Chapter 6 #3
Finn tries to dunk me, I get him instead, and we both surface sputtering and laughing.
Someone's playing music from a truck—something upbeat and summery—and the whole scene feels like one of those movie montages where everything is golden-lit and easy, where problems don't exist and the world is just this: cold water and hot sun and people you're starting to love.
"Okay, truce," Finn gasps, holding up both hands in surrender. "Truce. I'm going to jump off the cliff and establish dominance over this entire swimming hole. Everyone will know my name. There will be legends."
"There will be a belly flop," I call after him as he swims toward the rocky path. "That's the legend!"
He climbs up with bare feet finding holds without looking, and stands at the edge of the ledge. He spreads his arms wide. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" he shouts to everyone and no one. "WITNESS ME!"
"FINN, NO ONE CARES!" someone yells from the shore.
"THEY WILL WHEN THEY SEE THIS!"
And then he launches himself off—arms flailing, legs kicking like he's trying to run on air, zero grace whatsoever. He screams the whole way down—not a scared scream, just pure energy—and hits the water with a massive splash.
When he surfaces, I'm already clapping, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. "Ten out of ten for commitment to disaster!"
"Thank you, thank you." He swims over, doing a little bow in the water. "I accept this award. I'd like to thank the academy, my parents, and the concept of poor life choices."
"Your turn, Scout!" he adds, pointing at me. "You're up!"
"What? No. I'll just—"
"Scout." He gestures toward the cliff with that expression that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking and also that I'm absolutely doing this. "You're gonna stand there and tell me you don't want to? After that FLAWLESS demonstration of technique I just gave you?"
I look up at the ledge. Fifteen feet doesn't seem that high, but from down here, it feels significant. Very significant. My heart's already picking up speed.
"You're scared," Finn says, not mocking—just stating a fact with that gentle honesty that makes it okay to admit.
"Little bit. Maybe a medium bit."
Holt swims closer. "You don't have to."
But there's something in me that wants to. That wants to prove—to myself, maybe, or to them, or to the universe—that I can do scary things. That I can jump and trust the water will catch me.
"If I die, tell my mom I loved her and also that she was wrong about everything."
Finn grins. "Deal. I'll give a beautiful eulogy. Very moving. People will cry."
"Make sure you mention that I was brave," I add, already swimming toward the path.
"And also slightly unhinged!" he calls after me. "It's part of your charm!"
The climb up is easier than expected, rough rock under my palms. When I reach the ledge, I look down at the water, at Finn bobbing near the edge, at Holt watching with that quiet attention he gives everything.
The height feels bigger up here. The water looks farther away. My pulse is doing something athletic.
"You got this, Scout!" Finn yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Remember—knees bent, feet together, scream the whole way down!"
"That's not—that can't be the technique!"
"IT'S MY TECHNIQUE AND I'M SHARING IT WITH YOU!"
I take a breath. Don't look down, just jump. Simple. Easy. Definitely not terrifying at all. "Okay." I back up a few steps, giving myself runway. My hands are shaking but in a good way, in an alive way. "I'm doing it. I'm—" Another breath. "I'm doing it right now."
"TODAY, SCOUT!"
"FINN, I SWEAR TO GOD—"
And then I'm running, feet pounding rock, and my feet leave the ledge and for one perfect second I'm just flying.
Weightless. Free. The world drops away and it's just me and the air and the sky and then gravity remembers I exist and I'm dropping, screaming the whole way down, the wind whipping past, my stomach somewhere up near my throat, and I hit the water feet-first with a slap that knocks the air out of my lungs.
Cold. Dark. Bubbles rushing past my face. I kick toward the light, break the surface gasping and laughing and possibly crying a little from adrenaline.
"THAT WAS AMAZING! THAT WAS LITERALLY PERFECT! SCOUT ADLER, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! CLIFF JUMPING CHAMPION!"
"I screamed!" I gasp, still riding the high. "The whole way down!"
"THAT'S THE BEST PART!" He swims over, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me gently. "You did the thing! You jumped! This is huge!"
And then I look at Holt, and he's smiling. Not the almost-smile, not the lip-twitch—a full, genuine smile that transforms his entire face. Softens every scar, lights up something behind his eyes.
My ribs squeeze so tight I forget to breathe for a second.
"See?" Finn says, still holding my shoulders, looking between us. "This is what I'm talking about. Joy. Fun. The good stuff. We should do this every day."
"We'd never get any work done," Holt says, still smiling.
"EXACTLY! Perfect plan! I'm making an executive decision right now—swimming hole Thursdays. It's official. Scout, you're witness."
"Witnessed," I agree, still catching my breath, still feeling the adrenaline sing through my veins.
"Okay," Finn announces to the swimming hole at large. "Who wants to play chicken fight? I need volunteers. I will be the champion. It's not a question."
"No one wants to play chicken fight with you," someone yells from the shore.
"YET!" Finn yells back. "Just wait! I'm very persuasive!"
We spend the next hour just... playing. That's the only word for it.
Finn does manage to organize a chicken fight—recruiting two teenagers who look equal parts terrified and thrilled—and turns it into a full tournament with running commentary.
He loses immediately but insists it was a "strategic retreat" and refuses to admit defeat.
"I was ROBBED!" he shouts from the water. "That was clearly a foul!"
"There are no fouls in chicken fight!" one of the teenagers yells back.
"THERE ARE NOW! I'M INSTITUTING RULES!"
He instigates another water fight, this time with a group of kids who absolutely destroy him, and he surrenders dramatically, floating on his back and declaring he's been "defeated by superior forces."
"This is what I get for teaching the youth," he announces to the sky. "Betrayal."
"You started it!" one of the kids yells.
"I KNOW! AND NOW I HAVE REGRETS!"
I jump off the cliff twice more, each time slightly less terrifying, each time ending with me coming up for air to Finn's enthusiastic play-by-play. "And she NAILS the landing! The crowd goes wild! This is HISTORY, folks!"
"Finn, no one is watching!"
"I'M watching! I'M the crowd! The crowd is going wild!"
Holt does eventually jump—climbing up while Finn provides unnecessary commentary ("Look at that form!
That confidence! That complete lack of fear of death!
"), and when he launches himself off, it's with none of Finn's mayhem, just clean and controlled, and he barely makes a splash. When he surfaces, Finn slow-claps.
"Show-off," Finn says. "Some of us don't have your grace and poise."
"Some of us practice," Holt replies.
"BURN! Did you hear that, Scout? He's burning me! In public!"
A little kid with goggles on his head paddles over to Holt, clearly working up courage. "Are those real tattoos?"
"Yeah," Holt says, crouching in the shallow water so the kid can see better.
"All of them?"
"All of them."
"Even the wolves?"
"Especially the wolves."
The kid considers this seriously. "Are they nice wolves or scary wolves?"
"Both," Holt says, equally serious. "Depends on the day."
"That's cool." The kid splashes him and swims away giggling, and Holt just shakes his head, almost-smiling.
I'm floating nearby, watching this interaction, and Finn swims up beside me. "He's actually a giant softie," Finn stage-whispers. "Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin his reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me."
"Good, because—OH!" Finn's face lights up. "I just had the best idea. Marco Polo. Everyone's playing. Right now. I'm making this happen."
"Finn—"
"MARCO POLO!" he yells to the entire swimming hole. "MANDATORY! NO EXCEPTIONS!"
"No one's playing Marco Polo with you!" someone shouts.
"YOU DON'T KNOW THAT YET! GIVE ME FIVE MINUTES!"
Eventually, the mayhem mellows. Families start packing up, heading home before dinner.
Teenagers migrate to the far end of the pool, their music getting quieter.
And I find myself floating on my back, eyes closed against the sun, just listening to the sounds around me—water lapping against rock, distant music, someone laughing, a dog barking.
"You look peaceful," Holt's voice, close enough that I open my eyes and find him nearby, watching me with that steady attention.
"I am peaceful." I right myself, pushing wet hair out of my face. "This is—it's really nice. Thanks for coming out. I know Finn basically forced you, but still. Thanks."
"Finn suggested it," he corrects. "I could've said no."
"Yeah, but you could've said no to a lot of things and you didn't." I'm not sure what I mean by that exactly, but he seems to understand.
We float there in silence that doesn't need filling, and I find myself studying him—the way he moves in the water, compensating for the prosthetic without thinking, the tattoos rippling under the surface when he moves, the complete ease in his expression.
Not tense. Not guarded. Just... Holt, relaxed and content and maybe even happy.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture.
"Depends on the question."
"The prosthetic—does the water bother it? Like, is there maintenance or do you have to do anything special or—" I trail off, suddenly worried I've overstepped, but he doesn't look offended.
"It's waterproof," he says simply. "Most newer ones are. Just have to dry it after, make sure nothing gets corroded. Not a big deal."