Chapter 4
When I first joined a swim team, I did it because I thought being under water for hours at a time would give me peace.
It still does, to an extent. Pulling my cap over my head and gliding through the water twenty-five yards at a time is the one place where I can quiet the constant critiques from my mother, coaches, and Caleb.
Honestly, it’s the only reason I’m still swimming.
I hit the swim club early this morning to put in my laps.
It was an excuse to get out of breakfast time with my mom, and for a moment, I worried she might try to accompany me.
She has thoughts on my undeclared status for my freshman year.
She says I’m ignoring my natural business savvy and my penchant for number crunching.
I’m good at math. It doesn’t mean I love it.
And I absolutely don’t want to do it for the rest of my life.
The echoes of my mom’s lecture during dinner last night resurface in my head the moment I leave the water. The reprieve is always so short-lived, but I can’t stay in the pool forever. Damn, to be a mermaid.
“Saylor, I’d love to chat with you before you leave if you’ve got a minute?
” My old team coach, Christen Tellez, has been trying to get me on board to coach this summer.
How do I tell her that I’m probably not the motivating factor she thinks I am for her group of young swimmers?
I’m liable to slip at some point and tell them how much I hate competing, how the only reason I’m here is for the audible drowning it provides.
“I can’t today. I have an appointment. Next time,” I say, holding my hand up as I pick up my steps toward the locker room and rush by her at the pool’s edge.
“It won’t take long. I’ll follow you out,” she insists.
I sigh as I walk, and I know she sees it. I don’t care.
“We’re scrambling to get a coach for the fifth and sixth graders. And you’ve always been so good with the youth here. It would really mean a lot . . . to the kids.”
We round the corner and enter the locker room, then stop at my stall. I flatten my hand on my locker and stare at the leftover sticky outline from where I pulled my nameplate away a few weeks ago. Fucking hitting me with her famous “the kids” speech. I drop my chin and nod.
“Okay, I can fill in until you find someone permanent. Make sure the parents know that I’m temporary.” And disgruntled. And only good at swimming because I’m excellent at running away from my problems.
“Of course. Thank you so much, Saylor. You’re saving our asses, truly.”
I glance over my shoulder and force a smile to match my former coach’s relieved one.
It feels nice to help her at least. And I do like working with kids.
Maybe I can find a way to use this to get my mom off my back about my future.
She’s always admired teachers. Maybe that’s what I’ll become.
Of course, teachers are poor. Like musicians.
And since that’s always been a sharp criticism of my dad, I’m not sure how much grace the teaching route will buy me.
“I’ll have Megan set you up with paperwork tomorrow. Drop by whenever you can,” she says, tugging on the lanyard that holds her whistle around her neck before spinning on her heels. She practically sprints out of the locker room, probably afraid I’ll change my mind.
Smart move.
I already am.
After a quick shower and change into my blue cotton romper and sports bra, I head out to my car without running into any more unwelcome conversations.
The AC for my car has been tricky lately, as in working every third attempt or so, but my Toyota is twenty years old, so repairs are weighed against the price of a new car at this point.
I’m sure my mom would help pay for a new car, but that would be one more piece of leverage she would have in dictating my decisions.
If I can just make it to school in the fall, I’ll walk everywhere I need to go and figure out what to do for transportation next summer.
It’s still early in the morning. There’s no way Cami is awake, but it’s also too early to guarantee my mom has headed to the office.
I drift out of the swim club lot and begin weaving around the wealthy neighborhood that surrounds it to kill time.
I roll my window down to take advantage of the morning air, which is only a brisk ninety rather than triple digits.
It helps that my hair is still wet from my swim, but I know I’m going to start sweating soon.
I dip into the drive-thru for Swig soda shop and order an extra-tall lemon soda with ice while sending up a quick prayer to the AC gods before attempting the refrigeration again.
I’m next in line and idling with my palms held out to test the vents as I mutter, “Come on, baby,” to myself until one of the middle vents flickers to life with a slight burst of coolish air.
“I know a guy who can fix that.”
I jump in my seat and clutch my seatbelt against my chest before twisting in my seat to find Rowan leaning into my open window.
“Fucking hell, man!” My heart is pounding so hard I think my vision is pulsing.
Also, Rowan is shirtless. And gleaming with sweat.
“You holding a car wash or something?” I glance over my shoulder, checking to see if he’s left his car parked behind me. He chuckles as he stretches into a stand, and his taut stomach is within reach, and the first thing my eyes find as I turn back to my open window.
“You sound like my father with that joke. Poor Rowan, charity case,” he says, and I instantly recoil.
“Oh, yuck. Don’t say that.” I lean my head against the window’s edge and flit my eyes up at him. It takes him a second or two to drop his gaze to mine, and when his green-blue eyes connect with mine, my insides jolt as if he startled me again.
“I come out here to shoot around a little, at the park,” he says, gesturing toward the tree-lined street across the main thoroughfare.
I glance out my windshield in response to his direction, toward the neighborhood that is much more like mine. Caleb always played pick-up games at the club. I didn’t realize Rowan still played.
“Maybe I’ll come watch a bit,” I say, but Rowan cuts in before the words completely leave my mouth.
“Hey, about the other night . . .”
I blink my gaze back up to him. My heart is pounding again, remembering how Rowan made me feel, his touch, the things he did with only a few fingers.
He breathes out a soft laugh and bites his lower lip, and my lungs inflate with the airy joy of hope. It takes him half a second to collapse them.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line. I should have respected the boundaries—”
“Boundaries?” I blurt out.
His eyes shift to mine, and his head tilts a hint, his brow furrowed with confusion.
“Saylor.”
He says my name with authority. Like a parent. Or an older brother.
“Rowan.” I dish it right back.
He blinks a few times before chuckling, his hands grasping the edge of my window as he leans back.
“Look, I know you and Caleb just broke things off, and it was wrong of me to take advantage of . . . the situation.”
Of me. Take advantage of me. I want you to take advantage of me.
“Right,” I croak, squinting as the sunlight reflects off the car in front of me as they pull away from the window.
“You’re next. I was just coming to grab a water. I should—” He points a thumb over his shoulder, to the pointless park game he finds more important than this conversation.
“Yeah,” I say, my stomach tight and my mind ping-ponging from frustrated to hurt.
Rowan pats the window edge a few times and utters, “Okay,” before stepping away. He makes it a few steps, though, then turns around and grasps the corner of my window again.
“You’re like my little sister, is all. I mean, I watched you grow up. Hell, I babysat your ass more than a few times. And I shouldn’t . . .” He stammers, and for a tiny moment, I swear his cheeks flush.
“Shouldn’t what?” I challenge him.
His eyes meet mine, and he bites the tip of his tongue while holding back a full smile.
“I shouldn’t a lot of things,” he finally says. The way his gaze lingers makes me crazy, and I can’t help but wonder what that list of things he’s ruminating on entails.
“Miss?” A blonde girl with her hair twisted into space buns is leaning out the drive-thru window ahead.
“I’ll see ya,” Rowan says, patting the window’s edge again and this time leaving me behind without pause.
I let my foot off the brake and roll forward slowly, my mind barely able to handle the wake of WTF Rowan left behind, let alone manage payment instructions from the peppy Swig worker waiting for me to scan my phone or card on her payment device.
“Five sixty-four?” she prompts again. I shake my head and snag my phone from my passenger seat and tap it to her screen. I give her a five-dollar tip for putting up with me, then take my soda and move to the open spots along the driveway.
Little sister. That’s what he said. Is that really what he sees when he looks at me? Because the hardon I felt pressed against my ass the other night by the pool says otherwise. And he didn’t have to stop to talk to me just now. He could have waited for me to drive off without seeing him.
No. I’m not buying it. Rowan Anderson didn’t mean that apology just now, nor do I want one from him. And fuck whatever guilt he seems to be wrestling with over the things he did to me—that I let him do. Full consent between two adults. Not a baby and her sitter.
I work myself up so much that by the time I pull out of the parking lot for Swig, my back wheels peel out from my swift punch of the gas.
I race across the main road, only slowing when I spot Rowan’s form a few blocks ahead.
There’s a public pool at this park. I remember it well from my youth swim meets, and I doubt it’s changed much over the years.
I pull to the side of the road to let Rowan make his way back to the park before I blatantly follow him.