“You’re going in like that?” I refuse to look below his waist.
“Yup. Throwing it back to the fifth-grader-in-a-community-pool look.”
An unanticipated laugh hiccups out of me. He may not realize it, but he’s giving me an excuse to keep my shirt on too, and by extension, delaying the terror of premiering my scars to the world.Frankenboobs, I tested out calling them, when I finally got a good look at them after the bruises and swelling dissipated. When I said it, it felt like I was taking control of the change. Turning it into something light and humorous.
When Grant parroted my joke, it sounded like,Reason you are different. Broken.
My relief is palpable, a thick blanket wrapping around my ribs. “Same, then.” This babydoll top is about to become my own personal floatie.
Eitan walks onto the concrete steps, loping down to the surface of the water, not hesitating once before cannonballing in.
I stand on the edge, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on me.
“Come on in, Bathroom Girl,” Eitan shouts from the lake. “Water’s great.”
I toe the concrete, trying to work up the courage.
“It’s like ripping off a bandaid,” Eitan says, words waterlogged. I know he’s not just talking about the water.
His eyes linger on my legs. His attention makes me feel light, like if I jump, I might soar for a few seconds before hitting the water. I watch him, some kind of buoy, and take a sharp breath in, holding my nose.
I take two feverish steps to the edge, and I let go.
Normally, I wouldn’t go near Lake Michigan before July, when the glacial water has had a chance to warm up after being frozen on and off all winter. But here I am, dousing myself in it,practically undergoing a polar plunge. I sputter in a breath when I finally resurface, haphazardly wiping the mascara running beneath my eyes and the wet hair from my forehead. The waves are much bigger when you’re trying to float on them, bobbing us up and down a good three feet.
A targeted wave of lakewater hits me in the face. “Beach Girl,” Eitan shouts, his voice skittering over the surface of the lake. “Sunlight looks good on you.”
I’d blush if I wasn’t trying to stay afloat.
Eitan, on the other hand, looks like he was born of the sea. Like something not of this world. An alchemy of salt water and sunlight that had to be forged in a divine lab. He smiles and tips his head back, water dripping from his plastered curls, and hollers at the sun, the way a wolf howls at the moon. His cry is nothing but a noise, but in it I hear,I’m here.Alive.
In the water, I am weightless. Free.
I howl too.
Eitan paddles toward me, his arms and back soaking wet and gleaming.
My heart stutters, then speeds. He keeps swimming, until he’s right in front of me, and the only word my waterlogged brain can muster ismiracle. I’m not sure what the miracle is—Eitan knocking on my door this morning, succeeding at getting me to go swimming, or just the existence of someone like this. A piece of the sea made mortal.
His broad hand reaches out, and its trajectory appears to be no further than my cheek. All of a sudden, I want nothing more than to feel his hand on my skin. To feel our bodies pressing together, no air between, like the point where two oceans meet. Despite being submerged in fifty-degree water, my body heats, burning from the inside out.
“You’ve got—” Eitan smiles, and gentle fingertips extract something near my eyebrow, detangling it from my hair. He holds up a piece of seaweed before flinging it away.
He tips back and floats, allowing the waves to carry him, oblivious to my turmoil.
I rub my forehead. This isn’t one of the happily-ever-after fantasies I conjure up within one minute of meeting someone. Eitan is a flesh and blood person, with a penchant for casual hookups, an active stake in Pen’s wedding, and an expiration date. We are acquaintances. Associates, even. Pen’s agent connection is the closest I’ve gotten in almost two years to moving my writing career forward, and I can’t screw it up by getting distracted by one cute boy with eyes I could get lost in and a face that could quell a panic attack.
There’s only one word that I need to remember when it comes to Eitan Moreno, and it’sdangerous.
chapter
thirteen
A cosmic switch has flipped.Laws of the universe have been rewritten.
My phone is buzzing off its metaphorical hook.
What do you think of this tablescape?Pen texts me an AI-generated image from Pinterest. It’s intriguing, I guess, though it seems physically impossible given a candle is sittinginsidea flower arrangement.How’s your cursive?she asks later.
