16. Afternoon at Emory
F ifteen minutes early, and it still feels like I’m running late when I walk into the Aquatic Center.
The air smells like overworked air conditioning and rubber soles, humid with the warmth of bodies, filtered steam, and that faint, sour trace of damp towels and lemon disinfectant that never quite goes away.
Kevin has already registered me, so I check in at the front desk with a quick release form and follow the familiar echo of water splashes, whistles, and low voices reverberating off tile and glass.
Everything in here is clean, orderly, and functional. It’s not a place for secrets.
Kevin appears before he spots me. He’s standing near the locker room entrance in athletic shorts and a light gray Emory T-shirt that hugs the top of his arms just enough to catch my breath.
His hair’s still buzzed short, and he looks sharper than he did out in the courtyard at Ansley.
He seems more focused now than surprised.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me, smiling like this is normal. Like we do this all the time.
“Hey,” I echo. My voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close.
We make brief eye contact—one or two seconds—then look away.
He gestures toward the locker room, and we fall into step.
It’s quiet between us, but not tense. Just unspoken.
The floor is polished and slick beneath my shoes, and every sound seems louder in the hallway.
I keep my eyes ahead, careful not to stare at how the sweat darkens his shirt’s collar.
“You off today?” I finally ask.
“No, I left work early. Figured I’d work out while I wait.”
Inside, the locker room hums with white noise—distant showers, the occasional door squeak, and someone laughing two aisles over.
We find a quiet corner to change. Kevin drops his bag onto the bench and starts to undress like it’s nothing—shirt off, towel slung over one shoulder like this is just another Friday.
Facing the other way, I change quickly into my swim trunks, keeping my gaze fixed on the locker doors.
When we step onto the pool deck, the light shifts—white and glaring overhead, bouncing off the water like everything’s under a lens.
The pool is laned, each numbered with banners that hang overhead.
A few swimmers do steady laps while others stretch at the far wall.
There’s a pair of middle-aged men chatting near the diving blocks.
The lifeguard in the corner wears mirrored sunglasses, even indoors, like he’s guarding something more than safety.
Kevin nods toward lane six. “I reserved this one for us.”
After rinsing at the poolside shower, we slip into the water.
It’s cooler than I expected, shocking my skin in a way that forces breath into my lungs.
My body adjusts within seconds. Kevin dunks his head under the water, then runs his hand over his scalp as if his hair were still longer.
He glides toward the far wall with a smooth, efficient breaststroke.
He swims like someone who doesn’t need to prove anything.
I follow, letting my limbs loosen with the rhythm of motion.
The sound of the world above dulls beneath the surface, only the rush of bubbles, heartbeat, and muffled silence.
I could stay down here forever. But I don’t.
When I surface, Kevin’s waiting, his arms draped over the lane buoy, chest rising and falling easily .
Out of practice and breathless when I reach him, I say, “You look like you do this every day.”
“Not as often as I’d like. “Wanna race?” he says, smirking.
I roll my eyes. “You trying to humiliate me?”
“Just trying to see if you still have it.”
“Fine. One lap,” I say, grinning. “Loser buys lunch next time.”
Kevin shrugs. “Deal.” He grabs the floating lane rope and dunks underneath it to use the empty lane beside us.
We line up, count off, and push off the wall in near-synchronicity.
Kevin pulls ahead immediately—a more efficient turn and decisive kick.
I let him. Partly because I’m out of practice, but mostly because I want to watch him move.
He cuts through the water like a knife through silk—no wasted energy, no showing off—just speed and fluid strength.
He beats me by more than a body length. When I reach the wall, he flicks water at me. “Still cute when you try, though.”
“Fuck you,” I say, laughing.
We spend the next twenty minutes switching between laps and treading water at the deep end.
Our voices bounce off the walls, casual and relaxed.
Kevin tells me about the MBA classes he’s taking.
He’s working at IBM, and I ask what it’s like being a business analyst. Only half of it makes sense, but the sound of his voice more than compensates.
I bring up a client who once asked me to turn her water pink for a bachelorette party.
He laughs, and it’s real. Warm and familiar.
At one point, we drift toward the wall again. We both tread lightly, letting our arms float. Kevin leans back against the tile. His bare shoulders glisten under the overhead lights, and the pull returns—memories stirring beneath the surface like something that wants to rise .
It almost slips out: Remember that night at your aunt’s house? Of course, he must remember. But I make no mention of it, and neither does he.
Instead, I say, “Feels weird being back in the water with you.”
He glances at me. Not guarded, not open either. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He dips his head under and then pushes away from the wall. He glides backward, arms outstretched, legs sweeping in a slow, steady scissor-kick. I remain where I am, floating in the wake of his absence.
When we finally climb out of the pool, our movements are slower. I towel my face and arms, trying not to notice how Kevin’s swim trunks cling to his legs. We stand side by side for a minute under the hot, humming air vents.
Kevin glances at me. “I’m glad we did this.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
He runs the towel over his hair once, then folds it over his shoulder. “Let’s keep things simple, yeah?”
I nod. “Simple is good.”
But it’s not. Not for me.
We walk back to the locker room without saying much.
The wet floor squeaks beneath our feet. The communal showers are visible from here, and I’m prepared to rinse off, though I’ll be dripping in sweat by the time I reach my next client.
A glance in his direction to take my cue, but I see he’s already dried off, wearing his briefs and putting his pants back on.
He offers a quiet smile as we head toward the exit. “See you around?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Definitely.” It feels final enough to make me blurt out, “Hey. Thanks! ”
We part ways outside the building, and there’s no need to look back. I already know what Kevin looks like from behind—and that’s the problem.