26. Wet T-Shirt Contests
WET T-SHIRT CONTESTS
Mark
“Daddy!”
The sound of my little girl’s voice has me dropping the knife next to the wedges of cheese. Flip and Hannah did some shopping, and I agreed to set out a spread for everyone to nibble on for lunch.
But now Rosie is here, running through the gourmet kitchen, arms outstretched. “I LOVE Florida!” she shrieks.
Oh, boy. Someone has excess energy to burn off. I grab her just as she’s about to collide with my thighs. And I lift her up and whirl her around while she shrieks again.
“Turn it down a notch, Rosie,” Bridget begs. I stop whirling and catch sight of my ex in the doorway. She looks bedraggled.
“Long line at the rental car place?” I guess. Sugar on the plane? I mentally add. Bridget never used to have trouble saying no to our daughter. But everything is a little haywire this year since the divorce.
“The longest,” she says. “Then I got lost looking for the causeway.”
“Sorry,” I say, and then mentally kick myself. It was Hannah’s idea to invite Bridget to the wedding along with Rosie. My sister has this romantic idea that Bridget and I will someday become best friends and the happiest co-parents on the planet.
I don’t see it. Divorce doesn’t usually work that way.
“Is there a pool?” Rosie asks in my arms. “There has to be a pool. I brought all of my bathing suits. And Mama got me a dress for the wedding! It’s purple. It’s the kind that whirls. I need to go swimming.”
“I need some brie on crackers and a tall glass of wine,” Bridget puts in.
“Fine,” I say. “You finish the board. There’s fruit and sausages left to cut. My parents could also use some food.”
“Fun times,” Bridget mutters. My parents aren’t her biggest fans this year.
But that isn’t my problem. “I’ll take Rosie for a swim.”
“Go,” she mutters. Then she grabs a crumble of aged gouda and pops it into her mouth.
I leave the kitchen without a backward glance.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m holding Rosie in four feet of water. We’re both wearing swimsuits and sunscreen. It’s a bright, sunny day, and I have forgotten to be irritated by my ex. And I like this kind of forgetting.
“I really shoulda brought my water wings,” Rosie says.
“You don’t need them,” I insist. Rosie should learn to swim. There aren’t many places to learn in Manhattan, though. Just a couple of public pools with limited hours, and very few swim lessons.
But here, we’re in a gorgeous private pool. No time like the present.
“Okay, I’ll swim,” Rosie says. “Just as long as I don’t have to put my face in the water.”
A deep, manly chuckle comes from behind me on the pool deck. Asher . The sound of his voice is like a second sun heating the back of my neck. But I’m a little busy here, so I don’t turn around.
“I think you’re old enough now that I can share the secret to swimming,” I tell my daughter.
She perks up. “The secret?”
“Yup.” I kick my feet, and I swim us both into the deep end. “There’s a secret way to keep all the water out of your nose and mouth like magic. All you have to do is blow bubbles.”
“What? I didn’t bring any bubbles.”
“Not the kind of bubbles in a bottle. We make our own. Watch.” I allow myself to sink partly into the water, until my chin is submerged. And I blow a stream of bubbles out of my mouth.
Rosie watches me with a smile on her face. “I can do that.”
“Show me.”
She leans down until her lips are touching the water. Barely. And she burbles out a few bubbles.
“Good!” I say. “That’s it. But you don’t have to be so careful.
This really is magic. So long as you’re pushing air out of your body, no water can get in.
Watch.” I sink my whole head under—holding her up above the surface—and blow bubbles for a good fifteen seconds before coming up again.
“I want to see you blow all the bubbles. If you’re brave and you make it work, there’s a bowl of watermelon in it for you. ”
“Seedless?” she asks, because my kid is a fearsome negotiator.
“Seedless,” I agree.
She squints at the surface of the water for a moment. “All right. I’ll try.”
And maybe it is magic. Because I’m teaching my kid to swim, and it’s working. Fifteen minutes later, Rosie can put her whole head underwater like a champ.
But she would like a steady stream of praise for her efforts, please. “Mama, look! Daddy, watch! Grandma, see?”
From their spot under an umbrella, my parents assure her that she’s a swimming genius. So does Bridget. Hannah and Flip get in on the cheerleader action, too, as they stroll out to the pool from the house. “You’re a dolphin now, Rosie,” Hannah calls as she grabs a chair.
“My cousin will be too,” Rosie answers, and Flip sets a hand on my sister’s belly as they sit.
“And now you can do that bubble magic and kick at the same time,” I tell my kiddo. “You swim to me, and I’ll catch you.”
“Swim from where?” she demands.
“The wall? The ladder?”
She wrinkles up her nose. Dubious. She clings more tightly to me. “I don’t think so. Maybe another time.”
“Bridget?” I call. “A hand, here?”
“I’m not wearing a suit,” my ex says, a glass of rosé in her hand as she stretches on a lounge chair in shorts and a tank. She’s not going anywhere.
“Grandma? Grandpa?” I say to my parents. But they’re both close to dosing in their chairs.
“Why are we the only ones in the pool?” Rosie asks. “The pool is the best place in Florida. Except for Disney World. So, this is the second-best place.”
I’m with her on the pool being the second-best place. Right after Asher’s bed. And speak of the devil, Asher stands at the edge of the deep end. “It’s a shame I’m not wearing a suit, or I’d swim with you two.”
“Yeah. Shame,” I agree with a smile. But it didn’t stop you last night . My brain offers up a visual of Asher, naked, grinding on my lap in the shallow end.
Asher turns to walk away. But then he bobbles, and one foot slips over the edge. “Uh-oh.” His arms come up suddenly. “Oh God.” He flaps his hands uselessly.
Rosie shrieks as Asher falls ass-first and fully clothed into the deep end.
Wait. Did a professional athlete just fall into the pool by accident?
He pops up, beaming, a clear sign it was a hoax. He did that on purpose, something I like all too much. “Hey, guys,” he says. “Nice day for a swim. Anybody need an extra pair of hands around here?”
Rosie needs a minute, actually. She’s giggling so hard that if I weren’t holding her up, she might actually drown.
“Let’s play catch,” Asher says. “Anyone have a ball?”
“N-no!” Rosie laughs.
“Fine,” he says with a shrug. “Catch-the-kid it is! Toss ’er over, Banks.”
“Great plan,” I say. “On a count of three. One . . .” I swing her through the water. “Two...”
“Daddyyyy!” The shriek is so high-pitched that it almost breaks the human sonic barrier.
Spoiler: I don’t throw my child at my hookup. I wait for her to calm down, and then I ask her if she wants to swim to Asher.
He holds out both his hands. “Betcha can’t kick this far!”
He’s four feet away. Tops. His designer T-shirt is clinging to his ripped chest. Are wet T-shirt contests a thing for men? They should be.
“Bet I can!” Rosie sticks her face in the water and kicks so hard I have to twist my body out of harm’s way. She reaches Asher a split second later. “Did it!”
“Again,” he says, effortlessly turning her around with tanned hands. “Swim to your dad now.”
I back off a few feet, and we carry on like this for a while with Rosie swimming farther and farther distances until she’s panting and exhausted.
“Watermelon,” she gasps. “You promised.”
“And you earned it.” I lift her up onto my shoulder and wade toward the stairs. “Thanks for the help,” I say over my shoulder.
Asher smiles at me.
I’ll thank him properly later.
Or improperly.
I can’t wait.
I’m toweling Rosie off in the guest house entryway when Hannah flops down next to Asher in the lounge chairs many feet away. “You are such a goofball! I totally thought you were falling into that pool.”
“Well, I did fall in,” he says. “It’s just that it wasn’t an accident.”
“Well played, St. James. You have such a way with kids. I can totally see you teaching a child to swim someday.”
My blood stops circulating. Because I can see it too. Any kid would be lucky to have Asher in their life. He’s better at living in the moment than I’ll ever be. He’d be the fun dad.
But the next thing I hear is a very uncomfortable chuckle. “Don’t hold your breath, Hannah,” he says. “That’s not the kind of thing that’s anywhere in my future.”
“You never know,” she chirps.
But it sounds like he does know. And he doesn’t want kids.
I guess that should have already been obvious to me. His lifestyle is full of late nights and travel.
And it’s not like it matters, right? Not to me.
Even if I’m starting to wish that it did.