Page 8 of Bellini Born

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Still sure you don’t wanna fill in for me?”

Mind racing, already trying to decide what I would do with that kind of lump sum, I asked in a daze, “What’s the job again?”

Releasing her hold on me, she shrugged. “Oh, nothing major. Just a birthday party.”

Skeptically, I eyed my roommate. “Someone is paying a thousand dollars for a lifeguard at a child’s birthday party?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The way her eyes kept shifting told me there was more to the story, but I couldn’t afford to turn down that kind of cash.

Giving up the fight, I agreed, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“You’re a lifesaver! Thank you!” Gabi threw her arms around me in a tight hug. “You can even take my car. It’s out in the burbs; the trains don’t run that far.”

Awesome. I hadn’t driven since moving to Chicago for college four years ago, and my anxiety shot through the roof at the idea of crashing her luxury SUV.

“Oh, and one more thing . . .”

One peek at the look on her face, and I knew whatever she was about to say would be trouble.

Closing my eyes, I groaned. “What?”

“The only way you’re gonna make it past the door is by pretending to be me.”

Disbelieving laughter fell from my lips. “Yeah, okay. Didn’t you say this was a family friend? They’re gonna know right away I’m not you. I mean, we look nothing alike.”

In fact, we were the exact opposite in terms of coloring.

Gabi had the most beautiful olive complexion, which was even further complemented by her dark brown eyes and nearly black hair. I, on the other hand, was as pale as they come, with naturally blonde hair and blue eyes.

“It’s fine.” She waved me off. “I’ve never met them before.”

Why did I have a feeling I was going to regret this?

Besides the slightly scary bald man at the front gate, who raised an eyebrow when I introduced myself as Gabriella D’Amico, no one questioned my identity once I arrived at the freaking mansion in the Chicago suburbs.

A very kind woman named Francesca led me to the indoor pool area and directed me to a room where I could change. With the expectation that guests would be arriving soon, I hustled my butt to pull on my standard-issue, red and white lifeguard swimsuit.

When I stepped out of the changing room, the smell of chlorine infiltrated my nostrils, and the gentle lapping of water over the edge into the overflow drain reached my ears. With my feet bare, I dipped the toes of one foot beneath the surface, sighing as I gave them a little wiggle. Instantly, my nerves melted away, and a calm settled over me.

Anywhere there was a pool became my happy place. That’s how it had been since I was six and my mom dropped me off at the community center because she couldn’t be bothered keeping an eye on me during the summer while school was out.

The counselors taught me to swim, and I became obsessed, pretending that I was a mermaid while gliding through the water with ease. They declared me a natural when I quickly picked up on the four strokes used in competitive swimming—freestyle, backstroke, breaststroke, and butterfly. Not only that, but I wasfast, beating out kids twice my age down the length of the pool when we raced.

Not long after that, I joined a swim team, and every spare moment outside of school was spent in the pool, training and competing. I loved that even during a meet, where there were clearly defined winners, I didn’t have to medal to achieve the feeling of success. A fourth-place finish, just off the podium, could turn out to be a race where I beat my personal best time in an event.

Then, I discovered the International Games, and my love for the sport reached new heights. Watching athletes swim against opponents from around the world to determine an undisputed champion gave me chills—the good kind.

That became my dream. And American seven-time gold medalist Blakely Knight became my idol. I wanted to be just like her, kicking ass in the pool while representing my country on an international stage. I loved watching her compete so much that I cried when she announced her retirement to start a family. But I vowed to follow in her footsteps, picking up where she left off.

Reality came crashing down in my teens when I realized how many other hopeful swimmers had the same dream. And while I was good, I wasn’t good enough—not for the International Games, and not even enough to score a scholarship to swim at the collegiate level.

I’d had to beg for a walk-on spot on the team at Northwestern, where I wasn’t even offered a solo event, relegated to relays only. That’s how I met Gabi. She was there on scholarship and swamthe anchor position on our 4x100-meter freestyle relay team, going last of the four girls to close us out.

Those four years had been the best of my life. The camaraderie I had with the girls on my relay team made it feel like we were sisters. We dideverythingtogether and shared a two-room suite in the swimmers’ house on campus. Even though Gabi and I still lived together, it always felt like something was missing without Leah and Elena, who had taken jobs out of state after graduation.