Another degree. Maybe a degree and a half.
“Ryan, you’re still standing upright.”
“I’m easing into it.”
“At this rate, you’ll be floating by Christmas.”
“Don’t rush me.”
I bite back a laugh—I promised I wouldn’t—and keep my hands firm against his back. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Look up at the sky.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll help you lean back naturally.”
He tilts his head back. Above us, the sky is that impossible shade of blue that only exists in July, cloudless and deep and stretching forever. A hawk circles lazily in the distance, riding thermals, and the tops of the oak trees sway in a breeze we can’t feel down here.
“Let the water take your weight,” I say. “Don’t fight it. Let your legs come up.”
“My legs are staying where they are.”
I take a breath. The patience muscle flexes. “Okay. How about this? Keep your toes on the ground, but lift your heels. Baby steps.”
He considers my suggestion for longer than I’d like him to, but I don’t rush him. We’ve gotten this far.
The water shifts around his legs, and he lets out a small, strangled sound that lives somewhere between a whimper and a hiccup.
My eyes widen with delight. “Good! That’s good!”
“I don’t like this.”
“You’re doing it, though. Now let your toes come up too. Just a little. I’ve got your back. Literally.”
His toes lift, and for exactly two seconds, Ryan Abrams is being supported entirely by my hands and the water. His body goes horizontal—stiff as a two-by-four, arms clamped to his sides, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut—but he’s floating.
Then he opens his eyes, realizes what’s happening, and panics. “Put me down! Put me down! Put me down!”
His arms windmill. His legs kick. A wave of water slaps me directly in the face, and I sputter as Ryan thrashes himself back to a standing position. Water sloshes over the edge of the pool, drenching the concrete and the shins of a woman who’d been walking by.
“Sorry!” I call to the woman, who tosses us a glare that could curdle milk.
Ryan’s chest heaves, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and his glasses are hanging off one ear. He reminds me of a cat that fell into a bathtub.
“I floated,” he gasps.
“You did.”
“I hated it.”
“I know.”
“I want to go home.”
“We’re not going home. You floated for almost two seconds. We need to shoot for five.” I fix his glasses, straightening them on his face with both hands. He blinks at me through water-spotted lenses, his hazel eyes wide and scared. But underneath all of it, there’s determination.
That’s the thing about Ryan. He’s terrified of everything, but he does it anyway. Secretly, I think it’s because he has me standing next to him while he does. I wish I could tell him that I will never leave him. That no matter how far apart we may end up one day, I’ll still be right there, championing him. Reveling in his successes. Picking up the pieces when his dad inevitably disappoints him.
But I can’t, because that would make things weird andawkward. He’s skittish. I don’t know what I’d do if he ran off because of me.
