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Reality returned in an instant. With it came the sting from the scrapes inflicted by the ragged bark. My throat pinched from the swell of emotion boiling up. He snuggled closer. Ever so delicately, with care reserved for precious things, I stroked the nape of his neck and sifted my fingers through his hair.
Things were so good between us. Why this man? This man I could never have.
“No condom…Jesus,” he said between choppy breaths. “When are you due for your period?”
That hit me like a thunderbolt. I was never irresponsible–– never ever. “I don’t get it regularly. Mostly, I don’t get it because of my weight. There’s little chance anything happened. My mother had a hard time conceiving.”
His gaze lifted to mine and found absolute truth. As he placed me back on solid ground, my legs wobbled, incapable of holding me up. Before I could stumble, he pulled me into his arms and anchored me to his solid frame. “You should probably be on birth control, just to be safe. God knows I have no control around you.”
He was right, of course. I wasn’t even going to pretend that I didn’t love it when he lost his vaunted self-control with me. I replied with a simple, “okay.” And realizing that there wouldn’t be any argument, he grabbed my hand, laced his fingers through mine, and led me to the lake.
I watched him swim the width of the lake twice before he swam back to me. The graceful line of his body cut through the water with ease. For a moment I wished I could have seen all that power at full throttle, before the accident, then quickly abandoned the thought. This is who he was now. My imperfect, perfect lover.
“Will you at least try?” he asked with a teasing smile. His face transformed when he was playful, glowing as if lit from within.
“No. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m not a good swimmer. I keep paddling and never get anywhere.”
We were treading water close to shore. He kept touching me, his hands roving over me unconsciously, pulling me closer. I wrapped my legs around his hips and his large hands stroked my rear end and squeezed.
“Sebastian––” His fingers sifted through my intimate curls and tugged. I yelped and laughed, swatting his hand away.
“Hmm, nothing sweeter than my name on your lips.”
“Someone said that you were supposed to be on the U.S. Men’s swim team, at the Sydney Olympics. What happened? How come you didn’t go?”
His expression sobered, his smile flattening into a grim line. He rubbed his face, his wide palm brushing water drops off his thick lashes. Blast it. I hadn’t intended to ruin the good mood. My smile disappeared, too. When his hand lifted, he looked at me pointedly.
“You really want to know?”
I felt awkward, like I had stepped over some invisible line. “Only if you want to tell me,” I answered softly.
“I’ve never told anyone before.” He seemed surprised at himself, feeling the words out on his lips.
“You don’t have to,” I mumbled.
Soothing the awkwardness, I reached out and ran my hand against the bristle on his cheek and jaw. He grabbed it, turning his face into my palm, and kissed it.
“My mother overdosed the night before the Olympic trials. She was in a coma for three weeks.”
“How?”
“Valium, Percocet, and vodka…the official story is that I pulled a hamstring. The family called in favors, kept her name out of the papers and the hospital records…my mother’s family is in the oil business, and very influential in Houston.”
The water was suddenly cold. My teeth chattered. “I’m sorry,” I said while I held him, cradled him with my arms and legs, unwilling to let anything separate us.
“It’s old news.” He stroked my bottom again and gripped my hips. “Time to get out. You’re shivering.”
My heart ached for him. It was obviously not old news. It was clear he still harbored a good deal of anger and resentment. What a sacrifice––to train all those years and have it taken away from you by no fault of your own. I could certainly empathize with that. A clear picture was coming together about his ambivalent relationship with his mother––and it wasn’t pretty.
We took our time walking back to the house, shrouded in silence, accompanied by moonlight. I couldn’t stop staring at our entwined hands, imprinting my mind so I could cherish the memory some day. I had tried my best to remain detached and failed, lost that struggle a while ago if I was honest with myself. I was no expert at handling illicit affairs. He was steadily pulling me into the deep end of the emotional pool. My willpower was no match for the depth of feeling I had for him; a demoralizing discovery because eventually he would move on and I would be left to patch up my shattered heart. Aleksander’s betrayal had taught me a harsh lesson. I could never allow myself to need someone again, to depend on anybody. Self-preservation trumped everything––even love.
