I’m indoors.
This isn’t a river.
There is no current.
There is nothing to fear.
I can see the bottom of the pool. It’s clear and safe, and I can walk the entire way underneath the surface if I need to. I can push up.
With two clearing breaths that are loud enough to echo off the bleacher seats and walls around me, I commit, pushing off and twisting in the water with my hands stretched out in front and my body and aligned like an arrow. It almost feels natural, like home. My body remembers what it’s like to glide and let the current work with me. It isn’t quiet underneath, though. The noise in my head follows me everywhere, and the pool is no different. With one stroke, what seemed like warm water is suddenly freezing cold.
My right arm feels for the pool’s floor, the smooth ground playing tricks on me. Where are the rocks? The soaked limbs from fallen trees? Where are the pockets of air bursting into a million tiny beads as they travel from the car up to the surface? I feel them. They’re on my body, as if I’m swimming in carbonation.
I draw my legs in and try to remember where the surface is.
Seek the floor. Feel the floor.
Water rushes in my mouth and I swipe at my goggles that have become tangled in my hair that has quickly unraveled. I’m failing.
I can’t do this.
My body jolts at the sensation of two hands forcing their way under my arms, wrapping around my shoulders as someone pushes up from the pool’s floor with my body braced against theirs. My instinct is to fight back, then I quickly shift to fightingwithmy rescuer. An arm moves around my chest, holding me tighter. Legs kick along with mine, the pace manic, and when the surface breaks, I gasp. I cough up water and choke as my hands furiously feel for the pool’s edge.
I tear the goggles away from my hair at the side of my face and toss them on the cool deck before lifting enough to rest my forehead on my hands as I pant and fight to see clearly. Everything is bright, flashes darting in from the edges of my vision. A hand is on my back. It isn’t moving, but it’s steady—warm. Assuring.
It’s . . . Theo’s.
My head rolls to the side, my cheek resting on the back of my hand as I still fight to get more air, coughing . . . blinking.
Theo’s hand falls away.
He’s fully clothed from what I can tell. His polo shirt clings to his body, his hair slicked with water and dripping in his face before he runs his hand through it then over his face to clear water from his eyes. His eyes bore into me. It’s all I can do to focus on the shape of his face.
I wasn’t ready.
Theo turns so his body faces the wall and he folds his arms over the edge, dropping his forehead on his knuckles. His breathing is ragged, almost angry.
I’m sorry.
My mouth fights to form the words. I can’t speak, though. I’m too lost.
Theo saved me. I was being stupid, swimming alone.
Swimming at all.
“Fuck,” he utters.
I blink away the water drying on my eyelashes. My hands are frozen on the edge of the pool. My body is as taut as a stick. My lungs hurt.
“Thank you.” My voice is a rough whisper, but it’s audible. At least, I think it was. Theo must have heard me. He turns his head and our eyes meet.
More air fills my lungs and my vision clears.
I’m so sorry. For everything.
Several seconds pass, wordless ones, until Theo abruptly lifts himself from the pool, his pants clinging to his legs, his feet in socks but no shoes. I scan the pool deck and see them tossed off to the side. A second later Theo picks them up along with his backpack. He turns to walk backward a few steps toward the exit. His body shivering, his clothes ruined, his eyes full of anguish and fury—it should have been him who was there that night. He would have saved everyone. He would not have failed.
His mouth opens and I brace myself to be scolded, but instead of speaking, he merely tightens his jaw and pulls his lips in tight before looking down at his feet and the puddle forming around him. Then he turns around and pushes through the doors to leave me alone once again.