Girl Underwater (22 page)

Then Tim turns to me, his smile slightly shy, like Colin, in a way. Shy but knowing. When he hugs me, it feels as though
I'm
the one holding on to
Tim
. He holds on for a long time—or maybe it's me, maybe it's always
been
me—and pulls away as gently as he dares. His cheeks are flushed, bits of ice cream sandwich sticking to his lips and chin. “I miss you, Avery,” he says, four of the most beautiful words I've ever heard.

His grandparents take him by the hand, leading him under the haze of baseball lights and summer stars. He turns around twice, waving with the same unwavering enthusiasm, and then he's gone. His sudden absence leaves me reeling.

Colin, sensing this, puts his arm around my shoulders. There is nothing intimate about the gesture, nothing to suggest more than a connection shared by two good friends, if that's even what we are.

“It's a long season,” he says.

C
olin drives me home in his aging Honda, its interior packed to capacity with swim gear. Fins, paddles, kickboards, pull buoys. A pile of Speedos, drying on the front seat. The interior smells like sunscreen and summer, like humidity and open windows.

“Yeah, uh . . .” Colin hurls the Speedos into the backseat. “Sorry about that. The seat shouldn't be wet or anything.”

The question burns on my lips:
Are you swimming again?
But he doesn't look my way, skirting any discussion as he shifts into gear. He handles the stick with ease this time, no longer grimacing or favoring his right side. A series of raised scars—some ragged, others clearly surgical—track up his arm to the base of his neck. He looks strong—not in the exact same way he was before but getting there. His massive hands grip the wheel like he's been doing it for years.

“How's the shoulder?” I ask.

He shakes it out a bit. “Oh. Better. Bug's been whipping it into shape.”

“Bug?”

“My unofficial physical therapist.”

I can't quite imagine what those sessions entail—probably hours upon hours of stretching, strengthening, and gritty determination. If Colin works as hard at PT as he does at practice, it's no wonder he's come this far. “Looks like you had an operation,” I say.

“A few, actually. Rotator cuff repair, labral repair, bursectomy, a few debridements . . .”

“Wow.”

“I came around a bit on the whole surgery thing.”

“Got over your fear of blood?”

He smiles. “That, and my dad told me to stop feeling ‘damn sorry for myself.'”

“Sounds like good advice,” I say, careful to avoid any tonal hint of
I told you so
.

“It was. I should have listened to you months ago.” He reaches for the dash and adjusts the air vents. “You okay, temperature-wise?”

“I'm fine.”

He fiddles with the knobs until I have to put his hand back on the steering wheel. “I'm okay, Colin,” I say gently.

“All right,” he says, but he continues to glance over at me, ready to blast the A/C at the first sign of perspiration. Or heat, if I spring a goose bump.

I turn toward the window, finding solace in familiar scenery. Soon the college kids will be back and the cycle will start all over again. Summer, fall, winter. Humidity, amber sunsets, snow. Tourists, students. The change from year to year is subtle but enough to notice, enough to miss when it's not a part of your life anymore.

“I stopped swimming,” I say.

Colin tenses, then coasts to a stop as the light up ahead turns red. We're alone in the intersection—no other cars, no distractions. No escape from a conversation I haven't had with anyone. “I almost drowned at practice.”

The light turns green, but we remain there, idling. It's a quiet night, almost lonely. The sidewalks are deserted; the narrow streets leading to and from the local hospitals have taken on the appearance of late-night alleyways. Everyone's gone home.

After another cycle of light changes, Colin shifts into gear. He still hasn't said anything, but the tension in his jaw tells me he wants to say quite a bit. Maybe he wants me to elaborate. Maybe he isn't sure where to even begin.

The last stretch of the ride brings us through a sparsely wooded park, onto a bridge that overlooks the T. The platform is already swollen with young people, their workweek over and their weekend just beginning. I watch them, and I wonder,
Will it ever be like that for us?

He makes the final turn onto my street. Up ahead, my house beckons with its sultry, summery glow. Colin seems to sense my inertia, his hand hovering over the ignition as he puts the car in neutral. I know what he's thinking: If he leaves the key in, it means the night's over, time to go. If he takes it out . . . well, I don't know. Usually if a guy takes the key out of the ignition on a night like this, it means he wants to make out. There isn't much middle ground.

As the debate rages (or maybe it's just in my head), my mom pokes her head out the bedroom window, sparing Colin the agony—and implications—of that choice. She beams at us, waving both arms. Colin laughs.

“Sharp eyes up there,” he says.

“Very.”

He waves at my mom, then puts his hand back on the ignition. “Well . . .”

“Well.” This shouldn't be an awkward moment. It shouldn't be a moment at all.

“You free tomorrow morning?” he asks.

I steal a glance at the upstairs windows, but my stealthy mother has disappeared. “I think so. What time?”

“Six?”

“Wow. Okay.”

Do the buses even run that early?
Doesn't matter; I'll find a way to get there.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“I, uh . . . I don't have a car . . .”

“I'll pick you up.”

“No way, it's too far—”

“Too far?”

I exhale long and slow, conceding the stupidity of that logic. “Okay.”

“Great.” Colin leans over to my side, his T-shirt grazing my thighs as he pushes open the door. I inhale deeply, but it does nothing to temper a sudden gasp of nerves. “By the way, whatever happened to that purple suit of yours?”

“Why?” My stomach flips. “Are we going swimming tomorrow?”

Before he can answer, a bedroom window slams shut. Colin laughs. “I think your mom's up there with a telescope.”

“Wouldn't shock me.”

“Anyway,” he says.

“Anyway.”

His foot stays on the clutch. His gaze stays on me.

“I had a good time tonight,” I say.

“Good.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.”

His hand is still on the keys, a bottle opener dangling from the key chain. “Well . . .”

“Well—”

“Wait!” My mom runs down the porch with a tray of peppermint bark, which she makes twelve months out of the year. “I made this.”

“Mom, it's summer,” I say, laughing.

“Well, I don't see your friend complaining.”

“Not at all.” Colin selects a healthy chunk. “Looks delicious.”

“Why, thank you,” she says, utterly charmed. Then I realize they've never met before.

“Uh, Mom, this is Colin Shea.” I make the necessary introductions, remembering how he did the same for me all those months ago. “Colin, this is my mom.”

“Pleased to finally meet you,” she says, emphasizing the
finally
. She puts her elbows on the window frame and leans inside.

“So,” she says, settling in for a long conversation, “how was the game?”

Sometime later, Colin takes the key out of the ignition. He stays for a long time, longer than I ever imagined he would. It's wrong to think it, but sometime over the course of the night, it happens anyway:

I wish he would stay forever.

•

Six o'clock in the morning comes after a sleepless night, but not the kind that warrants a psychiatrist or troubles my parents. By the time Colin pulls up in front of my house, dawn has announced itself, the sky fraught with glinting reds and yellows. A cool breeze whips through open windows. I put on shorts and a hoodie, the sleeves pulled down over my fists.

Colin opens the passenger door, always the gentleman. The interior is surprisingly toasty, just as I suspected it would be. Toasty but empty. “What happened to your mobile swim business?” I ask, laughing.

“Yeah . . . I took care of that.” He palms his head, a telltale sign of nerves I remember well. “Are you warm enough?”

“Perfect,” I say, though he still fiddles with the vents. This habit may never change, but I kind of like that he cares so much.

We drive in the direction of Fenway, then on toward downtown, navigating the streets in a natural silence. Long before we get there, I know exactly where we're going.

The sky is a sultry blue by the time we pull up to the Dorchester community pool. Although the parking lot is empty, the neighborhood pulses with activity. People are already out and about, heading to weekend jobs, tending to tidy gardens, chatting with neighbors. The corner store across the street teems with early risers, the hearty scent of pastries and coffee drifting through the car's open windows.

Colin fishes a bag out of the trunk and slings it over his shoulder. He gives me a gentle nod. “Ready?”

“Colin . . .” I stare at the cracked blacktop. “You don't understand. I can't swim—”

“Who said anything about you swimming?”

I fumble for a response, but he's already walking toward the gate. To unlock it, he uses a set of keys with a fake Olympic medal as its key chain.

“Issued by the pool,” he explains.

“You work here?”

He smirks. “When they let me.”

After a tense walk through a narrow hallway, the pool unfolds before us in all its urban glory. The water is a magical, silken blue bordered by cracked cement and a haphazard display of lawn chairs. The lane lines are a faded, tired red, and the lifeguard stands look about forty years old. A lonely diving board looms over the deep end. It's nothing like the pools I've been swimming in for the last two years, embellished with bleachers and electronics and endless banners proclaiming past achievements. The Dorchester community pool doesn't even have starting blocks. It's just water glistening under a familiar summer sun. It's
safe
.

He escorts me over to the shallow end, a warm-up area for children just learning to swim. The pool here is only three feet deep, which would make any college coach squirm. Shallow pools are notoriously slow, which is all that really matters at the elite level. Deep water means fast times, and fast times spell championships. Anything else is considered subpar, barely deserving of “pool” status.

Colin peels off his shirt, careful to do so with minimal fanfare. I'm so used to seeing him in sleek Speedos at practice that I can't seem to get over the sight of his floral-print swim trunks. Not that I linger very long on his swimming attire; his bare chest steals my attention for a full minute. He was always so lean and toned. So natural. The only thing different now is the array of scars tracking down his right shoulder.

I force myself to look south—not that this is a stellar idea, either. “Nice swim trunks,” I say, trying to sound casual.

He blushes as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Christmas present from my sisters.”

“I like them.”

“Thanks.”

His breath hitches. Maybe I'm not as alone as I thought. Being so close to the water, so close to him, brings me to the brink of memory, of fear. Even here, even now, thousands of miles and thousands of hours removed from the source of all the trouble, I'm afraid.

But unlike everyone else—my parents, the doctors, even Lee—Colin doesn't look at me like damaged goods, frustrated by my inability to confront something so benign. He doesn't coax me to the water's edge. He doesn't ask me how it feels to look at a pool.

“I'm not getting in,” I say, though he doesn't ask. I just want to clear the air. Admit my failures before he has to learn about them the hard way.

“I know.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

“I dunno,” he says, though the gleam in his eyes tells me he does.

With that, he jumps off the ledge. The crisp, rain-chilled water splashes my legs, reminding me of my earliest days learning to swim: the agony of getting in for the very first time, the pressure of watchful eyes, the bite of cold water. Other memories—the plane, the lake, the taste of melted snow—retreat to the back of my mind.

I sit on the wet cement, savoring the sun as it warms my back. Colin slices through the water, swimming with the kind of smooth, languid magnificence that so few creatures can claim. It's mesmerizing. I could sit here all day, all summer, just watching him swim.

After a while, he coasts into the wall, filling his lungs with a giant breath as he surfaces in front of me. He rests his elbows on the concrete and gazes into my eyes. When he frowns, it takes me a second to realize what's wrong.

I'm crying.

“Avery . . .”

“I left you behind.”

He takes my hands, and pool water drips down my wrists and onto my legs. It reminds me of a dozen childhood summers, the happiest days of my life.

I say it again. “I left you behind, and then I lied about what happened.”

“You didn't lie. You didn't want to talk about it. I understand that.”

“I
lied,
Colin. I made it sound as though those days never happened.”

“
I
know they happened.
You
know. The boys know.” He climbs onto the deck beside me. “Who else matters?”

“The boys don't know,” I say. “I only wrote one letter after the crash. A good-bye letter, for each of them.” It takes me a moment to choke out, “I never told them anything.”

“You will.” His voice is kind, his eyes a vibrant, telling blue. In that moment, he looks so much like his mother it takes my breath away.

“I will?”

“Avery, we all grieve on our own time line. We all have our fears and failures. My shoulder, for one thing. I was tempted to twist it off my own body for months.” He tries to smile. “I gave up on it.”

“But you're swimming now.”

“Yes,” he says. “Today.”

“Today?” My eyes go wide. “Today is your first day back in the pool?”

“That's right.”

“But your mobile swim business . . .”

“Small steps.”

Still, his weaknesses seem tiny compared to mine. Three little boys were counting on me, and I let them down.

“I should have been here,” I say.

“Then stay.”

My response is automatic, a denial that feels like a vow. “I can't.”

The fact that he doesn't argue makes it worse, a thousand times worse. I pull my legs onto the deck, sensing the absence of water as intensely as a physical loss. It pools in the grooves of my fingers, the shallows of my soul.