I push away from the wall, floating until I bump up against the lane line and start to sink, but Liam’s hand is under my back to steady me.
After that, he has me show him how well I can swim, which is not very. Apparently it’s a bit closer to a doggy paddle than a front crawl. I’m out of breath after only a single length, but at least we made it to the shallow end, where we can stand.
“Here.” He demonstrates his form, rotating his torso so he can bring his shoulder up and arm forward and scoop the water. I try to copy him.
“Don’t kick so much. That’s why you’re out of breath.”
“I thought I was supposed to kick.”
“Use your kick to stabilize. Power comes from your arms and back.”
He demonstrates again, and I copy him.
Not well enough, I guess, because he puts one hand on my lower back and the other below my abdomen to demonstrate what he means. Despite the cold of the pool, his skin is warm against mine, and I’m amazed the water doesn’t boil around us.
Once Liam’s satisfied I’m not going to kick myself to death, he swims lazily along with me as I make it up and down the length of the pool. It’s probably like walking next to a toddler, with their tiny legs, but Liam doesn’t seem to mind. He’s patient and sweet and gives me the biggest smile when I get something right.
It’s not like I didn’t take swimming lessons before. I did, growing up, in our neighborhood pool actually. But none of those teachers ever took the time to make sure I understood.
I can’t stop grinning as I come up at the end of another length. Even though I’m not kicking as much, I’m still tired after half an hour. But it’s a good tired, one that I can feel in my chest and limbs. I feel strong, and confident, and proud.
“You did great.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
Liam bites his lip and smiles. “I want to kiss you.”
We’re all alone—except for the lifeguard, some older guy with a white goatee—so I float closer to him.
“I want to kiss you too.”
And so I do, drawing closer, but I barely get a peck on his lips before I bob lower, losing contact and getting a mouthful of pool water instead.
I sputter as I float back up.
“Smooth,” he signs.
I roll my eyes, but can’t help laughing.
After showering and drying off—in stalls, separately, becauseI don’t think I could survive actually showering with Liam, not when I have shrinkage—and getting dressed, we go through the drive-thru at TJ’s before movie night.
“I’m starving.”
“Swimming does that,” Liam says, checking both ways before pulling away. My tea and his mocha are in his cupholders, and I’ve got the bag with our cookies (peanut butter for me, snickerdoodle for him) flat on my lap.
“It was fun, though.”
“Yeah?” Liam smiles so big as he heads toward Riverstone.
“Yeah. Maybe we can go again?”
“Really?” Liam looks like I juststripped naked in front of him againtold him Christmas came early. “I’d love that.”
I would too.
***
Dr. Lochley claps her hands once and the cast settles down. Everyone’s crowded in the first couple rows of benches; a few are even sprawled on the stage floor, on blankets or flattened sleeping bags or random furniture pillows borrowed fromtextbook storagethe prop closet.
