Which was insane.
Midnight existed.
New Year’s Eve existed.
Our fake relationship was seeming less fake by the day. But neither of us discussed that fact.
But for once, sitting under the Miami moon with grocery-store Thanksgiving and stolen Bordeaux between us, I let myself pretend the pretend thing was real.
After dinner, we walked down to the dock.
Isa had changed into one of my old T-shirts and shorts because she’d gotten gravy on her sweater and claimed it was my fault for distracting her near the rolls. Her leg was better but still not perfect, so I stayed close without making a big deal out of it.
The water slapped gently against the pilings.
Far behind us, the house glowed gold and cold.
“Do you swim here?” she asked.
“Used to.”
She looked at me. “Used to?”
I shrugged. “When I was younger. Before I understood how much I didn’t belong.”
Her face shifted.
I hated when my mouth did that.
Got honest without permission.
Then she pulled her shirt over her head.
My brain stopped.
Under it, she wore a black bikini I had not seen her pack and had no business surviving.
“Isa.”
“What?” She stepped out of her shorts. “You said used to. I’m correcting the tense.”
“Your leg.”
“I’m not sprinting. I’m floating.”
“Trainer would kill me.”
“She’s not here. Besides I used to believe salt water fixed everything.” She walked backward toward the edge of the dock, smiling like trouble in moonlight. “Save me if I drown.”
“You said you don’t need saving.”
“I don’t. I’m giving you a hobby.”
Then she jumped.
The splash cracked across the quiet.
I stood there for half a second, looking at the place where she’d gone under.
