Chapter 18
Deacon
Finally breaking the surface, I sucked in a deep breath and floated on my back, counting the ceiling tiles and resting before I swam some more laps.
Underwater, I could block out the world.
I could block out most things, but the memory of Willow on that stage kept resurfacing.
That red dress accentuated every curve on her body, from her full hips to the swell of her breasts and how her dark eyes sparkled under the stage lights.
She’d worn high heels for her date, and I couldn’t help considering how I’d have to bend less to kiss her in them.
The water lapped at the side of my face, and I pictured the way her expression changed from that tiny grin when she heard the first cheers to the full-watt smile by the time she finished her song.
The way the smile transformed her face—that’s what I really couldn’t shake even though I needed to.
When I closed my eyes, I didn’t imagine her smiling at Gus or because she did something new; I pictured her smiling up at me, smiling because of how she felt around me.
“Nope,” I mumbled to myself, getting into my start position.
As long as she was happy and safe, I was doing what Cruz had asked me to do in looking out for her.
And it was for the best her date was a dud.
I didn’t like the idea of sharing her smiles with some other guy, even if I’d never act on the attraction.
Someone opened the main door to the pool as I started my drill, focusing on the goal, repeating the PJ creed as I moved through the water.
When it got hard, the words reminded me why I was putting my body through this and why I avoided considering alternative career paths.
It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save life and to aid the injured.
I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts.
These things we do, that others may live.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe.
Once, we’d gotten back from a tough mission where we’d needed to parachute behind enemy lines to extract a pilot who’d gone down in a crash.
I wasn’t sure the guy would fly again, but he was breathing and conscious.
We were at Cruz’s place the next day when he asked me if I ever thought about how our best days, the days where we got to do what we trained for, what we had a passion for, were the worst days for someone else.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe.
It was a few months after his mom’s car accident, and he hadn’t talked much about it, but I handed him a beer and nodded. “Think all first responders feel that way?”
He shrugged and tipped his beer to his lips.
“I got the names of the people who responded to the accident.” At his words, I sat back in my chair.
My instinct was to say something or ask a question to fill the silence, but he seemed to need a moment, and eventually he kept going.
“I sent them a note, thanking them. I think I’d hate people thanking me for what we do, but it felt… I dunno. Right.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. I’d hate getting a note, too. We all would—there was a common love of the work, but no one felt good taking credit for saving someone.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe.
“I guess I wanted them to know I understood the toll it probably took on them when she didn’t make it, even if they’re used to it, even if the heaviness didn’t last a long time. I guess I wanted them to know I appreciated the sacrifice and that she would have, too.”
I nodded again. This was the most he’d said about anything real in months.
“She’d started therapy,” he said, breaking the silence again.
“Been in a funk, probably depression after my asshole dad took off, but she’d started therapy and seemed to be coming up for air.
” He toyed with the label on his beer, peeling at it.
“She didn’t want Willow to know in case it made her worry—she’d just started college—but, God, Mom seemed happier for the first time in ages.
” His voice thickened. “I don’t know why I shared all that. ”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, finishing my beer. “Glad you did.”
“Okay, this is too heavy.” He sniffed and took a pull from his beer. “Will you make one of your bad fucking jokes or something?”
I walked into the kitchen to grab two more beers and to give him some privacy to wipe his eyes.
I called from the kitchen as I popped the tops on the bottles.
“You know who I got a thank-you card from? That waitress in Sarasota, Kiana, and her roommate, Analise.” I handed him the bottle. “Oh my, sweet, adventurous Analise.”
He laughed, though I heard the emotion he was swallowing. “You’re such a fuckboy.” He kicked back, his posture relaxing.
“You love me.”
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe.
I refused to look at my watch but kicked harder and pushed myself to the end of the last lap.
My hand landed on the lip of the pool, and I glanced at my watch. Nine minutes and fifteen seconds. I pumped a tired arm and lay back in the water, floating as my breathing and heart rate regulated.
My smartwatch vibrated against my wrist, and I glanced at it.
Cruz: Mom’s bday is today. Can you check on Willy?
I dropped my arm back to the water and did a lazy backstroke to the other side.
There were a few other people in the pool now, and the motion from their strokes made waves that moved against my skin.
An excuse to message Willow didn’t take any convincing, and I didn’t want her sitting at home sad.
That night on stage, she seemed like she’d come up for air, too.
Deacon: ’Course. You ok?
Cruz: Fine.
Same old Cruz, I thought, floating back to the other side.
Not that I was much different. Emi told me I should get a tattoo that read “I’m fine,” since I said it so often.
Maybe it was the job or our personalities, probably a little patriarchy thrown in there for good measure.
Saying “I’m fine” was always easier than admitting anything else.
Deacon: Always here if you’re not.
He tagged it with a thumbs-up emoji, and I held on to the edge of the pool and used voice-to-text to send her a quick message.
Deacon: Low—wake up!
Deacon: Wake up!
She told me once she never trusted do-not-disturb mode but hated late-night texts because they always woke her up, so I sent a few more.
Deacon: Good morning!
Deacon: Wake up!
Willow: It’s not even 6 a.m.
I grinned as I climbed out of the pool. I was pretty sure I had time to pull this off.
Deacon: Get dressed. I’m picking you up in fifteen minutes.
Willow: It’s 5:48 a.m.
Deacon: You still have rule breaking on your re-do list, right?