A pause.
“What did you do today?”
“Nothing stressful.”
“Specifics.”
“I breathed.”
“You were doing that before the vacation.”
“Not recreationally.”
“Annie.”
She only used my real name when she was worried or when Savannah was being especially uncooperative.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the faint red line the wetsuit had left across my ankle.
“I took a beginner scuba lesson.”
The silence lasted so long I checked whether the call had dropped.
“Rachel?”
“I am deciding which part of that sentence to address first.”
“It was very safe.”
“You went underwater.”
“That’s generally where they keep the scuba.”
“You are supposed to be resting.”
“It was quiet.”
“You have a voice people insure.”
“I didn’t sing underwater.”
“You have ears.”
“I still have both.”
“That is not the standard.”
I smiled despite myself.
“The instructor was very professional.”
“Was the instructor attractive?”
My smile disappeared.
“No.”
Rachel made a sound that suggested I had failed an exam she had not told me I was taking.
