Prologue : Easton

I’ve hated Santiago Acres for as long as I can remember, which is impressive considering our mothers still insist we were “inseparable” as toddlers.
Apparently, there’s photographic evidence of us sharing snacks and smiling at each other like idiots. I choose to believe those photos are fake.

What I do remember is this:
Santiago learned how to swim before I did, and he has never let me forget it.

He laughs too loud, wins too easily, and acts like life is some kind of joke he’s already heard the punchline to. Teachers love him. Teammates love him. My little sister once said he was “kind of charming,” which I will never forgive her for.

The worst part?
I see him everywhere.

At school.
At debate club.
In my lane at swim meets.
At family dinners where our mums drink wine and reminisce about high school like they didn’t just raise two people who actively want to strangle each other.

Santiago Acres isn’t just my rival.
He’s a recurring problem.

And unfortunately for me, he knows it.

Prologue : Santiago

Easton Rivers hates me.
Like, actually hates me. Not the fun kind where you argue once and forget about it. No, this is long-term, generational, our-mothers-are-best-friends-and-it’s-a-family-curse hatred.

I don’t even remember when it started. I just know that at some point in our lives he decided I was the villain, and honestly? I support the narrative.

Easton’s good at a lot of things. He’s fast in the pool, sharp in debate, and terrifyingly intense about literally everything. He keeps spreadsheets. I found that out once. Accidentally. He nearly killed me.

The thing is, he gets mad when I win, but he also gets mad when I lose. Which feels unfair, because what exactly am I supposed to do there? Drown on purpose?

Everyone says I “antagonise” him. Which is a strong word. I prefer engage. If I don’t poke him a little, how will I know he’s alive?

Plus, it’s not my fault we’re always compared. Same age. Same school. Same swim team. Same debate club. Same dinners where our mums get nostalgic and ask why we don’t “hang out like we used to,” as if that won’t end in bloodshed.

He glares at me like I ruined his life. I didn’t. If anything, I made it more interesting.

And sure, sometimes I catch him watching me in the pool, jaw tight, fists clenched, like he’s already arguing with me in his head. But that’s his problem. I’m just swimming.

If Easton Rivers wants a rival, I’m happy to be one.
I’m excellent at it.