Not that I wasn’t pretty sure that was happening on the co-ed floor below mine in the dorm.
My little girls briefly ran under the showers, still in their little-girl swimsuits of bright neon colors, just barely washing off the chlorine. I toweled off and slid yoga pants and a hoodie over my still-wet suit.
The girls would have been ready way before me otherwise, and besides, after I did the mommy-talk thing, I was going to get some real swimming in before I headed to the library and tried to get my head above the homework waters.
When all of my wards were ready, and after we did one last check and found Casey’s something or other—as we inevitably did each week—I marched them all out to greet their moms, who weren’t allowed in the locker room with the girls. (Again, part of the program, and, let’s face it, these kids were used to doing without their moms at times. Most times. No helicopter kids, these.)
In the hallway, the boys were waiting—as they inevitably were each week—and I traded back for my boys as we made our way to the meet-and-greet area.
The moms for three of my four kids were there and I did the whole “He’s coming along great. Practice having him put his face in the water in the bathtub” thing.
It was part of the gig. A couple of the instructors were doing this for credit. Like, 400-level credit. But apparently they didn’t have enough students for that class, or too many kids that signed up for lessons, and needed to hire extra instructors.
I didn’t really need the money, though it felt good to earn my own instead of just using the debit card my parents fed, but I knew giving swimming lessons to at-risk kids would look good.
And I always did what looked good.
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.
