He starts kicking, swimming in small, leisurely circles. “If that’s what Sister Annie wants to call me when she’s screamin’ later, sure. But I prefer Nico.”
I shake my head again. “Wow.”
He grins.
“How about Chef?”
Nico tilts his head, his smile turning quizzical. “I’m not technically a chef, so maybe not. But whatever floats your boat.”
One sec. Does he… not know?
“Nico.”
“Hmm?”
I stand.
“Nico.”
“What, babe?”
“You are making aNakedReactionscookbook.” I kick off my shoes and my socks.
A line appears between Nico’s thick eyebrows.
“You asked Hawk Publishing House to get someone to ghostwrite it for you.” His hoodie, my shirt, my shorts come off.
The smile grows on his face as he comes to understand.
And, as I’ve done for the last several months, I make the last statement a lie. “That ghostwriter is not me.”
I close my eyes and leap.
Turns out washing your sins away in a quarry lake is a frigid experience. My lungs seize as soon as I’m under, but the shock of it all is pretty cleansing, I guess.
When I surface, Nico is laughing so hard I’m afraid he might drown.
“Annie,” he huffs, “and I mean this lovingly—shut the fuck up.”
“Yep.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Wow.”
“Wow.”
Nico throws his head back and laughs again, my own giggles (do Igigglenow?) joining, the echoes of us bouncing on and across the water, against the rock cliffs surrounding us.
We swim towards each other without discussing it, both deliriously giddy with the truth.
“Hey, Chef,” I say, when we’re inches away, our knees and toes knocking together under the water.
He smiles, and it’s devastating. “Hi, Ali.”
“A. Li,” I grin.
