Istri Bayaran Semesta

I hate Luca Archer with every cell in my body.

This thought pulses through me as the final set of the championship match begins, the school gym is nearly drowned by the roar of the crowd which threatens to make me deaf. Every where is packed to capacity with everyone on their feet as the referee blew the whistle.

"Come on, Ethan!" I yell, my voice disappearing into the shouts and noise as my boyfriend receives the serve, setting it up perfectly for his teammate.

But it's not Ethan the crowd is watching or even rooting for.

"ARCHER! ARCHER! ARCHER!" The chant builds as Luca springs into the air, his body suspended in that seems to defy the law of gravity. His arm swings in a perfect arc, palm connecting with the ball with such force I swear I can feel it from the sidelines.

The opposing team dive for the ball few seconds too late. The ball slams to the floor, leaving a stunned silence before our side of the gym erupts.

"God, he's incredible," Naomi squeals beside me, clutching my arm. "When he jumps like that? It's like watching some kind of superhero in action."

I shake her off, scowling. "Ethan set that ball up perfectly."

"Yeah, but Luca's the one who scored." Naomi's eyes follow him across the court, along with every other female gaze in the vicinity. "Besides, how can you not appreciate that?"

I don't answer, because what could I possibly say? That no matter how precisely he spikes a volleyball or how perfectly his dark hair falls across his forehead when he's sweaty, I will never see what everyone else sees when they look at Luca Archer?

Nobody would believe me if I told them that Perfect Luca Archer, the volleyball star, straight-A student, and owner of the kind of smile that makes teachers forget to assign homework is actually the spawn of Satan.

They'd never believe that the same guy who helps old ladies with their groceries and volunteers at the animal shelter also steals the last of the milk, leaves his disgusting wet towels on the bathroom floor, and has spent the last decade of my life making it his personal mission to make my life a living hell in every possible way.

The first day he moved in, he took my bedroom because my parents thought he "needed his space" after everything he'd been through. Whatever that meant. They never actually explained what happened to his parents, only that they had moved abroad for "work reasons" and decided an eight-year-old boy would be better off staying with friends than uprooting his life.

Lucky me.

From that day on, it was war. He'd correct my math homework at the dinner table. I'd beat his time in swim practice. He'd win the science fair. I'd get the lead in the school play. If I got an A, he'd get an A+. If he made the honor roll, I'd make sure to land the scholarship they only gave to one student per year.

It’s been ten years so far. Ten years of looking over my shoulder, of grinding my teeth every time my mother said, "Why can't you be more like Luca?" Ten years of him leaving his dirty dishes in the sink because he knew I'd cave and wash them first.

Ten years of pretending we're strangers at school, because it's easier than explaining that the guy half the girls at Westlake High crush on lives across the hall from me.

"Lily." Naomi nudges me, breaking my spiral of hatred. "The game's over. We won."

I blink, realizing I've missed the final point. The scoreboard confirms it: 25-23. Another victory for the Westlake Wolves, another chance for Luca Archer to be hoisted onto someone's shoulders while my boyfriend sulks in the corner.

Speaking of Ethan.

I hurry down from the bleachers as the team huddles breaks apart, pushing through the crowd toward where Ethan is chugging water, his face still flushed from exertion.

"You were amazing," I tell him, reaching for his hand. "That set in the third…"

"Don't." He jerks away, tosses his towel to the floor. "Just don't, Lily."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Ethan's voice has that edge it gets when he's about to take his frustration out on whoever's closest. Usually me. "Did you even watch the game? Or were you too busy staring at your not-brother like everyone else?"

My stomach drops. "That's not fair. I was watching you."

"Yeah? Well, Coach wasn't. Scouts weren't." He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Nobody was. It's always the fucking Archer show."

"Ethan, come on—"

"I need to shower." He's already backing away. "Don't wait up. Going to Tyler's after."

He storms off, leaving me standing there with his discarded jersey and towel at my feet. I shouldn't pick it up. I shouldn't always be the one cleaning up after him, making excuses for his bad moods. But I do it anyway, because that's who I am. Lily Graves, fixer of messes I didn't make.

I bend to retrieve it, and as I straighten, I catch sight of him. Luca. He's standing at the center of a circle of admirers, his arm draped casually around Amy Peterson's shoulders, but his amber eyes that sometimes look almost gold are fixed directly on me.

He doesn't look away when I catch him staring. Instead, one corner of his mouth lifts in that infuriating half-smile that makes me want to either slap him or—

No. I shut that thought down before it can form.

I turn to leave, but of course, I can't escape that easily.

"Picking up after Prince Charming again, I see." His voice carries across the now-emptying gym as he disentangles himself from Amy and jogs over.

"Go away, Archer." I mutter.

He falls into step beside me, smelling of sweat and something wild that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "Poor Ethan looked pretty upset."

"Shut up, Luca."

"Just making conversation." He takes the jersey from my hands before I can stop him. What's eating your boyfriend's ass? Besides his obvious mediocrity."

I snatch it back. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you," I snap, shouldering my bag. "Shouldn't you be busy being worshipped by your fan club?"

His mouth curves in that dangerous half-smile. "Why? Jealous you're not a member?"

"I'd rather swallow glass."

"Always so dramatic, Lilypad." He steps closer, using the nickname he knows makes me want to commit a felony. "Are you sure you don't want an autograph? I could sign something personal. Your bra, maybe?"

I feel heat flood my face. "Touch my bra and I will make sure you lose a hand, Archer."

"Promises, promises." He's standing too close now. "So, trouble in paradise?"

"None of your business."

"Considering I have to live with you, your mood swings are very much my business." He tilts his head. "After all, if anyone's going to make your life miserable, it should be me. I've earned that right."

"Go to hell."

"Save me a seat." He winks, then glances at the jersey in my hands. "Don’t tell me he gave you that to wash. That’s tragic even for you, Lilypad."

I scowl. “You’re jealous.”

“Please. Just hate to see you waste time on someone who’s not worth a single thread of that jersey.”

I roll my eyes, ready to snap back, but Luca’s already turning away. For once, he doesn’t drag the fight out, he just jogs off, leaving me with the last word that never leaves my mouth.

I sigh and made to shove Ethan’s jersey into my bag then I pause.

The scent is faint but it is unmistakably vanilla and floral. And it is definitely not mine.

I glance toward the locker room door, then back at the towel in my hands.

No. I'm not going to be that girl who jumps to conclusions based on a scent. Maybe he hugged someone. Maybe it brushed against someone's gym bag. Maybe I'm overthinking this because Luca decided to plant seeds of doubt in my head.

And that is typical Luca, always finding new ways to ruin my life.

I stuff the towel in my bag and head for the exit. The championship afterparty at Tyler's house starts in two hours. I'll talk to Ethan there, when he's calmed down. When we're both thinking clearly.

I tell myself this is nothing as I shower and change at home. Tell myself I'm being paranoid as I blow-dry my hair. Tell myself I'm letting Luca get to me…again as I apply lip gloss in the mirror.

But I can't shake the feeling that something is very wrong.