Chapter 7
OLIVER
Ten years ago
I’ve discovered three things so far this summer. One, Ryan Abrams doesn’t know how to swim. Two, chlorine burns when it gets in your eyes. And three, patience is a muscle I didn’t know I had.
It starts with a lie. Well, not a lie exactly. More like a strategic omission on Ryan’s part that I don’t catch until we’re standing on the sun-bleached concrete of the Westbrook Community Pool, towels slung over our shoulders, and the July heat pressing down on us.
“You good?” I ask. He’s been quieter than usual. And that concerns me.
“I’m fine,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. They slide right back down. They always slide right back down. One day, I’m going to superglue those things to his face.
The pool erupts around us. A freckled kid with a gap-toothed grin launches himself off the diving board, tucking his knees to his chest with a triumphant “WOOHOO!” before crashing into the deep end.
Water sprays my ankles. Two lifeguards in faded red suits slouch in their chairs, one twirling her whistle around her finger, the other shouting “WALK!” at a boy who freezes mid-sprint.
My stomach growls as the wind shifts, carrying the sizzle-pop of hot dogs on rollers and the powerful scent of nacho cheese.
I inhale deeply, the familiar burn of chlorine mixing with the coconut oil slathered across the shoulders of the mom lounging next to us.
I’ve been coming here since I was five. I’d spend hours in the deep end, pretending I was a shark and terrorizing the other kids. Now, I don’t pretend to be a shark anymore—a kid cried, and my mom gave me The Look.
“Come on.” I grab Ryan’s wrist and tug him toward the shallow end, weaving between lawn chairs occupied by moms in floppy hats and dads who’ve fallen asleep with newspapers tented over their faces. Sprinklers mist the air near the kiddie pool, and a toddler waddles past us.
Ryan follows me, but his flip-flops slap the concrete in a reluctant rhythm. He’s wearing brand-new swim trunks—stiff navy fabric with a tiny anchor pattern that screams my dad picked these out.
I claim a spot near the shallow end, tossing my towel onto an empty chair and kicking off my flip-flops.
The concrete is scorching under my bare feet, but I’ve built up calluses from an entire summer of going shoeless, so it barely registers.
Ryan, meanwhile, places his towel on the adjacent chair, smoothing out invisible wrinkles and adjusting the corners until they’re perfectly aligned with the seat’s edges.
“Ryan. It’s a towel, not a hospital bed.”
“Presentation matters,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or quoting his dad. With Ryan, it’s sometimes the same thing.
I pull my shirt over my head. The sun bakes my shoulders, sweat beading down my spine, and every cell in my body screams for the blue mercy inches away.
I take two running steps toward the edge when Ryan shouts my name.
I skid, nearly toppling into a little kid.
When I turn around, Ryan’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, pupils shrunk to pinpoints despite the sun’s glare, fixated on the pool.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard enough for me to hear it over the splashing.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
“Nothing.” His arms fall to his sides, fingers drumming against his thighs for three rapid beats before they rise again, folding tightly across his chest. “It’s just—I’m going to sit here for a bit. You go ahead.”
“Dude, it’s almost a hundred degrees. You’ll melt.”
“I won’t melt. It’s scientifically impossible. Humans overheat and experience heatstroke. Ice cream melts.”
“Ryan.”
“Go swim. I’ll watch.”
Something clicks in my brain. The way he’s been dragging his feet. The silence on the bike ride.
“Can you swim?”
The muscles along his jawline flex beneath his skin. “Of course I can swim,” he says, but his voice pitches up at the end, turning the statement into something flimsy.
He stares at me. I stare back. A kid behind us screams, “CANNONBALL!” and the resulting splash sends a fine mist over us.
“I can’t swim.”
“At all? Not even a doggy-paddle?”
Ryan’s cheeks flush pink, and he drops his gaze to his perfectly aligned towel. “My dad never taught me. He said swimming was a waste of time. That there were more productive ways to spend an afternoon than ‘flailing around in chlorinated water like an undisciplined child.’”
I’ve met Ryan’s dad enough times to know the man has an opinion about everything and a warm thought about nothing. “And your mom?”
Something flickers across Ryan’s face. Quick and raw. “She used to take me to the beach when I was really little. Before.” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
I stand there, bare feet on burning concrete, and make a decision that feels bigger than it probably is. “I’ll teach you.”
Ryan’s head snaps up. “What?”
“I’ll teach you how to swim. Right now.”
“Oliver, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He gestures broadly at the pool, as if its very existence is the perfect argument. “Because there are people here. They’ll see.”
“See what? A kid learning to swim? Groundbreaking stuff. Alert the media.”
“I’ll look stupid.”
“You won’t look stupid.”
“I will.”
“Ryan, half the kids in the shallow end are five years old and peeing in the water as we speak. Nobody is watching you. Trust me.” I don’t think he’s convinced, so I try a different approach. “Remember when you taught me how to use your telescope?”
“That’s different.”
“How? I didn’t know the first thing about astronomy, but you didn’t make me feel stupid about it.
You were patient and explained everything.
And now I know the difference between a star and a satellite.
” I move into his space, close enough to see a tiny scratch beneath his left eye.
My palm turns up between us, fingers spread wide, waiting.
“Let me do this for you. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen. ”
Shrieks of laughter. The rhythmic thwack of the diving board. The lifeguard’s whistle, sharp and brief. The PA system crackles out “Crazy in Love” by Beyoncé. And Ryan stands there, staring at my hand as if it’s a shooting star.
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“And you won’t laugh?”
“When have I ever laughed at you?”
“Last Tuesday, when I tripped over your sprinkler.”
“Because of how you fell, not because you fell.”
He tugs his shirt over his head and places it on his towel.
His torso is pale and skinny, ribs visible beneath skin that hasn’t seen direct sunlight in years.
I have hockey-toned arms and a perpetual tan from spending every waking hour outdoors.
We couldn’t be more different, and yet, he will always be my friend.
“Stop staring at me,” he mumbles.
“I’m not staring. I’m assessing.”
“Assessing what?”
“Whether you’re going to bolt. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of a rabbit who’s spotted a hawk.”
I lead him to the shallow end. The steps descend into the pool, each one painted with a faded blue stripe. The water is clear enough to see the drain at the bottom.
“We’re going to take this slow,” I say, stepping down onto the first step. The water is cool against my shins, a relief from the heat, and it immediately makes me want to dive in.
Ryan peers down at the water as if it’s made of acid. “How deep does it get?”
“Right here? Like two and a half feet. It goes up to three feet near the middle of the shallow end. You’ll be standing the entire time.”
“What if there’s a sudden drop-off?”
“There’s no sudden drop-off. It’s a pool, not the Mariana Trench.”
“What if—”
“Ryan. Step.”
He puts one foot on the first step. His toes curl against the textured surface, and his knuckles whiten against the railing, the squeal of skin on steel ringing out as his damp palm slides slightly downward. “It’s cold.”
“It’s refreshing.”
He descends one more step. The water reaches his calves. His breathing has gone shallow and quick. “Oliver…”
“I’m right here.” I squeeze his free hand. His fingers are cold and clammy despite the ninety-degree heat, and they clamp around mine. “You’re doing great.”
He descends the third and final step, and his feet touch the pool floor. The water comes up to a centimeter above his knees. He’s as rigid as a telephone pole. I rub his lower back, trying to loosen him up.
“Okay,” I say. “Now, we’re going to walk forward.”
He takes one step. Then another. His jaw clenches tight. A beach ball bounces off the back of his head, launched by a kid who immediately shouts “SORRY!” from across the pool.
Ryan freezes, every muscle in his body locking up. “Something touched me.”
“It was a beach ball.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. There are no sharks in the Westbrook Community Pool, Ryan.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sharks. I was thinking about—” He pauses. “Okay, now I’m thinking about sharks.”
“There are no sharks,” I reiterate.
“What about the drain? I’ve read about suction-related incidents involving pool drains and—”
“Ryan. The drain is covered. This isn’t The Final Destination. The most dangerous thing in this pool right now is that kid over there who just sneezed into the water.”
Ryan’s eyes dart to the kid in question—a freckled boy of maybe six who is, indeed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before plunging it back into the pool. Ryan’s expression cycles through disgust, horror, and resignation in rapid succession.
“This pool is a biohazard,” he mutters.
“Welcome to public swimming. Step one of learning: accepting that the water is thirty percent pee.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to distract you, and look”—I nod toward his body—“you’re waist-deep and still breathing.”
He follows my gaze. The water laps at his navel. Genuine surprise crosses his face.
“Now, we’re going to learn how to float.”