. I looked at him. At the bruises on his ribs. At his shaking hands. At the way he didn't meet my eyes. "I won't," I said. I lied. We sat in silence for a while. His skin steamed in the cold night. The distant hum of streetlights buzzed like static. The high dive loomed above us like a guillotine. Luke pulled at the hem of his soaked shirt. "Why'd you quit the team?"
"Why'd you try to kill yourself?" I said. He didn't laugh this time.
"I wasn't trying to die. Just... stop."
"Stop what?"
"Everything."
I studied the blue tint of his lips. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. "You cold?"
"No." But he was. He was shivering like a prayer no one said out loud. I took off my hoodie. Tossed it to him. He stared at it like it was on fire before pulling it over his head. It drowned him in cigarette smoke and regret. He looked down at his hands. "You ever feel like you don't fit in your own body?"
"Yeah," I said. "Every day." His eyes flicked up to mine. "Why do you talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're in a movie."
"Maybe I am." Luke laughed again, quieter this time. The kind of laugh that tastes like blood and memory. He hugged his knees to his chest. "You're weird, Oliver Reyes." I've known Luke Carter since freshman year. Before the weed, before the bruised knuckles, before he started walking like his bones were tired of holding him up. Back then, he was just a loudmouth with a perfect butterfly stroke and a laugh that made teachers forget he hadn't turned in homework since October.
People loved Luke. The kind of love that comes easy when you're tall and tan and your smile looks like it belongs in a Gatorade commercial. I used to watch him at meets; shirt off, water glistening, girls screaming like he was some kind of god. It was gross. It was impressive.
Once, he told a joke in the locker room that made three guys spit out their protein shakes and Coach Mason slam a clipboard into the floor. I don't even remember what it was. Just that he looked right at me after, like he wanted me to laugh too. I didn't.
That's the thing about Luke. He needs an audience. He needs to be seen, loudly, violently, lovingly. And I? I prefer shadows. Corners. Places where no one thinks to look until it's too late.
I think that's why he started watching me. Because I didn't look at him the way others did. Because I didn't need anything from him. Because I saw him after the lights turned off.
There was this one time, sophomore year, he punched a guy for calling him a slur behind the gym. Said it was because he "hates bullies." Then he disappeared for a week. Came back with a black eye and the kind of smile that says, "I got away with something." Maybe he did.
Luke Carter is the kind of person who dares the world to ruin him. And I think, I think, he wants to lose. He wants someone to finally win the fight. Just so he can stop swinging. "So are you, Luke Carter."
And that was the first night we didn't hate each other.
The night the water tried to swallow him whole, and I watched. I watched and stayed. That's worse, somehow.
And somewhere, deep down, I think he liked that I saw him like that. Broken. Real. Human. That was the first night I started keeping track. Of every time he looked at me. Every time he didn't.
Luke stayed silent, watching the water ripple with memories neither of us wanted to say out loud. "Don't you miss it?" he asked eventually, eyes fixed on the diving board. "Miss what?"
"The swim team. The races. That feeling when everything else shuts off and all you hear is your breath underwater." I flicked ash onto the concrete. "I miss the silence. Not the team." He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem. "You were the fastest," he said.
"You were the loudest." He grinned without humor. "Still am." Then: "I used to hate you, you know."
I raised an eyebrow. "Used to?" He looked at me then. Really looked. "Still do, sometimes."
"Good. Means you're still alive." We sat like that, two ghosts trying to remember what it felt like to be flesh. A siren wailed in the distance. Somewhere, someone was bleeding out or giving birth or just screaming to feel something. It didn't matter. Not here. "I should go," he said.
"You're still wet."
"I'll live." He stood up slowly, wincing like his body had betrayed him. Again. He started walking toward the gate, then stopped. "Thanks for… not walking away." I didn't answer. I wasn't sure I deserved the thanks. But I didn't walk away. Not yet. Not tonight. Because something shifted. Not loudly. Not enough to name. Just a breath caught in the wrong place. A pause that lasted too long. I watched him disappear into the dark, water still dripping from his steps like breadcrumbs.
And when I looked down, I realized he'd left my hoodie behind. Folded. Neatly. On the pool chair. Still warm. Like he wanted me to know he hadn't taken anything. Like he wanted me to know he could have.
January 12 2008