“What?” I look down at myself. I forgot I’m naked. Also, I’m erect. It’s not just morning wood.
“Sorry.” Not sorry. Secretly I don’t mind at all that she saw me completely naked.
She saw me at my weakest, caught in the grip of that nightmare. Yet the thought unsettles me less than it should. I find myself wondering if it’s because she’s my wife that I don’t mind her seeing that side of me.
I swing my legs over the other side of the bed and snatch up my phone.
There’s a reminder that it’s time for my weekly free-diving class. I hesitate.
It’s the first day after our wedding. We have the morning off from the restaurant.
And I don’t want to be away from her.
The free-diving is my solo time. When I get to be myself. Get to be one with my thoughts. It’s the only time my need for control calms.
I don’t question my impulse to invite her to come with me. I look at her over my shoulder.
“Have you ever been free-diving?”
39
Harper
How deep is he going to freedive?
I stare into the depths of the fifty meters of Olympic-grade perfection. Eight lanes, black lines on the bottom stretching the length. The water is that particular blue-green of heavily chlorinated pools all the way to the bottom.
Above, the roof sweeps overhead in those dramatic curves. Timber and steel beams creating a wave pattern that mirrors the water below. Massive windows along both sides flood the space with natural light.
When the sun breaks through, it turns the water into something almost magical, light dancing across the surface.
I’m wearing my swimsuit and I'm in the shallow end. I’ve done a few lazy laps across the breadth. But I’m preoccupied with watching out for James. Above me, the spectators’ gallery with rows of seats rises along one side of the pool.
In the other corner of the shallow end, there’s a parent watching their kid's swim practice, a coach with a clipboard timing his student. A couple more serious swimmers are doing laps.
Then James walks onto the pool deck. My gaze finds him immediately. He’s wearing speedos which cling to his lean hips and shows off the bulge at his crotch. Which is massive.
His big ego and innate ability to command is justified.
And then, there’s his sculpted physique. He could have been drawn by an artist; that’s how pronounced his six-pack abs are. Before him, I’ve only ever seen models with such musculature.
Only James is far more alive, more real, more vital.
Earlier, I noticed the scars across his chest and the mottled patch on his shoulder that must have come from a bullet strike. I wasn't able to pay attention to them.
I can now.
My gaze traces the marks with curiosity.
They’re from his time as a Marine. The thought of what he must have endured to earn them fills me with a strange sense of awe.
They only deepen his appeal.
They are proof that he once put his life on the line for something greater than himself.
And somehow, that makes him even more irresistible.
Then, there are the tattoos on his chest.
