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I hate those inches.
I need those inches.
I bring my hand to her lower back and pull her closer.
Two inches between us.
One.
One half.
Bit by bit, her body sinks into mine. Her pelvis, her stomach, her chest.
In the water, we’re both slippery. I have to work to hold onto her.
I want to work to hold onto her.
Here.
Everywhere.
I don’t remember why we’re here anymore. I don’t remember our wager or my ulterior motives. Or hers.
None of that matters.
The interest in her eyes, the softness of her skin, the need in her expression—
That’s the only thing that matters.
This is the Deanna no one else knows. The woman who misses her mom, who wants to understand love, who never shows anyone else where she hurts.
I want to see.
I want to see everything.
I don’t know how to say it, so I pull her closer. The water fights me, tries to pull us out to sea, to crash us into the shore.
Again and again, I pull her closer.
“It’s easier if you don’t fight the current.” She releases me enough to sway with the water.
I sway back toward her. Then away. Back and forth. Always coming closer. Never touching. “Deanna Huntington is giving me a lesson in surrender?”
“It’s not a metaphor,” she says. “It’s a technique.”
It is, though. It explains everything. “You’re dodging the topic.”
“Why do you care what I think of love anyway?” she asks. “Do you really believe in this mission? Do you really see that future? Can you picture it?”
“What future?” I ask.
“Lexi.”
The word feels wrong. It steals the warmth from the air.
Yesterday, the answer was obvious. Now, it’s murky. Strange.
“How would I picture her?” I ask.
