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Only I should get to decide my potential. Not fear. Not the ugly or sad or scary things in my past. Just me.
The knowledge swells inside my chest, and for a second I swear I can see thirteen-year-old Claire standing beside Jesse, willing me to keep swimming, the way she did all those years ago.
And I’m not about to let her, or myself, down.
Sucking in a breath and holding it, I dive into the water. Seconds later, I emerge from the waves and pull toward Jesse. And even though my flutter kick is anything but smooth and I end up craning my entire head out of the water for a breath instead of using the graceful, side-sip method we practiced, I make it the entire distance without any major mishaps.
It’s almost . . . easy.
“Hell yeah, woman,” he says, brushing my wet hair from my forehead as I swipe the saltwater from my cheeks. “You did it!”
“It wasn’t even that hard,” I confess, my breath coming fast. “All those years, and being so scared, and missing beach trips with Gigi and . . . it wasn’t that bad.”
He laughs, but then sobers as he reads the angst in my expression. He bends, bringing his face closer to mine. “Hey, it’s okay that you were afraid. Almost drowning is scary shit. And don’t be so hard on yourself. You definitely worked for this.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I . . .” I force a smile. “You’re right. I did have to work for it. It’s just frustrating that I let fear call the shots for so long.”
“That’s next,” he says, confusing me until he adds, “Number two. No more ‘sorry.’”
My brows pinch together. “Actually, it’s no more ‘sorry’ for no reason, but I’m still going to say it when I need to. That’s part of being a grown-up—knowing when to say you’re sorry and meaning it when you do.”
“But you don’t have to apologize for having feelings. Especially about the list.” He hesitates before adding in a softer voice, “And especially with me.”
Having feelings . . .
He pulls me against him, lifting me up as a big wave rolls in. For a moment, the water is deep enough that I’d be in over my head if I didn’t have a taller swimming buddy by my side.
The symbolism isn’t lost on me.
I am getting in over my head.
I need an intervention. A “to-don’t” list to keep me from breaking the friends-with-benefits rules.
I make a mental note to get on that . . . later . . . and concentrate on enjoying the rest of the afternoon. I swim to Jesse again and again, a little farther each time, until I’m swimming almost the entire length of the beach.
I’m not the only one.
Near me, the young boy is dog paddling on his own. When his eyes meet mine, I call out, “Sweet dog paddle, man!”
“Arf, arf,” he responds, making me laugh.
Kids are weird. And I love it.
By the time I finally step out of the surf at the end of the day, my arms are trembling and I feel like I’ve had an honest-to-God workout.
I also feel . . . amazing.
“Excuse me.”
I turn at the voice. It’s the dog paddler’s mom. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thanks,” she says, smoothing a hand over her flowery sundress.
My brow knits. “For?”
“Our son. He didn’t want to learn to swim for the longest time, no matter how we tried to convince him. But when he saw you learning, it was like something clicked. He said he wanted to try too. That’s what he said—try too. I think seeing someone who’s not his age going for it made a difference.”
A smile spreads across my face from the list effect. “That’s so great to hear. Tell him he’s super brave. Also, please tell him arf, arf from me.”
The woman laughs, then lifts a hand in a goodbye wave. She turns and heads off.
But the way she started the conversation snags at my brain. “Wait a second,” I call out.
She wheels around, tilts her head. “Yes?”
“When we started talking, you said you were sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. One, you didn’t interrupt. And two, I’m so happy you shared that with me. So no sorrys, K?”
She smiles as if she’s giddy too. “No sorrys.” She says it like a rallying cry.
And maybe it’ll be my new one.
I rejoin Jesse, feeling victorious.
“Celebration beer?” I ask, nodding toward the boardwalk as Jesse and I tread through the sand toward our blanket. “Saw a dive bar not too far from the subway entrance.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Jesse says, toweling off.
“We go straight back to your place instead?” I ask, openly ogling him as he drags the towel down his taut, muscled stomach.
He flashes a grin my way as he rubs his hair dry. “We’re definitely going back to my place, but we’re celebrating first. There’s a funky little brewery farther down the beach. You’re going to love it.”
