Prologue
He's been on and on about some stupid party. The kind of party bratty teenagers go to when they shouldn't, like when they're meant to be studying for their finals, or when they need to get some work done, or when they have problematic homes.
That is me in all those cases, except I really don't want to go, but I have to.
My boyfriend Jett is currently dragging me to one of those parties and I really don't have a say. I don't even know why I call him my boyfriend, I basically slave around while he links up with other girls, sometimes in front of me. He really doesn't care about what we have, but he won't ever let me go. He refuses to leave me be, he refuses to break up with me. On the subject of breaking up, he sugarcoats his words, making me feel like the only girl on earth. I try to enjoy those times because that's the only time he treats me like I'm meant to be treated.
We are now at the gates of the party and it's pretty hard to miss the reek of alcohol, the sweaty bodies of teens out and about the front of the house, the scene of dealers and addicts exchanging their only reason for living. It's quite hard to miss the booming speakers and the horny bodies on each other. I don't know why Jett wants me here, but I can tell it's not for a good reason. Jett is an addict, and an alcoholic, I was dumb for believing he'd change. Just a promise isn't enough, action matters, and, he never acted on those promises, which is quite disappointing
One
The bass didn't just hit my ears; it vibrated in my teeth. Jett's hand was a cold weight on the back of my neck, steering me through the sea of humid bodies like I was a piece of luggage he was afraid of losing, but didn't actually want to carry. The smell of stale beer and cheap cologne turned my stomach, a sharp contrast to the sterile, quiet library where I should have been sitting with my biology notes.
"Stay close," he muttered, his eyes already scanning the room for his dealer—or his next distraction. He didn't look at me. He hadn't looked at me since we left the car.
He finally looked at me, but his eyes were glassy, reflecting the neon beer sign flickering above the fridge rather than actually seeing me. He leaned in, his breath a sour mix of menthol and whatever he'd been drinking in the car. For a second, his hand moved from my neck to my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin with a tenderness that made my heart stutter—the "sugarcoating" beginning to settle over his jagged edges.
"Baby, you're so smart, you don't even need to study," he cooed, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive hum that used to make me feel safe. "Just one hour. Relax with me. You're always so tense, always thinking about the future. Live a little with me tonight?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His hand dropped, the warmth vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. A girl with glitter on her eyelids and a plastic cup in each hand bumped into his shoulder, giggling. Jett's focus snapped to her instantly, his grin widening into something predatory and bright.
"Yo, Jett! You actually made it!" a voice shouted from across the room.
Without a word to me—without even a backward glance—he let go. The sudden lack of his physical weight made me stumble slightly. He moved into the crowd toward a guy holding a small, clear plastic baggie, his body language shifting from "boyfriend" to "seeker" in a heartbeat.
I was left standing by a counter covered in spilled soda and cigarette ash. My phone vibrated in my pocket: a calendar notification for my 8:00 AM Biology final.
I looked at the back of Jett's head as he threw his arm around a stranger, already forgetting I existed. The realization hit me then, sharper than the smell of the room: I wasn't his girlfriend. I was his anchor, and he was more than happy to let me drown as long as I kept him from drifting too far away from himself.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of my own house keys. I had two choices: I could wait in the shadows of this house until he was high enough to be manageable, or I could find the door.
TWO
The kitchen felt like it was shrinking. I watched Jett retreating back, his shoulders relaxed and his gait confident now that he had found his "people." The girl with the glitter eyelids trailed after him like a lost planet caught in his gravity.
I didn't want to follow. Every cell in my body screamed at me to turn around, walk through the front door, and breathe the cold, gasoline-tinged night air. But there was that familiar, sick tug in my chest—the one he'd spent months cultivating. It was the part of me that felt responsible for his wreckage.
I trailed ten paces behind them, weaving through the heat of the living room. They headed toward a narrow hallway in the back of the house, away from the main dance floor. Here, the music was a muffled heartbeat behind closed doors, replaced by the low, frantic murmurs of deals being struck and secrets being traded.
Jett pushed open the door to a small, dimly lit bedroom. I stopped in the doorframe.
The room smelled of heavy incense trying—and failing—to mask the chemical tang of something being burned. Jett was already sitting on the edge of a stained mattress, the glitter-eyed girl perched next to him. Across from them sat a guy I didn't recognize, his eyes hooded, a glass plate balanced on his knees.
"Jett," I whispered. My voice felt small, like it belonged to a child.
He didn't look up. He was watching the guy on the bed arrange thin white lines with a credit card. "Don't be a buzzkill, Emmaline," he said, his voice flat. The "sugarcoating" from five minutes ago had dissolved completely. "Go get a drink or something. I'll be out in a second."
"You said one hour," I said, my voice gaining a desperate edge. "You said we'd leave. Jett, look at me."
He finally looked up, but the person I loved wasn't behind his eyes. There was just a hollow, impatient hunger. The girl next to him leaned her head on his shoulder, her hand sliding familiarly over his bicep. Jett didn't flinch. He didn't move away. He just looked at her, then back at me, a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm busy, Emmaline. If you're gonna stand there and judge, just go wait in the car. Give me the keys."
He held out a hand, palm up.
It was a test. It was always a test. If I gave him the keys, I was stranded here, at the mercy of his timeline, his addiction, and his whims. If I kept them, I was "the bitch," the one who ruined his night, the one he'd punish with silence or "accidental" flirting for the next three days.
I looked at the girl's hand on his arm. I looked at the white lines on the plate. Then, I looked at my own hands. They were shaking, but they were empty.
"I'm not giving you the keys, Jett," I said, the words feeling like stones in my mouth.
The room went silent. The dealer stopped moving. Jett's expression shifted—the smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, dark mask of anger. He started to stand up, his movements slow and deliberate.
"What did you just say to me?"
THREE
I didn't wait to see if Jett obeyed. I turned and ran.
The hallway was a blur of peeling wallpaper. Instead of heading for the front, I felt a desperate need to avoid the crowd at the gates entirely. I turned toward the back of the house, pushing through a heavy sliding glass door that led to the pool area.
The air out here was marginally better, but the scene was just as grim. The pool was a murky, neon-blue rectangle, reflecting the flickering string lights draped haphazardly over the fence. A few people were dangling their legs in the water, oblivious to the thin film of oil and discarded cups floating on the surface.
I retreated to the far edge of the concrete, near the shadows of the overgrown hedges. I needed a moment for my heart to stop trying to climb out of my throat.
"You're the one from the room."
I jumped, spinning around. It was the guy from the bedroom—parker. He had followed me out, stepping into the dim light of the patio. Away from the suffocating heat of the house, he looked even more out of place.
"I'm sorry," I breathed, clutching my keys so hard they left indentations in my palm. "I didn't mean to... thank you for back there."
"Don't thank me," he said, his voice barely audible over the dull roar of the music coming through the glass. "I just hate seeing people get cornered. Especially by guys who think 'love' is a synonym for 'ownership.'"
He walked toward the edge of the pool, looking down at the chemical-blue water. "He's going to come looking for you. Not because he's worried, but because you took away his sense of control. If you're going to go, you should go now."
I looked back at the house. Through the glass, I could see Jett's silhouette. He was back in the kitchen, pacing, his phone pressed to his ear. My pocket buzzed instantly. He was calling me.
"I have a final at eight," I whispered, more to myself than to Parker.
"Then why are you still standing by a pool that smells like bleach and bad decisions?" Parker asked, a small, tired smile tugging at his mouth.
I looked at the water, then at the phone vibrating in my hand, and finally at the gate leading to the side alley. The "sugarcoating" was gone. The fear was still there, but beneath it was a cold, hard layer of necessity.
"I'm going," I said.
FOUR
The night air was supposed to be my sanctuary, but the backyard was just another cage with wider bars. I stood by the edge of the neon-blue water, my fingers trembling against the cool metal of my car keys. I thought I had a head start. I thought Parker's intervention had bought me the minutes I needed to disappear into the night.
I was wrong.
The sliding glass door didn't just open; it crashed against the frame. Jett exploded onto the patio, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. The "sugarcoating" hadn't just melted; it had evaporated, leaving behind the jagged, ugly truth of who he was when he didn't get his way.
"You think you can just walk away from me?" Jett's voice carried over the music, sharp enough to make the people lounging by the water sit up in alarm. "You think some random loser tells me when I'm done talking to my girlfriend?"
"Jett, stop," I said, backing away. My heel caught on the edge of the concrete pool lip. "I'm leaving. I told you, I have my final—"
"I don't give a damn about your final!" he screamed. He was in my space in three strides, his eyes wild and unfocused. The alcohol and whatever was in that room had taken the wheel. "You're always acting like you're better than this. Better than me. You want to be 'clean' so bad?"
He reached out, grabbing my shoulders. I saw the flash of movement from the corner of my eye—Parker stepping out of the shadows—but he was too far away.
"Let's see how clean you feel after this," Jett hissed.
With a violent shove, he slammed his palms into my chest.
The world tilted. My stomach stayed on the pool deck while the rest of me plummeted backward. The transition from the humid night air to the shock-cold water was instantaneous. The chlorine burned my nose and throat as I went under, the weight of my denim jacket and sneakers immediately pulling me down like lead weights.
The surface was a shimmering, unreachable ceiling. I thrashed, my hands clawing at the water, but I didn't know the rhythm of swimming. I only knew the rhythm of sinking. Panic, hot and thick, filled my chest where air should have been. I caught a glimpse of Jett standing on the edge, looking down with a twisted, satisfied smirk, before the blue swallowed me again.
Splash.
A second impact hit the water nearby. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, hoisting my head above the surface. I coughed violently, lungs burning as I gasped for air, clinging to the damp fabric of a black hoodie.
Parker hauled me to the shallow end, his movements efficient and urgent. He guided my hands to the ladder, making sure my feet found the steps before he hoisted himself out of the pool in one fluid, angry motion. He didn't even stop to wring out his clothes. He went straight for Jett.
Jett was laughing, a hollow, jagged sound. "See? She's fine. Just needed to cool off—"
Parker didn't let him finish. He didn't punch him, but he stepped into Jett's personal space with a lethal stillness that cut the laughter right out of Jett's throat. Parker was dripping wet, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Jett with a look of pure loathing.
"You are a pathetic coward," parker said, his voice a low, dangerous whip-crack. "She can't swim. You knew that, and you threw her in anyway. That's not a 'lover's spat,' Jett. That's a crime."
"Stay out of it, man," Jett spat, though he took a nervous step back, his bravado crumbling under Parker's gaze. "She's mine. I do what I want."
"She is no one's," Parker barked, stepping closer until Jett was backed up against the patio table. "If I see you near her again tonight—if I even see you look in her direction—I'm not calling the cops. I'm handling it myself. Do you understand me?"
The party had gone silent. Everyone was watching. Jett looked around, looking for an ally, but even the girl with the glitter eyes looked disgusted. Shamed and outmatched, Jett muttered something under his breath and retreated toward the house, his tail between his legs but his eyes still burning with a promise of future resentment.
Parker turned back to me. I was shivering on the concrete, soaked to the bone, my biology notes likely ruined in my pocket, and my dignity shattered.
He reached out a hand, his expression softening instantly. "Are you hurt?"
I looked at his hand, then up at the house where Jett had disappeared. The realization finally sank in: Jett hadn't just tried to scare me. He had let me drown.
FIVE
The shivering started in my bones and worked its way out, a violent tremor that had nothing to do with the cold water and everything to do with the adrenaline crash. I looked down at my hands. They were empty.
"My keys," I whispered, the word coming out as a wet croak. "Jett… he pushed me, and the keys… they were in my hand."
Parker followed my gaze to the shimmering, neon-blue floor of the pool. There, nestled near the drain in the deep end, was the silver glint of my car keys and my keychain—a small, rubber heart Jett had given me months ago. It looked like a piece of trash at the bottom of a grave.
"I'll get them," Parker said. Before I could protest, he dived back in. He moved through the water with an effortless grace that made my own near-drowning feel even more pathetic. A few seconds later, he broke the surface, gasping, and climbed out with the keys dripping in his palm.
He handed them to me, but as I reached out, my fingers brushed the rubber heart. I didn't want it. I didn't want anything that reminded me of the "sugarcoated" version of a monster. I ripped the heart off the metal ring and tossed it into the bushes.
"Can you walk?" Parker asked. He was soaked, his black hoodie heavy with water, but he didn't seem to care about his own discomfort.
"I have to," I said, my voice gaining a bit of osteel. "I have eight hours until my life is supposed to start, and I'm currently standing in a puddle of chlorine and failure."
Parker walked me toward the side gate, his presence a silent shield against the prying eyes of the lingering party-goers. As we reached the street, the silence of the neighborhood felt heavy. My car sat under a dim streetlight, looking like a beacon of hope.
"Wait," Parker said as I reached for the door handle. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a dry, gray sweatshirt from his backpack—something he must have kept in his car earlier. "You can't drive like that. You'll freeze, and you'll never be able to focus on those notes if you're preoccupied with hypothermia."
I took the sweatshirt. It was warm, smelled of laundry detergent and woodsmoke, and was the first kind thing I'd felt in years. "Why did you help me?" I asked, looking up at him. "You don't even know me. You could have stayed in that room."
Parker looked down the dark street, his jaw tight. "I had a sister who stayed with a guy like Jett. She kept waiting for the 'sugarcoating' to become the whole cake. It never did. By the time she realized it, it was too late to go back for her finals."
He didn't explain further, and I didn't ask. The weight of his silence told me everything I needed to know.
"Go," he said softly. "Go study. Pass that test. Don't let a guy who would watch you drown be the reason you don't graduate."
I climbed into the car, the heater blasting on high. I watched in the rearview mirror as Parker walked back toward the house—not to join the party, but to make sure Jett didn't follow me.
I drove two blocks away, pulled into a brightly lit 24-hour gas station lot, and parked under the fluorescent lights. I stripped off my soaked denim jacket, pulled on Caleb's dry sweatshirt, and opened my Biology textbook to page 142.
The pages were damp at the edges, blurred by a few drops of pool water, but the words were still there.
The human heart is a pump, I read, my voice trembling but certain. It is designed to withstand pressure.
I took a deep breath, the scent of Parker's sweatshirt grounding me, and I started to memorize the path of the blood—how it leaves the darkness of the lungs and finds its way back to the light
SIX
The fluorescent lights of the school hallway felt like physical blows against my eyes. I was operating on three hours of shaky sleep and a gallon of gas-station coffee. Every muscle in my body ached from the frantic thrashing in the pool, a dull throb that reminded me I was alive every time I took a breath.
I looked like a ghost. I was still wearing Parker's gray sweatshirt—it was the only thing I had that didn't smell like chlorine or Jett's cologne.
I leaned against the lockers, my Biology textbook open in my hands, trying to force one last look at the diagram of the respiratory system. My brain felt like a dry sponge, but I pushed forward, tracing the path of oxygen through the bronchioles.
"Emmaline?"
The voice didn't belong to Jett. It was lower, steadier.
I looked up, squinting against the glare. Walking toward me, clutching a physics binder, was Parker. In the harsh, clinical light of the high school, he looked different—less like a shadowy guardian and more like a student. He wore a clean flannel shirt, but the tired kindness in his eyes was unmistakable.
I froze, my heart doing that familiar double-tap against my ribs. "Parker? You... you go here?"
He stopped a few feet away, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Senior wing. I usually keep my head down. I'm guessing you've never noticed me behind the stacks in the library or in the back of the cafeteria."
The realization hit me like a splash of cold water. I had been so consumed by Jett's orbit, so blinded by the chaos of his addiction and the constant need to manage his moods, that I had become invisible to the world—and the world had become invisible to me. I hadn't noticed Parker because I hadn't been allowed to notice anyone but Jett.
"I didn't know," I whispered. "I thought you were... I don't know, just some guy at a party."
"I was just some guy at a party who recognized a girl who looked like she was drowning long before she hit the water," Parker said softly. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Did you study?"
I nodded, clutching my textbook. "All night. Even the pages that were damp."
"Good." He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder before he thought better of it and dropped it. "Jett's in the parking lot. He's telling everyone who will listen that you're 'crazy' and that you 'fell' into the pool. But nobody's really listening,Emmaline. He's losing his audience."
"I don't care what he says anymore," I said, and for the first time, I meant it. The fear that usually gripped my stomach when I heard his name was replaced by a strange, hollow pity.
The first bell rang, a shrill, metallic sound that signaled the start of the finals.
"Hey," Parker called out as I started to turn toward the exam hall. I looked back. "You've got enough oxygen now. Just remember to breathe."
I walked into the gym, where rows of desks were set out like a graveyard of expectations. I found my seat, sat down, and waited for the proctor to hand out the packets. When the paper landed in front of me, I didn't hesitate.
Question 1: Describe the process of gas exchange in the alveoli.
I picked up my pen. My hands weren't shaking. I thought about the pool, the weight of the water, and the moment Caleb pulled me out. I thought about the "sugarcoating" that had finally washed away, leaving me clean.
I started to write.
SEVEN
The final bell didn't just signal the end of a test; it sounded like a prison door swinging open.
I walked out of the gym, my hand cramped and my brain buzzing with the lingering definitions of cellular respiration and oxygen transport. I felt raw, but steady. That was until I pushed through the heavy double doors of the school and saw him.
Jett was leaning against my car. Not his—mine .
The "sugarcoating" was gone. He looked like he hadn't slept, his hair matted and his eyes dark with a simmering, toxic resentment. As soon as he saw me, he pushed off the hood, his boots scuffing the pavement.
"You blocked me," he said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "I spent all night calling you, and you blocked me."
"I told you I was done, Jett. Move away from my car." I tried to reach for the door handle, but he stepped in my way, his chest nearly brushing my shoulder.
"You aren't done until I say so," he hissed, grabbing my wrist. His grip was tight, meant to remind me of the power he thought he still had. "You think you're better than me now? Because you took some stupid test? You're coming with me. Now."
"Let go of her, Jett."
The voice was calm, but it cut through the humid afternoon air like a blade. Parker was standing a few yards away, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He wasn't running or shouting; he was just... there. A solid, immovable force.
Jett's head snapped around, a sneer curling his lip. "You again? I told you to stay out of my business at the party. This is a private conversation."
"It stopped being a conversation the second you put your hands on her," Parker said. He walked forward, his pace deliberate. "And the whole parking lot is watching. Let go of her wrist, or we're going to have a very public problem."
Jett's grip tightened for a split second—a reflex of pure spite—and I winced.
Parker didn't wait. He dropped his bag and stepped into Jett's space. He didn't throw a punch; instead, he grabbed Jett's forearm with a precision that forced Jett to loosen his hold on me.
"I'm not going to tell you again," Parker said, his voice dropping to that lethal, quiet register I'd heard by the pool.
Jett looked at Parker, then at the groups of students starting to linger and whisper, and finally at me. He saw that the fear he relied on was gone. I wasn't the "luggage" anymore. I was a person who had just passed a final while he was still stuck in the mud of last night.
"Fine," Jett spat, shoving Parker's hand away. He looked at me one last time, his face contorting into something pathetic. "Have fun with the charity case, Emmaline. You'll be begging me to come back in a week."
He turned and stormed toward his own car, tires screaming as he peeled out of the lot.
The silence that followed was heavy. I looked down at my wrist—the red marks were already fading. Then I looked at Caleb. He was breathing hard, the adrenaline clearly hitting him now that the threat was gone.
"You okay?" he asked, his eyes searching mine.
"I am," I said, and the weirdest thing was that I meant it. "I'm actually okay."
I looked at the school building behind us. I thought about the diagrams I'd spent all night memorizing, specifically the ones about how the body protects itself from trauma.
"He's like a virus," I whispered, almost to myself. "And I think I finally developed the antibodies."
Parker let out a short, surprised breath of a laugh. "That's the most biology-student thing I've ever heard." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper—the grade posting from the hallway. "By the way, I saw the list. You got an A-minus."
I stared at him, the sun finally feeling warm instead of scorching. "I did?"
"You did." He gestured toward the street. "Some of us are going to get food to celebrate actually surviving this year. No masks, no 'sugarcoating,' and definitely no pools. You want to come?"
I looked at my car, then at the open road ahead of me. I realized I didn't need to drive away from something anymore. I could finally drive toward something.
"Yeah," I said, a smile finally breaking across my face. "I'd love to."