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If yoga is where I find my center, my peace, the water is very clearly where he finds his. He looks almost amphibian in the way he moves. His muscles move in perfect concert with each other, barely disturbing the water around him. He only comes up for air right before he reaches me.
He pushes the wet hair that’s fallen into his eyes back and grins up at me. “Well, are you getting in?”
I want to say, “No, I’m not.” I’ve never voluntarily gotten into a pool except to dangle my legs or feet in the water. But I swallow my fear and say instead, “Yeah, I’m going to use the stairs.” I nod in their direction. “Can you meet me over there?” Without waiting for him to respond, I walk over and start my descent into the shallowest part of the pool. The depth marker says 3.5 feet. The water is warm, but refreshing after our light yoga workout. I try to relax as I walk until the water is just up to my ribs and stop.
He swims to the center of the pool and then walks the rest of the way, each step bringing more of his body in focus. He stops a few feet away from me and crooks his finger at me, beckoning me to take a few more steps, to come into the water deeper than I feel ready for. I shake my head no, eyes closed. Partially because I want to try to forget that I’m in water, and partially because I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.
“Lucía, you have to choose. Are you going to be afraid or are you going to do this?” My eyes pop open and the air rushes from my lungs. My brother, Julian used to say a variation of those words all the time. He would say, “Faith or fear, Luc. Choose one.”
My heart aches at the thought of him, but it also renews my determination. I want to learn how to swim. I want one less thing to be afraid of. And I have the man who is possibly the best swimmer in the state of California willing to teach me.
So, I take a step toward him. And I can see the flash of relief that crosses his face.
He takes a step towards me, too and we do this, one after the other, until we are finally standing less than an arm’s length away from each other.
“You ready?” he asks and I sense that he’s asking about more than just these lessons. I nod. He stretches out his hand toward me, palm up. I mimic the gesture.
His laughter is unexpected. It’s melodious and genuine and comes from deep in his belly. With his head thrown back, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, he looks like a man ten years his junior as he laughs. I’m not even able to muster the annoyance I should. It doesn’t stop me from splashing water in his face and asking, “Share the joke?”
His laughter dies to a chuckle. “Nothing. I was putting my hand out for you to take it. But you mimicked me instead. It was funny.”
“Okay. Do it again.” The three words, said as one before I lose my nerve.
“Do what again? Laugh?” he asks, his expression confused.
“Hold out your hand,” I repeat. Quietly, shyly.
His expression changes, softens a little and he does as I’ve asked. This time, as his hand extends toward me, he holds my eyes and says, “Give me your hand, Lucía.”
The air changes. I feel it. As I reach for his hand, it feels like a step toward something more than just the hand of someone who’s teaching me to swim.
As soon as our hands touch, I start to fear the moment we’ll have to pull them apart. I know that when he lets go, I’ll miss his touch.
And it’s wrong being this close to a man who is essentially my boss. A man I’m intrigued by and attracted to and who is so far out of my league that it’s laughable. His fingers close around mine and he yanks me forward while spinning me around so that my back is to him.
I let out a yelp of surprise as his other hand comes to rest on my stomach. He covers it with our joined hands. “What are you doing?” My voice has a breathless quality that I attribute to surprise, but it’s also partially due to the pleasure of having his hands on me like this. Why does this feel so good?
“I’m going to teach you to breathe, and I want you to feel what I’m talking about as I explain.” He bends his head down so his mouth is beside my ear. It’s not touching, but it’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. The goose bumps take me by surprise. I feel my nipples harden and I have to close my eyes and concentrate so I don’t groan and lean into him.
“The most important thing to remember is that you’re not holding your breath when you’re under water. You’re releasing the air you capture in your lungs with each exhale. When you put your head underwater, you should be at one hundred percent of your lung capacity and you shouldn’t come up for air again until you’re at zero.” He presses our layered hands into my torso and says, “Take a deep breath. As deep as you can.”
I do as he instructs.
“Your breath should fill your chest, not your abdomen.” The hand that was on top of mine moves up to sit on my chest, just above the rise of my breasts.
“Do it again and this time, this hand,” he wiggles the fingers of the one on my chest, “should be the one that rises. The one on your stomach shouldn’t move at all.”
I try and immediately feel the difference.
He mumbles in my ear, which is closer now, “That’s it, Luc. Fill your lungs so that you have the air you need to let you make the most of your time underwater.”
I nod and his lips brush my ear with every ascent and descent
of my head. He pulls his head away. And then I realize that I’m standing as close to him as I can without us touching. And without even thinking I take a step backward and bring us skin to skin.
I feel the unfamiliar but unmistakable hardness of his erection in my ass for the briefest moment before he jumps away from me like he’s been burned by my touch. Humiliation from his rejection burns hot and fast through me. I don’t just think I’ve made a mistake. I know I have.
14
