Chapter Ten #3
He looks past my arm, studying my face, trying to predict my next move. I shake my hand at him to clarify that I mean no further harm. He smiles and grabs it, and I pull him upright.
Suddenly we are standing chest to chest, hands still interlocked between us, sharing the same breath.
I feel the warmth coming from his torso and my eyes keep flicking to the place where his wet shirt has come open a couple of buttons, revealing a light patch of soaking chest hair.
Neither of us move, we remain transfixed in the middle of the pond with thick bubbly pillars of water surrounding us.
I can’t take my eyes off of the glass-like beads of water clinging to his eyelashes, and the drip of his hair behind his ears, the way his short beard is reshaped by the curl of his dripping smile.
My eyes wander back down his wet shoulder to his bicep, dripping, and I notice that he’s searching my torso too.
And something weird happens. I’m wishing for Martin.
Like, my real first-place wish is that Martin was here, dripping in his spandex shirt and board shorts, gold necklace clinging to his dripping neck.
I’m trapped by it. Gut-punched. My body breaks out in goosebumps and I can see Martin. Clearly, in my head, I can see him.
My brain is a gush of water and I don’t know how to process it. And then I see him.
I mean, the real Martin. My eyes focus beyond Matthew to the far end of the fountain, and sure enough there is a man leaning against the rail who looks a lot like Martin. He’s gaping at us like we’re aliens, and then I realize: It is Martin. In person.
“Liam,” he hollers, waving one arm lightly. Matthew turns to see, also.
An angry growl comes from the rail by our table and we both look to find a security officer, dressed to resemble a real cop, demanding that we get out of the fountain.
I let go of Matthew’s hand, suddenly self-conscious of the transparent nature of wet boxer briefs, and head across the pond toward Martin, adjusting fabric as I go.
“I’ll be right back,” I yell back to Matthew. He heads toward our pile of clothing beyond the rail.
“Hi Martin.”
“What are you doing?”
“Um, having brunch,” I say, now breathing heavy from the exertion. “And then we lost something in the fountain.”
“In your underwear?” his voice cracks. I watch as his eyes traverse my wet body, lingering a moment or two longer than necessary. I think he sees the goosebumps on my thighs because that’s where his eyes get stuck.
I pull on the front of my shirt, trying to create some space between the transparent shirt and my torso. “I didn’t want to get my clothes wet,” I say as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “Um, I mean my other clothes.”
He just smiles, looking at me, then at my dripping shirt. “Did you find it?” he asks finally, eyes leaving my chest and scanning the pond beyond.
“Find what?”
“What you were looking for.” He locks eyes with me, his lips curling into a question mark.
I smile back and let go of my shirt. “Maybe,” I inhale sharply. “Maybe I did find it.”
The world, the cold water, the gawking onlookers disappear in a tight blur around me and I feel a strange rush of clarity.
The silence between us stirs as we blink and smile.
“Well, I’m glad,” he says, eyes again searching the pool beyond me. “So, who’s your friend? The boxer-brief guy.”
I feel my ears warm despite the cold drenching me and turn to see what Martin is seeing: Matthew is hefting himself over the rail near our belongings.
“That’s Matthew.” I rub one ear lightly, trying to dissipate the heat. “He’s a friend from work. He invited me to brunch.”
“And a swim, apparently,” Martin is laughing.
I’m laughing along, but my mind is spinning again and I’m having trouble following. I’m saved from having to reply when the security guard grunts again, with a menacing gesture.
“I better get back,” I say, not moving.
Martin smiles down at me, eyes swimming in the pooled reflection. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he says, still not moving.
“Yeah,” my mind returns to the harsh coldness of my dripping clothes as I speak. “Bye, Martin.”
“Bye Liam.” He glances one more time at my wet shirt before turning and heading away. I retrace my steps back to our side of the pond to climb the rail and reclaim my clothes.
Matthew has already removed his shirt and is pulling dry pants over wet underwear, water dripping down his back. I remove my soaked shirt too, mirroring his actions. The security guard is tromping away slowly with a shake of his head, grabbing his belt with both thumbs.
“I’m sorry we didn’t find your dime,” I say, fighting the true fight that is dry sock against wet foot.
Matthew smiles at me. “Thanks for helping, anyway.” He pauses long enough to get a shoe on and tied. “This was fun.”
I finish tying one shoe and find myself gazing across the pond to the place where Martin had been standing. There’s an emptiness on the sidewalk without him.
I look back at Matthew, who’s bent in half, flinging dry shoelaces with wet fingers and we both start cracking up laughing, cold and dripping.