I shift closer, letting the water carry me a few feet. “I think people stay quiet about their pain because they’re afraid no one will know what to do with it.”
A muscle in his cheek jumps. “It’s fucking lonely.”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “But loneliness isn’t always about being alone. Sometimes it’s about forgetting how to reach out.”
He stares at me in silence, running a hand up and down his face.
Then he glances at the glimmering water like it’s daring him.
I don’t move. Don’t push. Don’t reach for him.
I let him choose.
In one smooth motion, he steps forward, all the way to the edge.
Crouching, he dips his feet in.
His jaw clenches at the first cold shock. Both legs follow, his jeans clinging to him, heavy and soaked. For a second, I think that’s all he’ll give. Just his legs in the water.
But then he holds his breath, sinks lower, and slides all the way in, body rigid and eyes closed. When he’s waist-deep, he finally looks at me.
Emotion surges, full of grief, pain, and harrowing relief. It feels like I’m witnessing something private, something fragile.
Chase’s breathing turns labored, and his eyes glaze over. Not with tears, but with something older. More jaded and worn.
I move toward him, wanting to help, wanting to—
“Gonna grab some beers and towels.” Tag’s voice bursts through our bubble.
I flinch.
All three guys climb out of the pool, dripping wet, half running toward the house. John is gone. Television static seeps through the cracked patio door. Cicadas hum from tall grass.
Slowly, my attention returns to Chase. He’s closer now, a few inches away. The water feels warmer, lapping at my waist.
Another step. Another closed gap.
His hand lifts, reaching for mine.
I don’t think.
I reach back.
Chapter 27Chase
Our fingers link together.
At the contact, a softness comes over me. A weight releasing. She feels like comfort and silent strength, leaving me in a trance-heady state.
My shoulders relax, muscles unlocking.
Annie’s eyes glow like frosted blue moons dipped in pearls. Underwater lights reflect off her wet skin, the beads of chlorine sparkling. Hypnotizing. It’s enough to banish the intrusive thoughts, the memories pulling me into a tailspin.
She glances down at our joined hands. Her eyes linger on the guitar inked along my forearm, then drift to the ring circled around my thumb. With her free hand, she reaches out—tentative, featherlight—fingertips brushing across the worn sterling silver. “You always wear this,” she murmurs, tone curious. “Why?”
I give her hand a squeeze. “When we were kids, my sister’s favorite movie wasThe Brave Little Toaster.”
She frowns, confused by the pivot, as if that answered her question.
