Every Last Word

I’m relieved to find the swim club parking lot completely empty, and I pull into a spot near the front gate. The odometer wasn’t a problem. I’ve driven here so many times, I know all the back roads and cheats that help me park correctly.

“North Valley Swim and Tennis Club,” A.J. says, reading the sign as I pull into a spot. Then he turns to me. “A pool?”

“I’m a swimmer,” I say.

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

I shrug. “I currently hold the county record in butterfly.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

I’m feeling pretty confident as I walk to the back of the car and pop the trunk. Throwing my swim bag over my shoulder, I slam the trunk closed, head for the gate, and swipe the card key against the panel. The gate clicks open, and once we’re inside, I point out the men’s locker room and tell him I’ll meet him at the pool.

Two minutes later, I’ve washed my face, changed into my suit, and I’m back outside again, throwing my towel on the banister next to the showers like I always do. I’ve walked around crowded meets in a swimsuit since I was six years old, and I can’t remember the last time I felt self-conscious about it, but tonight I do. I slip into the shallow end before AJ gets outside.

The water is warm and I dunk under, wetting my hair, smoothing it back off my face. While I wait for him, I think about Hailey. People made comments about that photo all day, and by the time the final bell rang, Kaitlyn was even more pissed at her. I make a mental note to text her when I get home.

AJ emerges from the locker room and stands there, shifting his weight back and forth, looking adorable and awkward. I call his name and wave him over.

“It’s freezing out here,” he says.

“The pool’s a lot warmer.”

“You want me to get in?”

“You are wearing a swimsuit.” I look up at the sky. “And it is a nice night.” The evenings have turned a little colder over the last couple of weeks, but still…it’s California. The air has a bit of a bite, but the sky is clear and there are plenty of stars.

AJ nods and I watch him walk to the opposite side of the pool, past all the lane lines, and climb the ladder to the diving board. Without hesitating, he struts to the end of the platform and does a pencil dive. Feet first. Stick straight. Right in. He pops up to the surface and swims toward me, doing some kind of weird-looking hybrid stroke I’ve never seen before. “Let me guess,” I say when he’s close enough to hear me. “You never took swim lessons?”

He reaches a point where he can stand and he starts walking toward me, speaking while he tries to catch his breath. “Not a single one. I’m a natural, right?”

I laugh. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

He leans back, resting his arms on the edge of the pool. “This is your favorite place to write? A pool.”

Now that he says it that way, I realize how strange it sounds. “Yeah. I used to recite song lyrics while I swam, but ever since that first time in Poet’s Corner, I’ve been writing poetry while I swim laps instead.” I fall forward into the water and with one big stroke I’m standing right next to him. I press my palms into the concrete and lift myself out of the pool. I can feel him watching me as I walk to the opposite end.

I step up on the block of lane number three. As I take my stance, I run my finger along the scratchy surface three times, and then I dive in, pushing off with my legs as I squeeze my arms tight against my ears. Palm over hand, I pierce the surface and dolphin kick hard under the water—one, two—and on three I pop up, throwing my arms over my head. I find my rhythm: One, two, three. One, two, three. Once I have a beat, I start thinking about words.

When AJ’s legs are visible under the water, I head right for them. I come in close, touch the wall with both hands and push off again, swimming back to the blocks, keeping the rhythm, and making up a poem as I go. On the other side, I do one last turn and head back to the shallow end. Back to AJ.

I stop a few feet short of him and stand up, panting and trying to catch my breath. I dunk underwater and slick my hair back off my face, feeling myself flush as I think about what I just wrote.

AJ is taking big strides toward me, pumping his arms exaggeratedly as he goes. When he’s close enough, he brings his hands to my shoulders and fixes his eyes on me. “Sam McAllister! What was that? And these shoulders!” He gives both of them a squeeze, and I wish I could sink back under the water and die.

“I know. They’re horrible and manly. My friends make fun of them all the time.”

He looks at me sideways. “Why would they do that?”

I’d shrug, but I don’t want to draw any more attention to my shoulders. “Because they get off on the misery of others?”

“No, I mean why would they do that? You could knock them into next week with these.” As he steps closer, his hands slide down my arms. I wanted to escape his grip, but now I’m hoping he’ll stay right where he is. “Do you swim every day?”

“I do all summer, but once school starts and I get busy with other stuff, I tend to let it slip until the school team season begins in the spring. But this year, I decided to be more focused. Now I swim at least six days a week. My coach thinks I have a good chance at a scholarship if I keep it up.” I mentally prepare myself for the heart palpitations that typically follow statements about going away to college, but tonight, that doesn’t happen.

He looks past me, toward the far end of the pool. “And while you were doing that,” he says, not even trying to hide the surprise in his voice, “you were writing at the same time?”

“No.” I lie. I can’t tell him what I wrote. “I didn’t write anything this time.”

“Yes, you did. I can tell by the look on your face.”

“There’s no look on my face.”

He pivots me around so he’s at the deeper end of the pool. We’re eye to eye now, and it seems like we’re the same height.

“Come on…Tell me, Sam.”

Sam. I love the way he calls me that, but right now, I wish he wouldn’t. It’s completely disarming.

“I can’t. I wrote it in, like, twenty seconds. It sucks.”

He splashes me lightly. “Sorry. I don’t have any paper.” I try to hide behind my hands again, but he grips my arms and gently forces them underwater, pressing them against my sides. “You saw my songs. I’ve written some incredibly lame stuff.” I start to argue with him, but he doesn’t give me any time. “Tell me, Sam.” His smile is kind, encouraging, contagious, and that dimple…so adorable.

Another “Sam.”

I blow out a breath. Close my eyes. Breathe in again. Everything in me tells me to stop talking, but I don’t listen like I usually do. And then another thought takes over.

Tell him.

“I didn’t go there looking for you. I went looking for me.” My voice is soft, low, and shaky. “But now, here you are, and somehow, in finding you, I think I’ve found myself.”

I start to panic. I said too much. I knew I would. Caroline was wrong about letting my guard down.

Damn blurting.

Before I can open my eyes, I feel him rest his forehead against mine, and his hands slide around my back as he brushes his lips lightly against mine, kissing me like I just said the right thing, not the wrong thing. And this kiss…God, this kiss is soft and warm and perfect, and I part my lips as my fingers find the back of his neck. He tastes like spearmint, and his skin smells like chlorine, and I kiss him, remembering all the times I pictured Brandon doing this, and how those moments never ended well. I trail my fingers along his skin. He feels real. I let my hands wander up to his damp hair. That feels real too.

Please, let this be real. Please, don’t let me be imagining this.

“You okay?” he asks.

He hooks his finger under my chin and tips my head back so I have no choice but to look up at him. “See, this is where that blurting thing of mine comes in handy,” he says quietly. “I’ll start. I’m so glad I just kissed you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks, long before that day at my house, and right now I really want to kiss you again.”

He kisses my forehead, my cheek, my mouth, and I kiss him back, but he must sense my hesitation because he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine again. “This isn’t fair. I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Don’t worry about getting the words right. Tell me.”

This is a mistake. He doesn’t like me; he likes the person Caroline turned me into. He thinks I’m a normal girl who swims and writes poetry, but I’m not. I’m obsessed with my thoughts and I can’t sleep and I count in threes. He writes music and wears his heart on his sleeve, and I don’t deserve him.

“This isn’t good.” I bite my lips together, pressing them closed to keep the rest of this thought inside me where it belongs. I stare down at the water again, but I can see his reflection. He’s watching me, waiting for me, silently asking me to keep going, to keep talking.

“Sam.” He runs his thumb along my cheekbone. “What isn’t good?”

As soon as I part my lips, I hear the words slip out, like they’re floating away from me all by themselves. “I like you too much.”

He kisses me again, harder this time. “Good,” he whispers. “I like you too much, too.”