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“And,” I say, swinging my legs where I sit on the edge of the bed, “look at the positives. If Perrie wins, we’ll have a whole week to hang out together, alone, in a hotel. No cameras, no other contestants…”

Maya slowly steps over to me. “I wouldn’t hate that part, I guess,” she says.

“There, that’s the attitude.”

“But I’d much rather hang with you for a week aftercrushing him.”

I shuffle on the bed to put some extra distance between us. “Right.”

“Actually, now I’m thinking about it, the stuff he said about Sam last night is useful. We can really build it into thespeech! Like, if we said something like ‘If it weren’t for your sister, the world wouldn’t care you existed’—oh, man, talk aboutcutting.”

Had she even thought of me last night, while she was planning her speech and kissing Jordy? While I lay on her bed suspended in her absence, breathing in the memory of her on the sheets?

“Oh, and he mentioned a girl,” Maya continues. “We should include her. Like, ‘Oh, you’re surprised she didn’t stay when she found out who you are? Who would?’ What do you think?”

“I… think whatever you come up with will be great,” I say.

It’s not quite what I want to say. Iwantto say, “Actually, Maya, it’s becoming harder and harder for me to care about hurting Jordy, because that moment marks the end of our time together, and, as it turns out, I want it to never come.” I want to say, “A not-so-small part of me would vastly prefer Perrie to win, because it’d give us one more week of pretending we don’t have to say goodbye.” I want to say, “Last night, I didn’t feel victorious that you won the shot we needed to help you win over Jordy. I was wishing you were lying beside me.”

But I simply can’t. I can’t, because I’m too afraid of what she’ll say in response.

That she’ll smile, and say, “Oh, Skye, you’re great, but I thought you didn’t want anything serious?” Or, even worse, “Skye, I really like you. But the hatred I feel for Jordy is so much bigger, so much more encompassing, than any feelings I have toward you.”

The opposite of love isn’t hate. Not by a long shot. Hate and love are cousins. Possibly even siblings. So many ballads are sung about the power of love. Not nearly enough time is devoted to the passionate fulfilment only a perfectly matched enemy can bring.

And maybe I’m simply not enough to compete with Jordy.

“Are you okay?” Maya asks, suddenly faltering. She looks concerned, and gentle, and I want to trust her and speak, but the words don’t come. Instead, I force out the words that will.

“Yeah, I’m just tired. I think I’ll take a nap by the pool for a while, but, uh, let me know how the speech goes, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. I don’t like the look I’ve put on her face, but for the life of me, I can’t gather the strength to say the words that might ease it.

So I leave.

That night, Maya follows me upstairs to bed at only 10 p.m. Most nights when we don’t have filming the next morning, she wakes me up sneaking onto the top bunk hours after I fall asleep. What, I wonder, is different about tonight?

“Didn’t get much sleep last night, huh?” I ask lightly as I rub in my moisturizer.

“Nope,” Maya says, bouncing onto her bed. “I think it was just weird sleeping alone. It was, like,tooquiet, if that makes any sense?”

This catches my attention. “You didn’t sleep with Jordy?” I ask. “I mean, in his bed?”

“Nope. I ditched early.”

Those might be the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.

“Ooh. After that rejection, you might win after all.”

“Knock on wood for me.” Maya grins.

Maya waits for me to climb into my own bed before turning off the light. Once I’m plunged into darkness, I throw my arm over my head and try to sleep. This proves difficult, though, when I realize Maya is wide awake.

The bed groans and creaks as she tosses from side to side. I stare at the ceiling, and wonder if I could possibly be braveenough to say some of the things I want to say. The things that have been swirling in my head all day.

Instead of speaking, I let my hand fall over the side of the bed and dangle in midair. I hold it there for second after breathless second, unsure if Maya can even see it. Unsure if her eyes are open. But then, she touches my fingertips with hers.

The contact of our skin sends lightning bolts down my arm, and my nervous system explodes with the energy. My fingers trail down her palm and engulf her hand, gently at first, then squeezing, firmer and firmer until it becomes a pull. She follows my tug to a sitting position, then lets go of my hand, climbs the ladder, and straddles me as I cup her face. There’s just enough light streaming through the gaps in the blinds, from the moon and the porch lights, that I can make out her features.