Page 12 of Exchanged

On our way over, we picked up my best friends, Katrina and Trevor. I’ve known Katrina since the first week of kindergarten. I had stepped in pee in the bathroom while wearing only socks, and she gave me an extra pair and told me I was dumb to go to the bathroom without shoes—that’s Katrina, both judgmental and generous—and then we were friends.

Trevor was the boy whose socks Katrina “borrowed” to give to me.

Katrina plays clarinet and Trevor plays French horn, and though I just saw them at band rehearsal this morning, they were eager to meet Garrett. I had described the insane situation to them, but they weren’t as shocked as I wanted them to be.

Trevor had shrugged and said, “It’s not that different from having a random guy from halfway around the world living with you. This was always going to be weird. Now it’s just weird with someone whose native language is English.”

Katrina had agreed with him and told me that Georgia is in Eastern Europe, not Western Asia, and that I need to be less awkward around straight guys.

“I’m straight,” Trevor had complained.

“But you’re a mathlete,” Katrina said. Then she looked at me. “He’s a hot straight guy, isn’t he?”

“Why does that matter?” I’d blustered.

She smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Now Katrina is scrambling across a rocky crevice and asking Garrett over her shoulder, “What’s your neighborhood in Atlanta like?” She wears a large Irontown Band sweatshirt on top of her swimsuit, and her white-blond hair is pulled back in a tight braid. She and Trevor spent the entire ride peppering Garrett with questions about life in the city and the South.

“It’s fine. I actually live in a suburb. It’s one of those places with crazy-expensive houses where the people pretend the homes weren’t all built less than ten years ago. Filled with a lot of freeways and strip malls that take themselves too seriously.”

“Blue Harbor has a strip mall,” Trevor offers. “It has a drive-through coffee place and everything.”

Garrett’s lip twitches as if he’s holding back a smile, and it feels patronizing. We reach the highest point of a rock face, scarred black stone plunging vertically to the water below. It’s thirty feet down, but we can still feel the cold spray of water from up here.

“This is Black Rocks,” I announce.

Pulling themselves up the rock face are some guys, hair dripping wet and forearms straining as they claw their way onto the ledge. I recognize Tyler Jorgen and Evan Hegge—of eighth-grade stomach-punching infamy—and a few other seniors. When they get to the top, Tyler gives a half wave, but the rest ignore us. They roughhouse and swear at one another, and then, one by one, they walk to the ledge and jump into the water.

Garrett watches them splash into the water below, his head tilted to the side. Then he takes his shirt off and strides to the edge, looking down. When he turns back to us, Katrina’s question—Is he a hot straight guy?—trumpets in my mind.

The answer is conclusive and unarguable.

His body is a sculpture, tall and toned, every line and curve carved with intention. Muscles rope over his shoulders and arms and across his chest, yet he lacks the hulking, clumsy physique of Tyler’s friends, with their arms the size of misshapen Christmas hams. There’s a leanness to him, every part of his body aware of its purpose with nothing extra or unnecessary, all bone and muscle beneath a tapestry of freckles. The bottom edges of his abs triangle toward each other, disappearing into the waistline of his low-riding swim shorts.

And his face. He has a proud jaw and cocky eyes, the kind that make you want to do something reckless to get noticed by them. His hair is short on the sides and carefully messy on top, and is the color of iron-ore dust when it settles on white houses, warm and earthy and glowing in the afternoon light.

Yep. Definitely hot.

He nods toward the water. “Well?”

“Oh,” Trevor says, “we don’t usually jump. We swim from over there.” He points to a rocky beach backdropped by pines.

“Why?”

Katrina glances at me. “Some of us aren’t the best swimmers.”

I look up at the sky as if I suddenly care about the seagulls circling overhead.

Garrett’s eyes flick over me appraisingly. He lifts his shoulders. “Suit yourselves.”

And then he dives. His body is fierce and confident as it forms a graceful arc, briefly suspended over the ultramarine waves. Tyler and his friends were stones plummeting into water. Garrett flies. He barely creates a splash. Seconds later, his head breaks the surface, haloed in bubbles and water droplets.

“Fuck, it’s cold!” he shouts.

Tyler, halfway out of the water and gripping the rock face, laughs and says something I can’t hear. Garrett swims to him and begins following him up the rocks.

Katrina nudges me with her shoulder. “He’s not as bad as you made him sound.”