“When have I ever laughed at you?”
“Last Tuesday, when I tripped over your sprinkler.”
“Because of how you fell, notbecauseyou fell.”
He tugs his shirt over his head and places it on his towel. His torso is pale and skinny, ribs visible beneath skin that hasn’t seen direct sunlight in years. I have hockey-toned arms and a perpetual tan from spending every waking hour outdoors. We couldn’t be more different, and yet, he will always be my friend.
“Stop staring at me,” he mumbles.
“I’m not staring. I’m assessing.”
“Assessing what?”
“Whether you’re going to bolt. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of a rabbit who’s spotted a hawk.”
I lead him to the shallow end. The steps descend into the pool, each one painted with a faded blue stripe. The water is clear enough to see the drain at the bottom.
“We’re going to take this slow,” I say, stepping down onto the first step. The water is cool against my shins, a relief from the heat, and it immediately makes me want to dive in.
Ryan peers down at the water as if it’s made of acid. “How deep does it get?”
“Right here? Like two and a half feet. It goes up to three feet near the middle of the shallow end. You’ll be standing the entire time.”
“What if there’s a sudden drop-off?”
“There’s no sudden drop-off. It’s a pool, not the Mariana Trench.”
“What if?—”
“Ryan. Step.”
He puts one foot on the first step. His toes curl against the textured surface, and his knuckles whiten against the railing, the squeal of skin on steel ringing out as his damp palm slides slightly downward. “It’s cold.”
“It’s refreshing.”
He descends one more step. The water reaches his calves. His breathing has gone shallow and quick. “Oliver…”
“I’m right here.” I squeeze his free hand. His fingers are cold and clammy despite the ninety-degree heat, and they clamp around mine. “You’re doing great.”
He descends the third and final step, and his feet touch the pool floor. The water comes up to a centimeter above his knees. He’s as rigid as a telephone pole. I rub his lower back, trying to loosen him up.
“Okay,” I say. “Now, we’re going to walk forward.”
He takes one step. Then another. His jaw clenches tight. A beach ball bounces off the back of his head, launched by a kid who immediately shouts “SORRY!” from across the pool.
Ryan freezes, every muscle in his body locking up. “Something touched me.”
“It was a beach ball.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. There are no sharks in the Westbrook Community Pool, Ryan.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sharks. I was thinking about—” He pauses. “Okay, now I’m thinking about sharks.”
