Every Last Word

Once we start, we can’t seem to stop.

Other swimmers rarely show up after eight thirty, and we’re still the only ones here, but just in case that’s about to change, I lead AJ away from the race lanes and back over by the diving board where there’s a little more privacy. The water’s a lot deeper over here, so we both have to grip onto the side of the pool to keep from going under, and we have to stop kissing every few minutes so we can readjust. Each time we do, we laugh because this whole thing is totally unexpected and more than a little bit funny.

Kurt wasn’t a very good kisser. All tongue, jabbing into my mouth over and over again, circling way too fast. Aside from him, I’ve kissed guys at parties and stuff, but all of them were probably drunk at the time. So maybe it’s an unfair comparison, but AJ seems especially skilled.

I try not to think about how much practice he had with Devon. I try not to think about the girls he kissed before Devon, or the ones before that. I employ Caroline’s baseball trick, mentally swinging my bat, sending the negative thoughts flying into the distance. It works. Soon they’re gone and there’s nothing left but AJ and me, mouths and skin and water and…I don’t want it to end. It feels so amazing to let go and lose myself this way.

He spots the ladder and slides me toward it, lifting me onto the top rung. I take his face in my hands and wrap my legs around his waist to keep him from drowning, and we go right back to kissing again.

Each time one of us makes a move to leave, the other one plants a kiss somewhere—AJ on my back as I’m climbing the ladder, me on AJ’s neck just as he’s starting to pull himself out of the water—and each time we slide back in, picking up where we left off. When we finally agree to get out, we make a deal and shake on it.

When we’re back near the locker rooms, I step into the outdoor shower.

“You coming in?” I ask him. I’m used to rinsing off next to my teammates out here, but this feels different. I stop at a showerhead and flip it on, and he finds one farther in the back on the opposite wall.

I wash the chlorine out of my hair, stealing glances at him as I do. AJ doesn’t have a swimmer’s body; his arms and back aren’t as muscular, but he’s definitely not skinny like I once thought he was. He’s balanced, solid and strong all over.

He catches me watching him. He cuts the water and I do the same. I grab my towel and wrap it around his shoulders, and then I ball the ends up in my hands and pull him in close, like I once imagined Brandon doing to me. We kiss again for a long time. Then he wraps the towel around me. “I’ll meet you back out here,” I say as I head for the locker room.

I get dressed in the post-swim clothes I packed—yoga pants and a fitted sweater, a big step up from the baggy sweats and my faded hoodie I usually throw on when I get out of the pool—and I dig through my bag until I find my makeup kit. I carry it over to the mirror, but it seems weird to put any of it on. He’s already seen me without it for the last hour. What’s the point?

I gather my things and head for the bathroom door. AJ’s hair is still damp, but he’s dressed in the clothes he wore here. We walk through the gates and out to my car. He shivers and I crank up the heat.

“Music?” he asks, reaching for my phone. I remind him of my password and he makes his selection so quickly, it’s as if he went straight to Song for You and pressed play. He tosses my phone in the console and falls back into the headrest.

The first track is an acoustic version of “Your Body Is a Wonderland,” and he recognizes it right away. I can tell because his eyes fall shut and he starts plucking at invisible strings.

“Where else do you play guitar?” I ask. “Are you in a band or anything?”

“Nope. I’ve never played anywhere but downstairs.”

“Really,” I ask. “Never?”

He opens his eyes and gives me an awkward grin. “Nah. I like playing downstairs. Small group. Extremely kind. Very forgiving.”

“You’re afraid?” On stage, he’s like a performer completely in his element, playing to the crowd, pointing and winking to cheese it up during his funnier songs. He loves being up there. You can tell.

“I can’t imagine playing for total strangers. It’s not my thing anyway. I love writing songs, plucking at strings, trying to figure out how the words and the notes work together.”

We’re both quiet, lost in our own thoughts, and neither one of us says another word until I’m at the bottom of his steep driveway. The odometer is on nine, so I tell him I want to hear the rest of this song and drive around the block one time. Then I pretend to miss his driveway. When the digits are lined up correctly, I pull up to his garage door and put the car in park.

His head falls to one side. “Can I ask you something?” I brace myself for a question about my tendency to overshoot driveways.

“Of course,” I say.

“When did you start making this playlist?”

Crap. He knows these songs are for him. Or does he? I start to say something flip, like “Oh, this old thing? Years ago,” but that doesn’t seem right. Besides, Caroline told me to let my guard down tonight, and when I did, things turned out pretty well.

“After I heard you play the first time.”

“Really?”

I feel my face flush. I hope it’s too dark out here for him to tell.

“Remember when you came to my house that day?” he asks.

How could I forget?

“After you left, I wrote something for you.”

“Really?” I’m relieved to learn that he’s been thinking about me, too, and that what happened tonight wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing for him either. “Can I hear it?” I ask, watching his mouth while I wait for him to reply. I can’t help myself.

His lips look so soft when he says, “Maybe.”

But inside, I can feel myself starting to panic. I didn’t plan any of this. Tonight has been amazing. Now it’s over, and I don’t know what comes next.

What happens tomorrow?

He twists in his seat and kisses me, and I try to focus on how incredible this feels, but my heart’s racing fast and not in the good way it was back at the pool. The thought spiral starts to take control, and I try to ignore it, but it won’t let me.

He must be able to tell I’m not fully present, because he pulls away slightly and whispers, “What’s the matter?”

Talk to him.

I bite the inside of my lower lip three times. Then I take a deep breath. “What happens tomorrow?”

His hands are warm on the back of my neck. “What do you want to happen tomorrow?”

I want to be alone with you again. Exactly like this.

“I don’t know. Tonight has been so…unexpected. Perfect. But unexpected.”

“And you don’t want to tell your friends about me?”

They wouldn’t understand.

“It’s not that…I just…I’m not sure I’m ready to share…whatever this is…”

“‘Whatever this is’?” he says, laughing under his breath. He pulls me toward him. “Do you want this?” he asks in his candid way. “Whatever it is?”

So much.

“Yeah.”

“So do I.” He kisses me slowly, softly, and I slip right back into him, wishing I could slow down time and savor this moment a little bit longer.

“Then let’s keep it to ourselves for a little while,” he says. “Until we figure it out.”

It’s like the knot in my chest is unraveling, and now it’s a lot easier to breathe. “Okay,” I whisper.

“Besides,” he says, “it might be kind of fun to have a secret.”

Can I handle another secret? I’m already keeping Caroline from the Crazy Eights, my OCD from everyone but Caroline, and Poet’s Corner from Shrink-Sue.

Sue.

I can’t keep him a secret from Sue. I’m going to have to tell her about AJ and me, and what happened at the pool tonight. But she’d see this as healthy, right? I slip my fingers under the hem of his T-shirt and touch his skin. He sure doesn’t feel unhealthy.

The song changes to one of my favorites, Led Zeppelin’s classic “Bron-Yr-Aur,” and AJ lets out a sigh as he turns up the volume. “Wow. You know this?” His fingers brush against my waist and he hums along with the tune. “I haven’t thought about this song in ages. I’ll have to learn to play it for you.”

I’m not in any hurry to see his ex-girlfriend-filled bedroom, but I am eager to hear him again. I’d cross the room and kiss him while he played, for real this time.

He grabs his swimsuit from the backseat. “Thanks for showing me where you write.”

“Thanks for not laughing at my poem.”

“I’d never laugh at you,” he says. “Well, not unless you said something funny.” He kisses me. And then he opens the door and steps out of the car. “Good night, Sam.”

“Good night, AJ.”

He gives me a wave before he disappears inside the house, and I sit there for a moment, collecting myself. Then I reach for my phone, set “Bron-Yr-Aur” on repeat, and listen to it all the way home, imagining him sitting on his bed, playing for me.