Gerard
Kyle
This is going to be a disaster.
Jackson
Can’t wait
Oliver
See you all tomorrow.
And Jackson?
Jackson
Yeah?
Oliver
Tell Ryan I’m glad he’s coming.
7
OLIVER
Ten years ago
I’ve discovered three things so far this summer. One, Ryan Abrams doesn’t know how to swim. Two, chlorine burns when it gets in your eyes. And three, patience is a muscle I didn’t know I had.
It starts with a lie. Well, not a lie exactly. More like a strategic omission on Ryan’s part that I don’t catch until we’re standing on the sun-bleached concrete of the Westbrook Community Pool, towels slung over our shoulders, and the July heat pressing down on us.
“You good?” I ask. He’s been quieter than usual. And that concerns me.
“I’m fine,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. They slide right back down. Theyalwaysslide right back down. One day, I’m going to superglue those things to his face.
The pool erupts around us. A freckled kid with a gap-toothed grin launches himself off the diving board, tucking his knees to his chest with a triumphant “WOOHOO!” before crashing into the deep end. Water sprays my ankles. Two lifeguards in faded red suits slouch in their chairs, one twirling her whistle around herfinger, the other shouting “WALK!” at a boy who freezes mid-sprint. My stomach growls as the wind shifts, carrying the sizzle-pop of hot dogs on rollers and the powerful scent of nacho cheese. I inhale deeply, the familiar burn of chlorine mixing with the coconut oil slathered across the shoulders of the mom lounging next to us.
I’ve been coming here since I was five. I’d spend hours in the deep end, pretending I was a shark and terrorizing the other kids. Now, I don’t pretend to be a shark anymore—a kid cried, and my mom gave me The Look.
“Come on.” I grab Ryan’s wrist and tug him toward the shallow end, weaving between lawn chairs occupied by moms in floppy hats and dads who’ve fallen asleep with newspapers tented over their faces. Sprinklers mist the air near the kiddie pool, and a toddler waddles past us.
Ryan follows me, but his flip-flops slap the concrete in a reluctant rhythm. He’s wearing brand-new swim trunks—stiff navy fabric with a tiny anchor pattern that screamsmy dad picked these out.
I claim a spot near the shallow end, tossing my towel onto an empty chair and kicking off my flip-flops. The concrete is scorching under my bare feet, but I’ve built up calluses from an entire summer of going shoeless, so it barely registers. Ryan, meanwhile, places his towel on the adjacent chair, smoothing out invisible wrinkles and adjusting the corners until they’re perfectly aligned with the seat’s edges.
“Ryan. It’s a towel, not a hospital bed.”
“Presentation matters,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or quoting his dad. With Ryan, it’s sometimes the same thing.
I pull my shirt over my head. The sun bakes my shoulders, sweat beading down my spine, and every cell in my body screams for the blue mercy inches away.
I take two running steps toward the edge when Ryan shouts my name. I skid, nearly toppling into a little kid. When I turn around, Ryan’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, pupils shrunk topinpoints despite the sun’s glare, fixated on the pool. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard enough for me to hear it over the splashing.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
“Nothing.” His arms fall to his sides, fingers drumming against his thighs for three rapid beats before they rise again, folding tightly across his chest. “It’s just—I’m going to sit here for a bit. You go ahead.”
