Page 58 of The Art of Drowning

Water demanded nothing of me.

After a few laps of punishing freestyle, I took pity on my screaming lungs and flipped over onto my back. My backstroke was slower than my freestyle, but it helped me get myself under control. When I went back to freestyle a few laps later, I was calmer and more in control of myself. I was no longer fighting the water like it was a stand-in for every injustice I’d ever faced. It was my friend again. Holding me while I tried not to fall apart.

Sometime during my laps, the other lanes opened up and when I stopped for a rest, so did Bowie, who had been swimming next to me for the past couple laps.

“Feel better?” he asked.

I propped my arms on the edge of the pool and let my breath get steadier before I said anything.

“Callum taught me to swim.”

Bowie’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something to that, but he never opened his mouth, so I kept talking.

“It was how I figured out I was bisexual. His family put a pool in and Callum was always in it. Shirtless. Wet. Gorgeous. And then one day he found out that I couldn’t swim because I went too deep and he had to save my ass.”

“Fuck me.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought after he hauled me out of the water. Instead of being a dick about my near-death experience, he offered to teach me how to swim. He never told anyone that he was doing it, or if he did, they kept it a secret. But either way, no one except him knew that I was seventeen and couldn’t swim.”

“I’m glad he saved your mopey ass.” Bowie splashed a little water at me, and I returned the gesture, keeping it tame so we didn’t draw any unnecessary tension.

“I’m not mopey.”

“Whatever you say, Eeyore.”

“Eeyore wasn’t mopey either. He was clinically depressed.”

Bowie’s carefully arched eyebrow spoke volumes about his opinion on that subject.

“Maybe I’m a little mopey,” I conceded, my body restless and eager to get a few more laps in.

“I’ll allow it. Just…” He chewed on his lower lip the way he did when he was thinking of how he wanted to say something. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That was sweet of him, but I was already hurt. I’d been hurt when I realized my parents thought I was an inconvenience. Like a needy plant they had to care for until it was socially acceptable to stop. I’d been hurt when I realized that Callum was always going to choose his family over me. I’d been hurt when his parents made me ride in the stupid limo and go to the stupid cemetery. I couldn’t get the sight of Sam’s grave out of my head.

It had made everything so final. Sam was dead and he wasn’t coming back.

Sam was dead, and I was older and still in love with Callum.

I was still in love with Callum, and I didn’t know if we could make it work.

“I don’t want to get hurt either, but it feels like I have no good options. If I go back to ignoring Callum, that hurts. I have a fling with Callum and it ends again. That hurts. I feel like no matter what I do, I’m going to end up hurt. I don’t know what to do.”

Bowie held my gaze for a long moment. “Do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you need to open that envelope and see what Sam had to say to you.”

I turned away and launched myself into another lap.

I hated it when he was right.

TWENTY-NINE

callum

NOW