The hidden swimming hole looks like something from a summer movie. Darker than the main lake, a deep blue-green circle tucked between rock walls and sun-warmed ledges. On the far side, three people stand on a cliff maybe twenty feet above the surface. A lean teenage boy with shaggy hair backs up, runs two steps, and launches himself into the air.
For one suspended second he is nothing but limbs, sunlight, and reckless joy. Then he hits the water and disappears. He surfaces whooping, and his friends cheer. I move closer without deciding to.
There are several ledges around the cove -- some low, some higher. Many are shadowed by trees. The rock beneath my sandals is warm, uneven, and dusted with pine needles.
Another jumper goes. A girl this time. She screams all the way down, then comes up laughing. I should think this is foolish. Irresponsible. Dangerous. I should be calculating head injuries, slippery rocks and emergency contact forms. I should be the adult with snacks and a first-aid kit, standing safely on shore with a towel ready.
Instead, all I can think is: I want to know what that feels like.
The thought shocks me. I look around as if someone might have heard it. No one is paying attention. I take another step. There’s a ledge closer to me -- not as high as the one the others are using, but high enough to make my palms sweat. The water below looks dark, still, and inviting.
How hard can it be? The question is so unlike me that I almost laugh. I can manage twenty-three children during indoor recess. I can teach subtraction with regrouping to a child who thinks numbers are an organized form of torture. I can sit across from my husband and say, “I think leaving is the only honest thing left.”
Surely I can stand on a rock and jump into water.
My sandals scrape as I edge forward. The breeze moves over my bare arms. My pulse thumps in my throat. Below me, the lake waits, dark and gleaming.
I imagine Harold’s voice.Layla, this seems unnecessary.
That, more than anything, makes me step closer. My toes curl inside my sandals. My knees tremble. I look down … bad idea. The drop is farther than it seemed from the trail. The water is darker, too. I can’t see the bottom. I can’t tell whether there are rocks beneath the surface or some other hidden thing waiting to punish tourists with a strange surge of courage.
Still, I don’t move back. Because for the first time in months, maybe years, I feel strangely alive. Terrified, yes. But alive.
I inhale slowly. “Okay,” I whisper. “One brave thing.”
A voice behind me says, low and firm, “If you’re going to jump, you don’t do it from here.”
I startle so hard my foot slips. A hand closes around my upper arm and pulls me back before I can even gasp. My body hits something solid. A very large, warm, very real man.
I’m pressed against a wall of muscle, my heart hammering, his hand still wrapped around my arm. I smell sun, clean sweat, and something faintly like cedar. Then he releases me and steps back.
I turn too fast and nearly stumble again. He reaches out, steadying me with one hand at my waist this time.
“Easy,” he says.
Easy? As if anything about this moment is easy.
He is tall. Tall enough that I need to tilt my head back to look at him. Broad shoulders. Dark hair, slightly damp and pushed away from his face. Blue eyes so clear they look almost unreal against his tanned skin. Shirtless. Water beads on sun-browned skin that stretches over muscle clearly earned from real work, not just gym time. His swim trunks hang low on his hips. His jaw is dark with stubble. His expression isn’t amused. It’s calm.
I straighten, suddenly aware of my flushed face and the fact that one of my ugly toes has escaped the front of my sandal.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” I say.
His gaze drops briefly to the ledge behind me, then returns to my face.
“No?”
“No.”
“You were standing at the edge.”
“I was looking.”
“People who are only looking usually stand farther back.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. That is inconvenient, because I have always been good with words. Parent conferences. Lesson plans. Awkward divorce conversations. Words are my tools. This man has apparently stolen them by being too large, too wet, and too correct.
I try again. “I had no intention of doing anything dangerous.”
