Andy hung with me when all the other mothers had taken their kids and left. “Mom late again, buddy?” I asked him. There was no judgment in my voice—I had none. Or, if I’d had any, it was gone after three weeks of meeting these mothers, who were trying to do what was right for their kids, even though it couldn’t have been easy to get the kids to campus, wait around for an hour, and then talk to the stupid instructor who was basically just checking off a box. “Interact with child’s parent, giving meaningful feedback? Check.”
“No,” Andy said, but he didn’t meet my eyes. He’d done that before. We’d only been holding lessons for three weeks and already his mom had flaked three times, showing up ten, twenty, even thirty minutes late. And she’d never been in the observation area like most of the moms, watching her kid. She never even partook in the after-lesson debrief with me, just waved for Andy to hurry up, shouting a “thanks” to me from down the hall. I got paid either way, so I didn’t really care, but I felt bad for Andy, always running down the hallway while she waited impatiently.
I had no idea about this woman’s story. Obviously if her kid was in an at-risk outreach program, there were some issues. But I thought about my mom, bringing me to every swim lesson, staying and watching through the whole thing. For years. Right through high school swim meets. Even while practicing law part-time and dealing with my father’s crazy schedule.
“There he is,” Andy said, pointing down the hall.
My mind was barely processing the “he” instead of “she” when it went into free fall as I watched the guy in the Bribury polo move down the hall toward us, his eyes on Andy.
And then they turned to me.
He was even more gorgeous up close, and as he moved closer still, I felt that hitch again—like I’d gone underwater without first holding my breath.
“That’s my brother, Lucas. He’s picking me up today, because my mom…” Andy was saying. I got the vitals: Lucas—brother. Andy might have said more, but by then the guy—Lucas—had reached us.
“You looked great out there, A. Really comfortable in the water. How’d it feel?”
Andy’s little chest puffed up. “Good. Better.”
Better? Had there been a problem before? Sheesh, some instructor I was.
“That’s good. That’s really good. See, I told you it would get better.”
Andy was nodding, his fair hair wet and shaggy, droplets falling onto the back of his sweatshirt. Freddy never did help the boys with stuff like their hair in the locker room.
“Did you see me go under?” Andy asked, pride in his voice. Like it wasn’t me who’d let him slip out of my hands.
“I did. Very brave. Way to conquer, my man,” Lucas said. He wasn’t looking at Andy now, but at me. With a look that said he knew exactly how Andy’s fear had been conquered.
“Yeah, you were right, Lucas. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.” The words were spoken in such a way that I knew that was how they’d been sold to Andy.
“This is Lily. My teacher.”
I held my hand out, but Lucas had just put his hand-shaking hand on Andy’s shoulder. He just nodded in my direction. “Lily,” he said slowly. “Thanks for taking suchgood careof my guy.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
Andy was puffing up again—obviously loving that he was Lucas’s “guy.” But I barely noticed; my brain had gone semi-dead when Lucas said my name. His voice was smooth and deep. And dark. So, so dark.
In high school, I snuck into the school pool really late at night, had the place to myself. I did that from time to time, just to get away. I never swam, though—I was too much of a goodie-goodie to break that much of a rule. Plus the whole safety thing stopped me. But one night, after a particularly galling scene of listening to my father berate some poor flunky on the phone, I did go in.
I dove from the high board in just my bra and panties. No lights were on, and when the water swallowed me up I was cocooned in deep, wet darkness. It was disorienting, scary, and exhilarating all at the same time.
That’s what it felt like when Lucas said my name.
“I’m supposed to get some information from you?” he asked me. “Like how he’s doing? Stuff to work on?”
There was a tiny bit of vulnerability in his voice, which was in contrast to the sheer physical confidence he seemed to exude.
His eyes—brown, a deep, lovely shade of brown—darted between Andy and myself, and I realized he was uncertain.
“Yes,” I said, summoning all my father’s bullshitting skills. “Andy is indeed becoming more comfortable in the water, and that is leading to increased confidence in his abilities. I think that our next session will show even more improvement.”
Lucas was nodding, but his eyes—so expressive, those brown pools, when the rest of his face was impassive—sparked with skepticism.
Yeah, people always knew when my father was bullshitting them, too.
“In the meantime,” I pushed on (sadly, my father’s daughter), “you could work with Andy on his floating. Easy to do in the tub. A few minutes on his back, then a few on his front, with his face to the side to breathe.”
“We don’t have a bathtub,” Andy said.
