Page 47 of The Summer Show
What if I tried to swim and failed? And if I sank like a rock, what then?
“I don’t know how.”
He placed his hand in the center of my back. “I’m going to ease you backward, okay? Lean in to my hand.”
In a flash, I was on my back with Nick’s hands under my body as a guide more than anything.
“There you go,” he said. “You’re floating. And if you can float you can swim.”
Something behind us splashed. I tensed and immediately started to sink. Nick was there to stop my descent into darkness.
“How did you miss out on learning to swim?”
There it was. The question. There was no avoiding it now that it was out in the open. It wasn’t like I could swim away from Nick to avoid the subject entirely, either.
“Can you name one famous swimmer’s parents?”
“What do you mean?”
Magic swirled around me. That’s the only thing I could figure. A heady spell with simple ingredients. Hot sun baking the bits that weren’t submerged. The lapping of cool water against my skin. The warmth of Nick’s hands. The closeness of his body. From every angle he was gorgeous. The man even had beautiful nostrils.
Don’t get me started on his eyelashes.
Anyway, everything combined in one cauldron was enough to loosen my tongue.
“My mother never took us to any activities that didn’t have potential for her. The only reason Brit—that’s my sister—and I did dance was because Mom thought she could use us as leverage to get on one of those dance mom shows. The joke was on her though, because Brit and I have as much aptitude for dancing as a baboon does for cooking.”
“She risked your safety for fame?”
“Worse. She risked our safety for fame that never materialized. By the time Dad took us to live with our grandparents, we were eight and twelve, and nobody thought to get us swimming lessons. They assumed Mom had taken us. And now here I am in Greece, an adult taking swimming lessons from my best friend’s brother.”
“That’s a lot for a kid to carry around.”
I let my bottom half fall until my feet touched smooth pebbles.
“It’s history.”
When I turned around, Nick’s expression was stiff, but his eyes were overflowing with empathy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked like he wanted to hug me. He wanted to give comfort. To me. For some unknown reason he was willing to thaw. And I knew right then if I poured out the whole tragic backstory, he would listen patiently, silent to the end, just letting me drain my thoughts until the wound was free of toxins.
But that didn’t happen because my walls were strong. I had built them myself with coping mechanisms and a determination to leave the past behind. Dredging up the skeletons was pointless.
I was about to thank him for listening and for teaching me how to float, or crack a joke to lighten the mood and redirect the conversation, when his shoulders stiffened. His whole body tensed, on high alert.
And here I thought the danger was in the sea.
Under the water, Nick grabbed my hand and turned us around so that his back was to the shore and I was hidden from sight by his bulk.
“What’s wrong?” Leaning sideways a fraction, I caught a glimpse of the beach. People were standing along the waterfront, phones held high. Watching. Recording. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“Hardly.”
“Then what’s the problem besides the fact that we now have no privacy?”
“I’m protecting your privacy.”
“Protecting my privacy?”
“As a semi-local I’m used to living under a microscope when I’m in Greece. You’ve never had your every move recorded, reported, analyzed, judged.”