Hate You Not

I hear myself rasp, “I guess my house is happy to have you. If not happy,” I add, climbing over the pool’s side and perching on the top rung, “at least accepting of your presence.”

He chuckles. It’s a nice, rich sound that finds its way into my bones and warms them up like whiskey.

“Is that right?”

I nod. “Nobody was in the pool, and I guess it is sort of yours.”

He gives a shake of his head. “Nah. It’s yours now.”

“Mr. Moneybags.” I roll my eyes, mostly to pry them off his bulky shoulders, where they’re lingering.

He swims little closer still.

“Is that how you see me?”

I shrug. “Waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck, floats like a duck…”

That makes him snicker. “Ducks float better than me.”

He shifts onto his back, and I watch him sink until all I see is his straight nose and edible lips.

“You have a low percentage of body fat. Others”—I gesture at myself like Vanna White—“float more easily.”

He grabs one of the ladder’s rungs and holds his hand out. “Come show me.”

I’m still in my swimsuit. Never got in the pool at the party, never took my cover-up off. Now I have no excuse for why I can’t get in with him. And I find I don’t want one.

I sigh, so he doesn’t think I’m overeager. No reason to reveal all my cards. Then I peel my jumper down. “Lest you judge me for bad guardian-ing, know that Leah’s in the house with the kids.”

“I know you’re good to them, June.”

I drape my cover-up over the pool’s side. Then, aiming away from his shadowy form, I hop down off the ladder, cutting feet first into the water. It’s warm—not bath warm, but like a bath you’ve sat in too long—and surprisingly deep. My pointed toes hit the smooth bottom, and I push up toward the surface, breaking through to find him grinning.

I tread water, staring at him and his almost-silly grin. “That was quite an entrance.”

I swipe my hair out of my eyes. “Shut up.”

“No, it really was graceful.”

I want to make an offhanded comment. Something like, There’s a word not commonly used to describe me. But I can’t find my voice. I swim a circle around him, loving how my muscles feel. Like most Southern girls, I’ve always loved to swim.

“When I was in tenth grade,” I manage, when I come to a stop near him, “we had cheer tryouts at school, to go from JV to varsity. I was already on the team. But we had judges come in from Atlanta. There were twelve varsity spots.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Twelve girls tried out, right? I found out from our cheer coach—in private—that they only recommended eleven. They thought the squad would be better with eleven than a twelfth one—a current cheerleader. Me.”

Even now, the memory strikes me as hilarious—maybe especially now that time has dulled my shame. I shift onto my back, kicking and spreading my arms as I belly laugh. When my giggle-fest loses steam, I stare up at the trees as swaths of moonlight beam down through pine needles. Then I shift so I can see him, and I find his eyes are trained on me.

I’m aware that how I’m floating makes my breasts jut up out of the water. For a second, I’m going to sink back under. Then something in his eyes sparks, and I feel pinned in place. I inhale, the air in my lungs causing me to float a little better.

“You’re right,” he says, grinning as he paddles closer. “You do float.”

His eyes look dazed. His lips are parted slightly as he comes in close enough to kiss my cheek…close enough so I can feel the water moving with each smooth but forceful kick of his legs, stroke of his arms.

“What about you?” I manage in a hoarse whisper. “Are you a California water baby?”

“Grew up with a backyard pool.”

He’s so close I feel his breath against my jaw, can almost smell the minty scent that I remember last time he was here. To give myself some space, I kick a few times, sending myself toward the side of the pool, where there’s a round flamingo float with a long, thick neck and two wings surrounding a flat spot in the middle. I drape my arm across its middle, and there’s a plop as something falls into the pool.

“What the what?”

He’s over to me in a second, so close that my pulse kicks up a notch. He grabs the dark thing bobbing in the water. “Wine cooler.” He grins at it. “Your sister must have left them.”

“Oh my gosh, she left a bunch of booze in a float at a kids’ party?”

He chuckles and then reaches over me to grab another one from the flamingo’s middle; there’s a small indention where a few more are propped up.