Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
An Olympic-sized pool stretches ahead, glassy under low lights. Above it, a skylight carves through fibre-cement ceiling. Night cloaks it right now, but I can almost picture daylight refracting through and warming the cool cerulean blue.
Carson wasn’t lying. This place is blissfully empty. His baritone bounces off the acrylic walls. “Through that door on your left, straight ahead, there’s a room you can change in.”
I sense his gaze tracing my cami-clad back as I obey on autopilot. I slip into the first cubicle, then linger in the motions as if stretching each one can coax my nerves into some semblance of calm.
Back in the pool area, Carson’s slicing clean lines through the deep end, his freestyle effortless. How can it not be when the water bends at his will?
I pause longer than intended, just… marvelling in the face of his dexterity.
He has to know I’m here, but he doesn’t let up.
Not for a good few minutes, each one ticking under the cacophony of whirring motors and the whoosh of his strokes.
It’s only when I shift, a phantom ache ghosting my sole, that he glides over to the pools edge.
His tanned hands brace against the tiled floor. His grey eyes fix to my face.
Unmoving.
Intense, like a storm, yet soft, like the clouds responsible for the torrent. Whatever’s on my face has him trying to lighten the chlorine-slathered air. “No threat of sea-urchins lurking in here, Jameson.”
I can’t even muster a smile.
Droplets cling to long lashes as he peers up at me. “You’re scared?”
I nod.
His shoulders flex, tension stringing from blade to blade. He rolls them back but the motion is half-hearted; his focus is all for me. “I’ve got you. Promise.”
Gentle words, but to my heart it may as well be a steel-tipped arrow.
He thinks I’m referring to the water. No, it’s him. With his attentive gaze, sharp mind, and resolute promises.
I knew telling him about Anna would tear at old stitches, but I never expected how easily he could calm the unraveling.
It makes me want to do something insane, like rip my heart out and give it to him, just to see if he can heal the rest.
He kicks backward, effortlessly treading.
The water laps at his stomach, glinting along ridges of muscle.
“You know,” he starts, a rare spark gleaming back at me, “when I first started training backstroke, I was so eager to impress my mom. She’d barely seen me swim at that point.
I remember swinging like crazy, sure I was flying forward with the way my arms were killing, but, for some reason, I never saw the flag.
” His mouth quirks. “Turns out, I was dead still the whole time.”
The laugh that bursts out of me is unexpected. It echoes bright off the walls and morphs his smirk into a grin.
“How old were you?”
He swipes away the grin, but the ghost of it remains in his eyes that are yet to drop from my face. “Six. I was a little shit back then—cocky as hell. Took a hard hit to my ego when everyone saw it. I begged my parents to switch me to a different club.”
Cocky. It’s almost impossible to square that image with the man in front of me now. I try to picture it, but can’t. He carries himself too carefully. Too deliberate.
“Did they?” I ask. “Move you?”
“Nah. Had to suck it up. Same coach I’ve got now is the same one I started with. He still gives me shit about it sometimes.” There’s weight in his tone. Respect, I realise.
Before I can ask more, he nods toward the pool. “Come on. Let’s get this show started.”
The usual sirens in my head are muted under Carson’s promise. I’ll be safe. He’s here. Watching.
For a second so fleeting I feel his gaze skim lower, a whisper of fire along my bare legs, but it vanishes like it never happened. Then he’s there, at the foot of the steps, hand extended.
Reese would’ve teased him for playing the hero but as my palm meets his and he guides me down fibreglass steps, all I can think is—a man so easy to love.
And I know, I know, in this exact moment, if my head wasn’t such a mess, I’d already be gone. Cupid’s arrow would’ve struck me clean the second he anchored me through my panic.
But I’m too jaded. I’ll never be able to love someone right if I don’t even love myself.
Carson deserves someone whole, someone who won’t always carry this void with her, and whoever she is… she’ll be a lucky, lucky woman.
I drop his hand as I descend the last step, and judging by his questioning glance, it must be abrupt.
“All good?” Water trickles down cut-glass cheekbones.
“Uh-huh.” Chlorine cloys my senses as I plant both feet. “Can you give me a moment to run through my breathing exercises?”
“Go for it.” He settles against the pool wall, chin dipping to keep me the centre of his focus.
That isn’t what I meant, but I bite my tongue. I guess he wants to stay close. Just in case. And I don’t hate it. Even if his gaze wakes a self-consciousness I haven’t felt in so long, the safety it inflicts wins out.
I’ve got you.
It isn’t the first time he’s said it, and it isn’t the first time I’ve believed him.
I turn inward, leaning on old therapy tricks. Slow breath in, pause, slow breath out. A consistent rhythm until the knots in my stomach start to slacken.
One loosens completely, then another when I tip my head back. Through the skylight, the star-pinned sky glitters as if it’s been waiting for me all along.
It’s beautiful. The kind of view that forges a swimmers dream, with the stars right there, daring you to reach for them if you push hard enough.
I glance at Carson. The dim carves shadows across his face, but nothing can mute the fierce determination there. He’ll reach them. No doubt.
The silver glint of his pendant catches the deeper grey of his eyes as they lock onto mine. “Done?” he murmurs.
I nod, and he has me drift along the shallow end to adjust to the buoyancy. Again he stays close, and bit by bit, the pressure in my chest also starts to loosen.
“Jameson,” he calls, breaking the hush. “How do you feel about starting from the very top? Back to basics.”
I nearly laugh. Like I ever made it past them.
I shrug instead. “Probably smart. Anything I learned back then is long gone. And with Reese, it was about surviving in the water, not swimming in it.”
“Alright.” He gravitates closer. “How are you with face submersion? Comfortable or do we need work on that?”
I trace a ripple across the surface, its reflection distorting the coastal tones circling my wrist. “I wouldn’t say comfortable but… yeah. I’m fine with it.”
He’s quick. “Because of that night?”
My hand stills. “Yes,” I admit. “But also no.”
“No?”
The words slip out before I can check them like they seem to do around him.
“I kind of forced myself to get used to the sensation. You know, dunking my head underwater everytime I took a bath until I wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack.
Took a lot of tries”—and even more minutes—“but I guess here I am. I thought it’d help with the nightmares. ”
He doesn’t ask if it did; he already knows.
His hand drifts close, a brief brush of heat beneath the water. Then, softer still, “How about floating? You ever learned that?”
“I’ve tried, but never been able to get it right.”
“It’s not always you. Some people just sink. Low fat, dense build. But I want to show you. It’s a safety position and might help make you feel more comfortable.”
I nod, trusting the certainty in his tone. “Okay.”
For some reason my agreement coaxes the faintest twitch of a smile. “Breathing’s everything. Fill your lungs, you float. Watch—” He wades deeper, water rippling off his torso like silk. “Inhale deep, hold it.”
I do, air filling my chest.
“Bend your knees.”
I lift my feet. The motion is disorienting, like the water wants to claim me whole, but my head stays clear.
“You feel that?” he asks. “That’s floating. Just your breath holding you up. Now… slowly let it out.”
I exhale, and the descent is instant. So is his touch. Strong hands steady me, thumbs pressing into the nylon at my hips until my feet find the bottom again.
He doesn’t let go.
“You’ve probably heard all this before, but I’m repeating it for a reason; holding your breath isn’t a strategy, it’s a risk. You exhale underwater through your nose, then you inhale when you come up. No long breath-holds. No panic.” He peers down at me. “Understood?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
“Water’ll still sneak in sometimes,” he goes on, “but if you’re exhaling, it won’t overwhelm you. We’ll build your exhale time, from two seconds to five. Not today, though. That’s for practice outside the pool. For now, let’s try back-floating. I’ll hold you until I know you’ve got it.”
One hand slips away, the other pressing at the small of my back. A light pat, then firmer guidance. “Keep your back straight,” he murmurs. “Hips up. Chin high.”
He pauses. Expectant.
I look up, puzzled.
We’re close. Almost chest-to-chest, the water offering no buffer. When he tips his head, his voice dips into the hush between us, and I catch something in his eyes that looks an awful lot like… vulnerability.
“I’ve done this before, Brielle.” My name comes fainter than ever. “Taught people to swim. But it’s different with you. You have to talk to me. You have to tell me if I’m pushing too far or getting it wrong.”
The honesty catches inside me.
Different. Why… why am I different? Is it because of my fear? Or something else entirely? Either way, one thing is obvious. He cares. So much so that it makes me want to do something reckless, like throw my arms around his neck and hold him tight. I have to shove the crazy impulse down.
“I’ll let you know if I’m not okay with anything, Carson. Trust me.”
“Promise?”
Heat slides down my neck. “I promise.”
He nods slowly, eyes unwavering. “Alright. Just like I said. Back straight, hips lifted, and chin up.” His palm beneath my spine feels like a tether. “Tilt your head back first. Let the water hold you. That’s it. Now arch a little. Let go. Let it catch you.”
The water rises to meet me.
“Arms above your head. Good. Now bend your knees just a bit.” I hover, body tight, muscles unwilling to let go. Carson must feel it. “You’re fighting it. I know it’s hard, but try to relax, Brielle. You’re safe here. It’s just me and you.”
I try. Every part of me wants to trade fear for trust, stiffness for surrender, but nothing works. Not even the echo of his promise.
I break upright, defeat weighing me down. “I can’t do it.”
There’s no frustration from him. Just a smirk that’s goading at the edges.
“Come on, Jameson. Giving up after one try?”
Teasing. He’s teasing me.
I want to say it’s a poor attempt but it can’t be if I rise to the bait. “Fine. If your arm cramps, don’t blame me.”
He cocks a brow, and the dry amusement in his tone is unlike anything I’ve heard from him. “I’m a D1 swimmer, baby. I think I’ll survive.”
I might roll my eyes, but it’s mostly to detract from the flush spreading along cheeks. “Guess some of that cockiness stuck around, huh?”
“Cocky?” He spreads his arms wide. “I’m all humility.”
“Yeah? We’ll see how humble you are when I dust you off with my swimming skills one day.”
I almost wish I didn’t say it because when he chuckles my heart surges like something’s taking flight in my stomach. “Alright, fighter. Show me what you’ve got.” He waits until I’m halfway into position before adding, low-voiced, “For the record, I think you can do it, Brielle. Beat me.”
It breaks open inside me, and suddenly, I’m steady enough to believe it too.