She takes the towel from me and sets it straight on the counter. She hugs me hard.
“It was. I don’t know why I did it, Samantha,” she says, but I’m pretty sure I do. Whether it’s conscious or not, I’m guessing it has something to do with being on the bottom rung. “Thanks for stepping in. I didn’t expect you to do that.”
My chest tightens. Hailey should expect her friend to step in and defend her. Is this the first time I have?
I hug her back and tell her it’ll be okay, because it always is. “They’ll punish you for a couple of days, but then they’ll find something else to move on to.”
“You think?”
“I’m positive. By this time next week, we’ll all be referring to it as ‘Itty-bitty-titty-gate’ and laughing our asses off.” That makes Hailey crack up. She hugs me even harder.
There’s still time to chat with Caroline, so I grab the wet paper towel off the counter and press it into Hailey’s hands. “I have to run. Clean up and go to class, okay? Try not to think about it.” They’re empty words. Of course she’ll think about it. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Will you?” she asks.
“Will I what?”
“Be there at lunch?” She stares at me. “You’ve missed a lot of them lately.”
“Have I?” Hailey raises her eyebrows like she’s wondering how I could ask such a ridiculous question.
Over the last few weeks, two missing lunches turned into three and sometimes four. If I’m not in Poet’s Corner, I’m hiding in the first row of the theater, writing with Caroline.
“Déjà vu,” she says as she starts wiping her makeup off.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Sarah all over again. She disappeared a little bit at a time, remember? Gone a few days here. Then a few days there. And then she was gone for good.”
“Hailey—”
She doesn’t let me finish. “Sam. I don’t want you to disappear, too. If you were gone, I don’t…” She wrings the paper towel in her hands.
“I’ll be there today. I promise.” Of course I’ll be there today. It’s Wednesday. But if it were Monday or Thursday, I’d skip Poet’s Corner to be sure Hailey was okay. “I’ll see you at lunch,” I repeat.
I race to my locker and take my time gathering my books, hanging back as long as I can. But Caroline never shows up.
I’m relieved to find the swim club parking lot completely empty, and I pull into a spot near the front gate. The odometer wasn’t a problem. I’ve driven here so many times, I know all the back roads and cheats that help me park correctly.
“North Valley Swim and Tennis Club,” A.J. says, reading the sign as I pull into a spot. Then he turns to me. “A pool?”
“I’m a swimmer,” I say.
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
I shrug. “I currently hold the county record in butterfly.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
I’m feeling pretty confident as I walk to the back of the car and pop the trunk. Throwing my swim bag over my shoulder, I slam the trunk closed, head for the gate, and swipe the card key against the panel. The gate clicks open, and once we’re inside, I point out the men’s locker room and tell him I’ll meet him at the pool.
Two minutes later, I’ve washed my face, changed into my suit, and I’m back outside again, throwing my towel on the banister next to the showers like I always do. I’ve walked around crowded meets in a swimsuit since I was six years old, and I can’t remember the last time I felt self-conscious about it, but tonight I do. I slip into the shallow end before AJ gets outside.
The water is warm and I dunk under, wetting my hair, smoothing it back off my face. While I wait for him, I think about Hailey. People made comments about that photo all day, and by the time the final bell rang, Kaitlyn was even more pissed at her. I make a mental note to text her when I get home.
AJ emerges from the locker room and stands there, shifting his weight back and forth, looking adorable and awkward. I call his name and wave him over.
“It’s freezing out here,” he says.
“The pool’s a lot warmer.”
“You want me to get in?”
“You are wearing a swimsuit.” I look up at the sky. “And it is a nice night.” The evenings have turned a little colder over the last couple of weeks, but still…it’s California. The air has a bit of a bite, but the sky is clear and there are plenty of stars.
AJ nods and I watch him walk to the opposite side of the pool, past all the lane lines, and climb the ladder to the diving board. Without hesitating, he struts to the end of the platform and does a pencil dive. Feet first. Stick straight. Right in. He pops up to the surface and swims toward me, doing some kind of weird-looking hybrid stroke I’ve never seen before. “Let me guess,” I say when he’s close enough to hear me. “You never took swim lessons?”
He reaches a point where he can stand and he starts walking toward me, speaking while he tries to catch his breath. “Not a single one. I’m a natural, right?”
I laugh. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
He leans back, resting his arms on the edge of the pool. “This is your favorite place to write? A pool.”
Now that he says it that way, I realize how strange it sounds. “Yeah. I used to recite song lyrics while I swam, but ever since that first time in Poet’s Corner, I’ve been writing poetry while I swim laps instead.” I fall forward into the water and with one big stroke I’m standing right next to him. I press my palms into the concrete and lift myself out of the pool. I can feel him watching me as I walk to the opposite end.
I step up on the block of lane number three. As I take my stance, I run my finger along the scratchy surface three times, and then I dive in, pushing off with my legs as I squeeze my arms tight against my ears. Palm over hand, I pierce the surface and dolphin kick hard under the water—one, two—and on three I pop up, throwing my arms over my head. I find my rhythm: One, two, three. One, two, three. Once I have a beat, I start thinking about words.
When AJ’s legs are visible under the water, I head right for them. I come in close, touch the wall with both hands and push off again, swimming back to the blocks, keeping the rhythm, and making up a poem as I go. On the other side, I do one last turn and head back to the shallow end. Back to AJ.
I stop a few feet short of him and stand up, panting and trying to catch my breath. I dunk underwater and slick my hair back off my face, feeling myself flush as I think about what I just wrote.
AJ is taking big strides toward me, pumping his arms exaggeratedly as he goes. When he’s close enough, he brings his hands to my shoulders and fixes his eyes on me. “Sam McAllister! What was that? And these shoulders!” He gives both of them a squeeze, and I wish I could sink back under the water and die.
“I know. They’re horrible and manly. My friends make fun of them all the time.”
He looks at me sideways. “Why would they do that?”
I’d shrug, but I don’t want to draw any more attention to my shoulders. “Because they get off on the misery of others?”
“No, I mean why would they do that? You could knock them into next week with these.” As he steps closer, his hands slide down my arms. I wanted to escape his grip, but now I’m hoping he’ll stay right where he is. “Do you swim every day?”
“I do all summer, but once school starts and I get busy with other stuff, I tend to let it slip until the school team season begins in the spring. But this year, I decided to be more focused. Now I swim at least six days a week. My coach thinks I have a good chance at a scholarship if I keep it up.” I mentally prepare myself for the heart palpitations that typically follow statements about going away to college, but tonight, that doesn’t happen.
He looks past me, toward the far end of the pool. “And while you were doing that,” he says, not even trying to hide the surprise in his voice, “you were writing at the same time?”
“No.” I lie. I can’t tell him
what I wrote. “I didn’t write anything this time.”
“Yes, you did. I can tell by the look on your face.”
“There’s no look on my face.”
He pivots me around so he’s at the deeper end of the pool. We’re eye to eye now, and it seems like we’re the same height.
“Come on…Tell me, Sam.”
Sam. I love the way he calls me that, but right now, I wish he wouldn’t. It’s completely disarming.
“I can’t. I wrote it in, like, twenty seconds. It sucks.”
He splashes me lightly. “Sorry. I don’t have any paper.” I try to hide behind my hands again, but he grips my arms and gently forces them underwater, pressing them against my sides. “You saw my songs. I’ve written some incredibly lame stuff.” I start to argue with him, but he doesn’t give me any time. “Tell me, Sam.” His smile is kind, encouraging, contagious, and that dimple…so adorable.
Another “Sam.”
I blow out a breath. Close my eyes. Breathe in again. Everything in me tells me to stop talking, but I don’t listen like I usually do. And then another thought takes over.
Tell him.
“I didn’t go there looking for you. I went looking for me.” My voice is soft, low, and shaky. “But now, here you are, and somehow, in finding you, I think I’ve found myself.”
I start to panic. I said too much. I knew I would. Caroline was wrong about letting my guard down.
Damn blurting.
Before I can open my eyes, I feel him rest his forehead against mine, and his hands slide around my back as he brushes his lips lightly against mine, kissing me like I just said the right thing, not the wrong thing. And this kiss…God, this kiss is soft and warm and perfect, and I part my lips as my fingers find the back of his neck. He tastes like spearmint, and his skin smells like chlorine, and I kiss him, remembering all the times I pictured Brandon doing this, and how those moments never ended well. I trail my fingers along his skin. He feels real. I let my hands wander up to his damp hair. That feels real too.
Please, let this be real. Please, don’t let me be imagining this.
“You okay?” he asks.
He hooks his finger under my chin and tips my head back so I have no choice but to look up at him. “See, this is where that blurting thing of mine comes in handy,” he says quietly. “I’ll start. I’m so glad I just kissed you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks, long before that day at my house, and right now I really want to kiss you again.”
He kisses my forehead, my cheek, my mouth, and I kiss him back, but he must sense my hesitation because he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine again. “This isn’t fair. I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Don’t worry about getting the words right. Tell me.”
This is a mistake. He doesn’t like me; he likes the person Caroline turned me into. He thinks I’m a normal girl who swims and writes poetry, but I’m not. I’m obsessed with my thoughts and I can’t sleep and I count in threes. He writes music and wears his heart on his sleeve, and I don’t deserve him.
“This isn’t good.” I bite my lips together, pressing them closed to keep the rest of this thought inside me where it belongs. I stare down at the water again, but I can see his reflection. He’s watching me, waiting for me, silently asking me to keep going, to keep talking.
“Sam.” He runs his thumb along my cheekbone. “What isn’t good?”
As soon as I part my lips, I hear the words slip out, like they’re floating away from me all by themselves. “I like you too much.”
He kisses me again, harder this time. “Good,” he whispers. “I like you too much, too.”
Once we start, we can’t seem to stop.
Other swimmers rarely show up after eight thirty, and we’re still the only ones here, but just in case that’s about to change, I lead AJ away from the race lanes and back over by the diving board where there’s a little more privacy. The water’s a lot deeper over here, so we both have to grip onto the side of the pool to keep from going under, and we have to stop kissing every few minutes so we can readjust. Each time we do, we laugh because this whole thing is totally unexpected and more than a little bit funny.
Kurt wasn’t a very good kisser. All tongue, jabbing into my mouth over and over again, circling way too fast. Aside from him, I’ve kissed guys at parties and stuff, but all of them were probably drunk at the time. So maybe it’s an unfair comparison, but AJ seems especially skilled.
I try not to think about how much practice he had with Devon. I try not to think about the girls he kissed before Devon, or the ones before that. I employ Caroline’s baseball trick, mentally swinging my bat, sending the negative thoughts flying into the distance. It works. Soon they’re gone and there’s nothing left but AJ and me, mouths and skin and water and…I don’t want it to end. It feels so amazing to let go and lose myself this way.
He spots the ladder and slides me toward it, lifting me onto the top rung. I take his face in my hands and wrap my legs around his waist to keep him from drowning, and we go right back to kissing again.
Each time one of us makes a move to leave, the other one plants a kiss somewhere—AJ on my back as I’m climbing the ladder, me on AJ’s neck just as he’s starting to pull himself out of the water—and each time we slide back in, picking up where we left off. When we finally agree to get out, we make a deal and shake on it.
When we’re back near the locker rooms, I step into the outdoor shower.
“You coming in?” I ask him. I’m used to rinsing off next to my teammates out here, but this feels different. I stop at a showerhead and flip it on, and he finds one farther in the back on the opposite wall.
I wash the chlorine out of my hair, stealing glances at him as I do. AJ doesn’t have a swimmer’s body; his arms and back aren’t as muscular, but he’s definitely not skinny like I once thought he was. He’s balanced, solid and strong all over.
He catches me watching him. He cuts the water and I do the same. I grab my towel and wrap it around his shoulders, and then I ball the ends up in my hands and pull him in close, like I once imagined Brandon doing to me. We kiss again for a long time. Then he wraps the towel around me. “I’ll meet you back out here,” I say as I head for the locker room.
I get dressed in the post-swim clothes I packed—yoga pants and a fitted sweater, a big step up from the baggy sweats and my faded hoodie I usually throw on when I get out of the pool—and I dig through my bag until I find my makeup kit. I carry it over to the mirror, but it seems weird to put any of it on. He’s already seen me without it for the last hour. What’s the point?
I gather my things and head for the bathroom door. AJ’s hair is still damp, but he’s dressed in the clothes he wore here. We walk through the gates and out to my car. He shivers and I crank up the heat.
“Music?” he asks, reaching for my phone. I remind him of my password and he makes his selection so quickly, it’s as if he went straight to Song for You and pressed play. He tosses my phone in the console and falls back into the headrest.
The first track is an acoustic version of “Your Body Is a Wonderland,” and he recognizes it right away. I can tell because his eyes fall shut and he starts plucking at invisible strings.
“Where else do you play guitar?” I ask. “Are you in a band or anything?”
“Nope. I’ve never played anywhere but downstairs.”
“Really,” I ask. “Never?”
He opens his eyes and gives me an awkward grin. “Nah. I like playing downstairs. Small group. Extremely kind. Very forgiving.”
“You’re afraid?” On stage, he’s like a performer completely in his element, playing to the crowd, pointing and winking to cheese it up during his funnier songs. He loves being up there. You can tell.
“I can’t imagine playing for total strangers. It’s not my thing anyway. I love writing songs, plucking at strings, trying to figure out how the words and the notes work together.”
We’re both quiet, lost in our own thoughts, and neither
one of us says another word until I’m at the bottom of his steep driveway. The odometer is on nine, so I tell him I want to hear the rest of this song and drive around the block one time. Then I pretend to miss his driveway. When the digits are lined up correctly, I pull up to his garage door and put the car in park.
His head falls to one side. “Can I ask you something?” I brace myself for a question about my tendency to overshoot driveways.
“Of course,” I say.
“When did you start making this playlist?”
Crap. He knows these songs are for him. Or does he? I start to say something flip, like “Oh, this old thing? Years ago,” but that doesn’t seem right. Besides, Caroline told me to let my guard down tonight, and when I did, things turned out pretty well.
“After I heard you play the first time.”
“Really?”
I feel my face flush. I hope it’s too dark out here for him to tell.
“Remember when you came to my house that day?” he asks.
How could I forget?
“After you left, I wrote something for you.”
“Really?” I’m relieved to learn that he’s been thinking about me, too, and that what happened tonight wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing for him either. “Can I hear it?” I ask, watching his mouth while I wait for him to reply. I can’t help myself.
His lips look so soft when he says, “Maybe.”
But inside, I can feel myself starting to panic. I didn’t plan any of this. Tonight has been amazing. Now it’s over, and I don’t know what comes next.
What happens tomorrow?
He twists in his seat and kisses me, and I try to focus on how incredible this feels, but my heart’s racing fast and not in the good way it was back at the pool. The thought spiral starts to take control, and I try to ignore it, but it won’t let me.
He must be able to tell I’m not fully present, because he pulls away slightly and whispers, “What’s the matter?”
Talk to him.
I bite the inside of my lower lip three times. Then I take a deep breath. “What happens tomorrow?”