Every Last Word

Now

Lane three. It’s always lane number three. My coaches think it’s funny. Quirky. A thing, like not washing your lucky socks or growing a rally beard. And that’s perfect. That’s all I want them to know.

I step up to the top of the block and twist at the waist, shaking out my arms and legs. Squeezing my toes tight around the edge, I look down at the water and run both thumbs over the block’s scratchy tape three times.

“Swimmers, take your marks.” Coach Kevin’s voice echoes off the clubhouse walls at the far end of the pool, and when he blows his whistle, my body’s response is purely Pavlovian. Palm over hand, my elbows lock as I press my arms into my ears and throw myself forward, stretching and reaching and holding the position until my fingertips slice through the surface.

And then, for ten blissful seconds, there’s no noise at all except the sound of water whooshing past my ears.

I kick hard and lock in my song. The first one that pops into my head is a happy tune with catchy lyrics, so I start my butterfly stroke, throwing both arms over my head in perfect synchronization with the beat. Kick, kick, throw. Kick, kick, throw. One, two, three.

Before I know it I’m touching the opposite end of the pool, doing a tight turn, and pushing hard off the wall. I don’t look up or left or right. As coach says, right now, at this moment in the race, no one matters but you.

My head leaves the water every few seconds, and when it does, I can hear the coaches screaming at us to get our chins down or our hips up, to straighten our legs or arch our backs. I don’t hear my name, but I check myself anyway. Today, everything feels right. I feel right. And fast. I increase the tempo of the song and kick it into gear for the last few strokes, and when my fingertips connect with the edge of the pool, I pop up and steal a glance at the clock. I shaved four-tenths of a second off my best time.

I’m breathing hard as Cassidy gives me a fist bump from lane four and says, “Damn…you’re gonna slaughter me at county this weekend.” She’s won the county championship three years in a row. I’ll never beat her, and I know she’s just being nice, but it feels good to hear her say it anyway.

The whistle blows again and someone dives off the block above me, signaling my turn to exit. I pull myself up out of the water, peeling off my swim cap as I head for my towel.

“Whoa! Where on earth did that come from?” When I look up, I’m eye to eye with Brandon. Or, more accurately, eye to chest with Brandon. I force myself to keep looking up, past his thin T-shirt and to his eyes, even though the temptation to check out the way his shorts hug his hips is almost more than I can resist.

During my first summer at the club, Brandon was just an older teammate with an insanely fast freestyle who always put up the most points in meets and taught the little kids to swim. But for the last two summers he’s returned from college as a junior coach—my coach—and that makes him strictly off-limits. And even hotter.

“Thanks.” I’m still trying to catch my breath. “I guess I just found a good rhythm.”

Brandon shows me his perfect teeth, and those crinkles next to his eyes are even more pronounced. “Would you do that again at county, please?”

I try to come up with a funny comeback, something that will keep him smiling at me like this, but instead my cheeks get hot while he stares at me, waiting for me to reply. I look at the ground, chastising myself for my lack of creativity while I watch the water drip from my suit, forming a puddle underneath my feet.

Brandon must follow my gaze because he suddenly gestures at the row of towels strewn across the wall behind him and says, “Stay there. Don’t move.”

A few seconds later he’s back. “Here.” He wraps a towel around my shoulders and slides it back and forth a few times, and I wait for him to drop the ends, but he doesn’t. I look up at his eyes and realize he’s staring at me. Like…maybe he wants to kiss me. And I know I’m looking at him like I want him to, because I do. It’s all I think about.

His eyes are still locked on mine, but I know he’ll never make the first move, so I take one brave step forward, then another, and without overthinking what I’m about to do, I press my dripping wet suit against his T-shirt, feeling the water soak it through to his skin.

He lets out a breath as he balls the ends of the towel in his fists and uses it to pull me even closer. My hands leave his hips and find his back, and I feel his muscles tense beneath my palms as he tips his head down and kisses me. Hard. And then he pulls on my towel again.

His mouth is warm and he parts his lips, and oh my God, this is finally happening, and even though there are people everywhere and I keep hearing the whistle blow and the coaches calling out behind me, I don’t care, because right now I just want to—

“Sam? You okay?” I blink fast and shake my head as Brandon releases the towel and I feel it fall slack at my sides. “Where’d you go, kid?”

He’s still standing two steps away and not even the slightest bit damp. And I’m not a kid. I’m sixteen. He’s only nineteen. It’s not that different. He adjusts his baseball cap and gives me that ridiculously adorable smile of his. “I thought I lost you for a second there.”

“No.” You did the exact opposite of losing me. My chest feels heavy as the fantasy floats up into the air and disappears from sight. “I was just thinking about something.”

“I bet I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. And you have nothing to worry about. Push yourself like that at county and keep swimming year-round, and you’ll have your choice of college scholarships.” He starts to say something else, but Coach Kevin yells for everyone to take a spot on the wall. Brandon gives me a chummy pat on the shoulder. A coachlike pat. “I know how badly you want this, Sam.”

“More than you could possibly understand.” He’s still two steps away. I wonder what would happen if I really opened up my towel and wrapped him up in it.

“Sam. Wall!” Coach Kevin yells. He points at the rest of the team, already gathered and staring at me. I squeeze in next to Cassidy, and when Coach is out of earshot, she elbows me and whispers, “Okay, that was cute. That thing with the towel.”

“Wasn’t it?” I shoot her a surprised look. At the beginning of the summer, Cassidy called him “Coach Crush,” but over the last few weeks she’s become increasingly irritated with me for not giving up.

“I said it was cute, not that it means anything.”

“Maybe it does.”

“Sam. Sweetie. Really. It doesn’t. He grabbed your towel and dried you off a bit. But that’s it. Because he has a girlfriend. In college.”

“So?” I lean forward, trying not to make it obvious that I’m looking for him. He’s over by the office, drinking a soda and talking with one of the lifeguards.

“So. He has a girlfriend. In college,” she repeats, stressing the last word. “He talks about her all the time, and it’s obvious to everyone except you that he’s totally in love with her.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. It had to be done.” Cassidy piles her long red hair on top of her head in a messy bun and then grips my arm with both hands. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.” She comes in closer. “Look around, Sam,” she says, gesturing to a long line of our teammates. “There are plenty of fish in the fancy-private-swim-club sea.”

I look around and see boys in tight Speedos with solid abs and muscular arms, their skin tanned by the Northern California sun, their bodies lean and solid after three months in the water, but none of them are anywhere near as flawless as Brandon. Even if I did find one of them remotely attractive, what’s the point now? Summer’s nearly over.

Cassidy tilts her head to one side, pouting dramatically. She brings her fingertip to my nose and sighs. “What am I going to do without you, Sam?”

My stomach clenches into a tight fist as she voices a thought that’s been haunting me since the first day of August. Like all my summer friends, Cassidy has never known me outside the pool. She has no idea who I am when I’m not here, so she doesn’t know how backward she has it.

“You’ll be fine,” I say, because it’s true. Me? I’m not so sure.

My psychiatrist nailed it back in June, when I practically floated into her office and announced that I’d taken my last final. She strode over to the minifridge, poured sparkling apple cider into two plastic champagne flutes, and said, “To the triumphant return of Summer Sam” as we clinked glasses.

But it’s coming to an end. In two weeks, I’ll be back in school, Cassidy will be in L.A., and Brandon will be at college. I’ll be missing them, along with my early morning dives into lane number three.

I’ll be Samantha again. And more than anything, I’ll be missing Sam.