Here I was, thinking my swims were private. I rarely saw a soul, save for the occasional small boat beelining it for the channel. “Are you stalking me, Grayson?”
I catch a flash of white teeth before he turns back to his post. “No. I was just mighty curious when I saw a giant, awkward-looking fish flopping around in the distance a few weeksago. Got my binoculars out and discovered it was you.”
“Yet you still let this giant, awkward-looking fish catch your attention in the mornings.”
“You’re out there swimming solo. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t drown.” His tone is cast in humor, but the words themselves aren’t.
“Have you been worrying about me?” The question doesn’t contain the snark it should.
“If you drowned, Anson would think it was me.”
“That’s your own fault.”
“Which is why I’m trying to prevent the scenario altogether,” he counters, before the engine’s hum settles over us again.
A few minutes later, the cages appear in the distance, a field of dark, boxy shapes bobbing on the water’s surface.
Grayson speaks again. “Your form is solid.”
“Thought you said I was flopping around.”
I get another flash of his strong profile, enough for me to see the lines crinkling by his eyes. “Your form is solid for an awkward fish,” he clarifies.
We both know that’s not true. “I was on the swim team in high school,” I find myself saying. “Competed at States and everything. Used to be a lot faster than I am now.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “I just stopped.”
“Why?”
Isn’t it obvious?“I grew up. More responsibilities. Other priorities.”
He scoffs. “Boston, there are fifty-year-olds in that swim group at the beach. They’re a lot more grown up than you, they’ve got kids to worry about, mortgages to pay, andthey’re still showing up every morning. They just make swimming into one of their priorities because it feels good.”
Whether he means to or not, his point prods at me. It’s the ignorance in it. The obtuse disregard for what I really mean.
Or is it the fact that it’s true?
“How long did Martha put you out for?” he asks.
“Ten days.” Which means I’m in for some boring early morning runs. At least it’ll increase my basketball stamina, if I’m ever bored and desperate enough to stare down a net again.
“There’s these special waterproof patches you could use,” he informs me, gently turning the boat. “They don’t let anything through.”
I nod, because I’m sure there are. Special order, probably.
Our conversation ends there as Grayson pulls up to the shallower side of the farm, cuts the engine, and secures the boat.
As he hops in, the water just below his chest, I can’t help but toy with the idea of spending a Saturday driving somewhere for an open-water swim when I’m back in the city. It would probably be the highlight of my week.
Then swimming becomes the last thing on my mind, because for the next two hours, I watch Grayson work his farm—harvesting oysters, hauling gear around, analyzing his product. And he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t take breaks. Just works with capable hands and muscles I know are flexing beneath his baggy sweatshirt and waterproof gear. There’s an occasional grunt when he jerks something into place, or heaves a heavy cage up into the skiff, which rocks withthe weight.
All I can do is try to ignore everything stirring at the sight of this man doing his physical job, and doing it well.
Kyle was a spreadsheet wiz. Capable with a laptop, knew algorithms like the back of his hand. But seeing him at his laptop did nothing for me. It was as stimulating as seeing a squirrel.
This is different. It’s inciting that strangely sweet tightening in my belly, the same sensation I felt when I saw him earlier in the warehouse.
