9. Monique
Monique
I stop moving.
What are you doing, Monique? What has suddenly come over you that you would consider getting into a pool with this man?
The voice settles in my mind. It seems like a logical argument. Well, if I’m being honest that’s not the only problem. He’s Weston. Granted, I’ve avoided my…feelings for him for some time now, but they’re still there.
Getting into this pool with him isn’t wise. Should I?
“Monique?”
I look at him, then down at my dress, and suddenly it’s the entire problem. The green fabric brushes my knees in the evening breeze. It’s a nice dress, appropriate for a night out, not a swim.
“I don’t have a swimsuit,” I blurt out.
Weston’s gaze drops to the dress and comes back up. “I can see that.”
I look at the water again. The pool lights have come on underneath the surface. Everything glows soft blue and silver. I hold up the hem of my dress. “I can’t exactly swim in this.”
He nods. “That’s okay. You don’t have to learn how to swim tonight. We can just swim around. No lesson, no pressure."
My eyes flick to his. I didn’t even consider that a possibility.
I consider his offer for a swimming lesson from a fresh angle. Do I want to? I mean, it’ll be nice to feel the water around me.
“I want to.”
He watches me, eyebrows furrowing. “You sure? There’s absolutely no pressure. We can settle for you just getting in the pool.”
I fold my arms. He’s handling me with kid gloves. I don’t like it. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He chuckles. He’s clearly enjoying himself. I don’t like it either. “Why?”
“Because you’re already in it.”
Weston pushes his tongue to the side of his cheek and nods thoughtfully. “That’s a fair assessment.” He moves his arms, causing the water to shift slowly.
I stare at him. This is ridiculous. It’s just a pool. How hard can it be? There are cameras every twenty feet in this building. Security staff upstairs. Employees arriving in less than an hour.
Nothing bad is going to happen. My body appears unconvinced.
“I want to get in.” I swallow.
It’s hard to look at him when his chest is all up in my face like that. I can’t tell if he’s doing it intentionally or if chests just happen to move like that on their own. And why is he so tall? It would help a bunch if the water covered up most of him. Especially his abs.
Oh god. This isn’t me. It’s not New Monique either. Something has come over me, and I have no idea what it is.
“Okayyyy?”
I swallow again and drag my eyes up from his abdomen to his face. “I need a nudge.”
“A nudge?”
I nod. “Yes. Go ahead. Nudge me.”
He cocks his head to the side and watches me. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m crazy. Then he bends, scoops water into his hands, and flicks it at me.
I yelp. Cold drops hit my calves. “Weston!”
He looks completely unrepentant. “What? You asked for a nudge.”
“Yes, like a hand, not…” A second splash lands against my dress. I jump back. “Weston! Stop that! Look at what you’ve done.”
His gaze drops to the dark spots spreading across the fabric, then back to me. “Looks like we’re past preserving it.”
I glare at him. He has the decency to look slightly pleased with himself.
“Hey, I only did what you asked. I’m easy like that.”
As if I couldn’t be more mortified, he says, “You’re wet already. Might as well get in.”
Heat rushes into my face so fast it makes me angry.
His expression changes immediately. The smile falls. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
The silence stretches as we stare at each other. Then he straightens, moves toward me, and holds out his hand.
“I’ll be right here with you, I promise. I’ve got you, Monique.”
I’ve got you.
My heart does a strange flip. I look into his eyes. I know he means it.
Deep in my soul, I know I can trust him. And then a thought begins to form.
Weston is different.
He isn’t like other men.
And most especially, he isn’t anything like Victor.
I can trust him.
The muscles in my stomach tighten. My pulse kicks hard. I reach out and slide my hand into his. His fingers close around mine immediately. They’re warm and steady. I’ve never been one to touch people like this or at all.
Physical contact always meant bad things were about to happen. A hand closing around your wrist, dragging you out to the designated spot for your punishment. Instead of a stroke to the cheek, you get a slap to the face.
I know the feel of Victor’s hand on my face. It’s like a mark on my soul.
But with my hand in Weston’s, all I feel are good things. I’m safe here.
My breath catches as I look up at him. His eyes hold mine for half a second.
Then he steps backward into the pool and lets me decide the pace. One step. Then another. The water climbs my legs. My dress drifts around me.
Weston keeps hold of my hand until I'm standing beside him in the water.
Neither of us lets go right away.
The water reaches my waist. I stop moving. It’s a strange feeling, almost like a light band around my waist.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to get comfortable with the feeling. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the urge to run.
“Hey.” Weston’s hand rests on my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I open my eyes.
"You're okay." His hand stays flat on my shoulder.
I swallow and nod slowly. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he leads me toward the shallow part of the water. “Let’s start with something simple. Floating.”
He stares at our intertwined fingers for a moment. Then he leans back, still holding my hand. Next thing, he’s floating flat on the surface. His left hand tilts a little bit, but he manages to demonstrate the motion.
“You just need to let yourself be free. Trust the water.”
I nod as he gets back to his feet, even though trusting the water seems like an impossible feat. He comes around until he’s beside me. He moves his left hand to my waist and holds my right with his.
“Just lean back, I’ve got you.”
I don’t take my eyes off him as I slowly lean back against the water. It envelops me. My legs lift off the tiled surface, rising slowly. The water comes up to my chest.
I breathe hard, keeping my eyes locked on Weston.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m okay.”
The water has covered my ears, and the world has gone quiet. Weston's hands are warm and flat between my shoulder blades.
I tell myself this is purely functional contact. My body disagrees without informing me first.
"Head further back," he says. His voice sounds different from here, slightly above me, more air in it. "Let the water take the weight of your head."
I let my head go back.
The water closes over my ears completely.
For a moment, the world is just warmth. Then my lungs want to do something unhelpful so I breathe out deliberately, slowly, the way I count breaths when something has rattled me.
My shoulders drop a fraction.
"There," he says. "Stay there."
I stay. The water is, in fact, holding me. I find this mildly irritating to admit, because I don’t feel fear anymore.
I’m suddenly acutely aware of how close he is.
"You can breathe normally," he says.
I exhale. My back is warm where his hand is. The rest of me is pool temperature. The contrast isn't helping with the calm I'm building.
"I'm going to move my hand," he says. "Don't change anything."
His hand shifts, adjusting his support to the center of my back. I don't change anything. I keep breathing. The water keeps holding me.
We stay like this for a moment longer than necessary for a swimming lesson, and neither of us comments on it.
Then he lifts his hand away.
I float there for several seconds, arms out, held by nothing but the water, and I think, Oh, so this is what it's like.
"You did that," he says.
I right myself and stand. "You moved your hand."
He smiles. "You didn't sink."
I push my hair back from my face. The surface smooths between us.
The only thing between us is the water, that is until either of us moves.
I want him to touch me.
And unlike the night we first met, I don’t want to run away from it. I want to run toward it.
“We should, uh…” He clears his throat. “The arms.”
I nod even if I don’t know what he means. "The arms.”
He moves to stand in front of me now, demonstrating the stroke — the pull through the water, the catch, the recovery, the breath that happens between. His arms are visible just below the surface, moving through the motion.
He walks me through each component separately. And I’m missing every bit of it. It’s hard to pay any attention when his biceps are moving with every stroke.
“You ready?” he asks as he gets to his feet.
How do I tell him I have no idea what to do? I nod anyway and get into what I assume is the right position. I move my hands slowly.
"Elbow higher," he says.
I adjust.
"Higher than that."
I adjust again.
“Not quite right yet.” His hand moves to my stomach, straightening me. He lifts my elbow up. “Like this.”
I turn to look at him. The water suddenly feels boiling hot. I stop breathing. His eyes move from mine to my lips. My fingers twitch with the urge to pull him down.
He’s not your father, Monique. It’s okay to touch him.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
I shake my head. I can do this. My hand goes up to his face. “I’m right here.” I stand on the tip of my toes, but I still can’t reach him. “I’m gonna need your help with this.”
Weston’s hand moves to my waist. He pulls me closer, and ever so gently, his lips touch mine.
A sigh escapes my lips.
I used to wonder what a kiss would feel like. Wet, definitely. Maybe a little bit slimy. Lord, how wrong I was.
It isn’t so much the feeling of his lips sliding across mine, his fingers lightly grazing my waist, his tongue teasing me, or his teeth nibbling against my bottom lip ever so slightly.
No. It’s more about what’s happening inside of me. Heat spreads through my body with every stroke of his lips. My body can’t stop moving against his. My fingers cling to the nape of his neck.
He pulls away gently, resting his forehead against mine.
Our breaths mingle.
I step back.
"Monique."
The way he says it almost keeps me there.
The water resists me, then lets go, and the cool rushes into the space where his chest just was. My feet find the floor of the pool.
I'm aware of every place we were touching a second ago and aren't now — my waist, the nape of his neck, the warm seam where his mouth met mine.
He watches, hands open at his sides under the surface, giving me the room he always gives me.
I take it.
I move toward the shallow end, the water dragging at my dress, heavy now and clinging to my legs. The night air hits my wet skin like a verdict. I climb the steps with my hand on the cold rail.
My dress streams onto the tile. I should be cold.
I walk toward the door. My hand finds the exit. I work out why I'm leaving in the final seconds before I push through it, and it isn't the answer I expected.
I'm not leaving because I'm afraid of him.
I'm leaving because I stayed long enough to want something, and wanting something is the one thing I still don't know how to survive cleanly.