Page 46 of Coming Home

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest, and before I could read the mischief in his eyes, his wet hand shot out of the water. His fingers wrapped firmly around my bare ankle.

My breath hitched. "Ralph. Don't you dare!"

"Come in."

"Absolutely not. Let go of my leg."

"The water's perfect today. Come test it."

"Ralph Brandt, I swear to God, if you pull me in, I will sell your Olympic medals on eBay."

"Then enter the premises voluntarily, or I'm dragging you under. Dealer's choice." His grip was solid, but his thumb was doing this agonizingly soft thing against the sensitive skin of my inner ankle. He was looking at me with that steady, unmovable intensity that always made my arguments feel like smoke.

"I can't."

The playfulness evaporated. Just like that, the humor was swallowed by the old fear. My toes curled away from the water. "Ralph... please. I can't."

His hand didn't move from my ankle, but his grip shifted from a playful tug to a steady anchor. The teasing died in his eyes. What was left was the man who had lifted me off a freezing porch in the middle of a rainstorm, who had turned up the music and simply sat in the quiet while I broke apart.

"I've got you," he said, his voice stripped of the bravado from seconds ago. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Come swim with me, Em."

The pool stretched out below me—a brilliant, blinding sheet of turquoise, so clear I could see the thick black line running along the bottom. The same black line I had followed in my sleep for fifteen years. The line that led to podiums, national anthems, and the girl I used to be before everything shattered.

I gripped the concrete until my fingers ached. The scent of the chlorine wasn't just in my nose anymore; it was somewhere deep, screaming two things at once: Stay back, you're broken, the water doesn't know you anymore. And beneath it, a tiny, fragile whisper: Please. I've missed you. Come home.

I looked down at Ralph. His gaze was fierce, turned up at me like I was the bravest thing he'd ever seen—which was hilarious, considering I was a grown woman terrified of a swimming pool.

I let go of the concrete. I slid off the edge.

The shock hit me. A full-body freeze that snatched the air right out of my lungs and locked every muscle from my jaw to my toes. The water rushed up to claim my waist, my chest, my shoulders, and for one horrific, blinding second, I was suffocating in the dark of my own failures again. The ceiling felt like it was crashing down.

Then Ralph's hands were on my waist. Large, heavy, and warm. He squeezed, pulling me flush against his solid chest, anchoring me to the earth while the water did its terrifying work.

"Breathe," he said, his mouth right against my ear. "I've got you, Emma. Just breathe. Match me."

I inhaled, my chest trembling against his. The violent chill began to soften. The panic recoiled, slinking back into the dark. And what was left underneath the static of my anxiety was the one truth I'd spent three years running from.

The water didn't care that I was broken. It just held me.

"Lean back," Ralph murmured, his hands sliding down to support my spine. "Trust me. Just float."

I tipped my head back, letting my hair fan out across the surface like silk. My body went horizontal, and the water immediately cradled my weight with a grace my own legs hadn't managed in years. The weightlessness was so familiar that hot tears flooded my eyes before I could stop them.

I was floating.

The white vaulted ceiling stretched high above me, and the sunlight hitting the water threw dancing, fractured diamonds across my vision. Ralph's hand stayed resting lightly against the small of my back—just a warm reminder that I wasn't alone in the deep end. The pool held the rest of me. It didn't care about the extra pounds I'd gained, or the heavy, swollen joints, or the body I'd spent years apologizing for. It just took all of it, without judgment, and made me weightless.

"I'm doing it," I choked out, the tears slipping sideways down my temples, disappearing straight into the chlorine. "Ralph... I'm doing it."

"I know," his voice thick. "I see you, Em."

I couldn't stay still. I turned over, digging my palms into the water, my thighs driving a kick. Muscle memory fired through pathways I thought I'd burned to the ground. I moved through the water. I wasn't fast, I wasn't breaking records, and it certainly wasn't graceful, but I was swimming. A sob broke through mid-stroke.

I swam. Ten meters. Twenty. Crying so hard the lane lines blurred, my arms pulling through three years of grief.

Every stroke felt like reclaiming a piece of my soul I thought was gone for good. The muted, underwater thrum in my ears. Lungs and limbs remembering their rhythm, pulling me toward the wall. The way the entire chaotic world goes silent the second your ears submerge.

I reached the far wall and grabbed the gutter, gasping for air, laughing and sobbing all at once. Ralph was right there beside me—he'd swum the entire length at my shoulder, keeping pace with my clumsy strokes. Before I could even wipe the water from my eyes, his arms came around me from behind, pulling my back against his chest.