Page 29 of On Dry Land

“That’s all right, I’ll leave you to it,” he replies, and I try not to feel too let down by the dismissal. Nodding, I smile a tight-lipped smile.

“No problem. Thanks again.”

We separate, him retreating into the big house and me crossing the yard to the guest cottage. Inside, I dig my swimming trunks out of my backpack. I haven’t unpacked, nor do I have any plan to. Dryden could tire of my presence at any moment, and it’s best to be ready to leave right when that happens. Undressing and slipping the swimsuit on, I pause to look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I should probably put a shirt on. There’s nothing particularly attractive about my body, and in fact, the view is a little disturbing. My stomach is a bit concave, and every single bone in my chest is visible. Skinny arms and skinny legs and a skinny face only make the image worse. Dryden—whose clothes are often tight enough for me to see exactly what’s hidden below—is muscular and healthy-looking.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, turning off the bathroom light and leaving. I’m being ridiculous. I don’t want to swim in a shirt, and why should I, anyway? Dryden doesn’t care what I look like, and I usually don’t either. I’m not trying to attract him; I’m just trying to enjoy the pool.

Pulling my winter jacket back on, I half zip it up before bending to tug on my shoes. Outside the cottage, I pause with the key held out in front of me, halfway into the lock. I don’t need to lock it…right? Biting my lip, I fight against the anxiety that tightens my chest at the thought. Dryden has a key, so locking this is pointless, anyway. We’re way out in the middle of nowhere, and the likelihood of someone sneaking onto the property from the woods and getting into the cottage without me seeing is slim. Besides, I’ll be right there in the pool and can watch the door.

Resolutely, I step back from the unlocked door and tuck the key into the pocket of my jacket, zipping it closed. It feels dangerous to leave it unlocked. It feels like I’m asking for someone to steal from me. It feels like I’m letting myself trust Dryden Roy, which is something I haven’t done with another person in a long, long time.

Before I can change my mind, I turn my back and stride toward the pool. The air is cold against my bare calves. Kneeling down, I tuck my shoes under one of the loungers and lay my coat over top. Swiftly, I move to the pool and step in. At first, it still feels a little cold despite the steam rising from the surface, but the moment I’m up to my chin in the water, it becomes comfortable. I can’t help but grin, sliding my arms through the water and languishing in the silky smooth feeling against my skin. I love swimming.

Putting a foot flat against the side of the pool, I push myself backward, floating toward the deeper end where I can tread water instead of stand. After a handful of minutes, I duck my head underneath before resurfacing and scrubbing my eyes. The cold air on my wet face feels sort of nice as I languidly move around. I’m not here to get a workout, so I don’t swim laps. I want to take a break that doesn’t have a single thing to do with survival or vlogging. I just want to float.

The sound of a door sliding open startles me. Sputtering at the water I splashed into my own face, I wipe a hand across my eyes and turn to watch as Dryden steps out of the house. I sink a little lower in the water, letting it lap gently at my chin. Dryden stands next to the open door, glass in his hand and still wearing the clothes he was in earlier. Meeting my eye, he gestures toward one of the lounge chairs.

“Mind?” he asks, as though this isn’t his house and his pool and his chairs. I shake my head. Hating the urge to hide, I straighten so my whole face is above the water. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so concerned about what this guy thinks of my body, and it’s not as though he can see clearly when I’m in the pool anyway.

“Of course not.”

He nods, closing the door to his house and walking toward the chair he indicated. It’s the furthest one from where my jacket is placed, I can’t help but notice. I turn in the water, keeping him in view. He moves a little bit like a dancer, actions smooth and oddly lovely, even though he’s not doing anything particularly exciting. He gives the impression of someone who’s never run into a doorframe or caught a hip on the edge of the counter in his life.

“Not coming in?” I ask him once he’s seated, long legs stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankle, glass resting in his lap.

“No. Hot enough?”

“It’s perfect. Thanks again.” Treading water, steam rising slowly around me, I smile at him. He shrugs, taking a sip of whatever brown liquid is in that glass.

“Someone should use it,” he replies carelessly.

Legs scissoring lazily, I move my arms through the water and watch him. He’s staring out at the woods behind the guest cottage, as calm and casual as though this is his routine every night. And maybe it is. I look at him, enjoying the way the light from the house hits him from behind and puts a glow on his rich brown skin. He’s probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Swimming closer, I cross my arms and rest them on the edge of the pool. He tracks the movement, dark eyes immediately looking me over.

“What happened to your arm?” he asks. I look down at them, stomach clenching so violently it feels like a muscle cramp. I should have crossed them the other way to hide the scar. I had momentarily forgotten it was there. Fighting the urge to slip my arms back into the water and out of view, I take a deep breath.

“Dog.”

“You were attacked by a dog?” he asks, sounding surprised, as though I’m the first person to ever have been a victim of an animal attack.

“Yeah. A handful of years ago. I used to work as a vet tech.” Feeling like the wounds are raw and not long healed, I look up at Dryden. They’re ugly, I know. The type of monster-of-Frankenstein scar that draws people’s attention and keeps it. The kind that disgusts them.

“Does it pull?” he asks, and it takes me a minute to figure out what he’s talking about. Lifting my hand, I clench it into a fist to show him the full range of motion. Nobody outside of the doctor in the surgical department has ever asked me that.

“Not really. When it was first healing, yeah, but I made sure to move it a lot so it didn’t heal strangely.” I pause, looking at the scar that curls around the meat of my thumb and over the back of my hand, up my forearm where the patches of discoloration between the raised scars show where I needed skin grafts. “Well, it still healed strange, but you know what I mean.”

“That happened at work? At a veterinary clinic?” he asks.

I push back from the wall, slipping both arms into the water and pulling myself to the center of the pool where I can tread water. It did happen at work, and to this day, I have no idea why. Why a sweet dog, who would take a treat from my hand with a soft mouth and lick my fingers afterward, would snap so suddenly. I’ve turned that day over and over and over in my mind, trying to come up with a reason. Maybe I moved strangely, or maybe I had blood on my scrubs from the procedure we’d done earlier that morning and she could smell it. Maybe the barking of the other dogs had wound her up, or maybe it had scared her when I opened the kennel door and reached for her collar.

Whatever it was, a dog who had never shown aggression before bit into my forearm and didn’t let go. I remember it in flashes—the pain and the noise and the way she’d shaken her head from side to side, front paws planted and body straining backward; how the other dogs started barking and the way she was growling and the soft fur beneath my fingers as I tried to push her away with my free hand. I couldn’t dislodge her—a sudden and violent display of just how strong a hundred and ten pounds of dog really is. I remember feeling like the mauling lasted for hours when it was less than two minutes. I remember her pressing back against the rear of the cage when someone came to help me, growling and baring her teeth in a snarl. And I remember the blood, shiny and red and slippery beneath my shoes when I staggered to my feet.

I’d hyperventilated in the ambulance—arm a burning mess of pain and shredded skin and muscle, the visible bubbles of yellow fat, and the iron smell of blood. Shock, they’d told me later, but at the time, it had felt like I was actively dying. Barely two minutes of time, and that dog attack sent ripples into my future that I’m still feeling today. Lifting my eyes to Dryden’s, I nod.

“Yeah.” I have to swallow around the weight in my throat as I add, “They put the dog down.”

Dryden’s ebony eyes glint in the light from the windows. He’s idly rolling his wrist, the liquid in the glass turning gently.

“Don’t they usually?” he asks, voice entirely devoid of emotion.