Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,46
calls out.
I laugh and give her a thumbs up.
I float some more, and after, Jesse and I move on to putting my face in the water and rolling it to one side to pull in a breath. Next, we add long pulls of my arms while Jesse supports my legs, and then I try kicking while he holds my hands, guiding me through the waves. He tries to teach me the breaststroke, but we get distracted making breast-stroking jokes and making out, and decide we had better stick to the crawl.
Midafternoon, we break for sandwiches, but stick to iced tea for drinks so we’re 100 percent safe to go back into the water.
I haven’t swum on my own yet, but I’m ready.
Or . . . nearly ready.
I suck in a deep breath, facing Jesse across the fifteen feet or so of open ocean between us. The water only comes up to Jesse’s waist—my ribs—and if I get in trouble, all I have to do is put my feet down and stand up. This is completely safe, but I’m still . . . terrified.
But also determined.
I can do this.
I can take back this lost part of myself. Fear doesn’t get to keep me in a cage anymore.
That’s what this part of the list is about.
Only I should get to decide my potential. Not fear. Not the ugly or sad or scary things in my past. Just me.
The knowledge swells inside my chest, and for a second I swear I can see thirteen-year-old Claire standing beside Jesse, willing me to keep swimming, the way she did all those years ago.
And I’m not about to let her, or myself, down.
Sucking in a breath and holding it, I dive into the water. Seconds later, I emerge from the waves and pull toward Jesse. And even though my flutter kick is anything but smooth and I end up craning my entire head out of the water for a breath instead of using the graceful, side-sip method we practiced, I make it the entire distance without any major mishaps.
It’s almost . . . easy.
“Hell yeah, woman,” he says, brushing my wet hair from my forehead as I swipe the saltwater from my cheeks. “You did it!”
“It wasn’t even that hard,” I confess, my breath coming fast. “All those years, and being so scared, and missing beach trips with Gigi and . . . it wasn’t that bad.”
He laughs, but then sobers as he reads the angst in my expression. He bends, bringing his face closer to mine. “Hey, it’s okay that you were afraid. Almost drowning is scary shit. And don’t be so hard on yourself. You definitely worked for this.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I . . .” I force a smile. “You’re right. I did have to work for it. It’s just frustrating that I let fear call the shots for so long.”
“That’s next,” he says, confusing me until he adds, “Number two. No more ‘sorry.’”
My brows pinch together. “Actually, it’s no more ‘sorry’ for no reason, but I’m still going to say it when I need to. That’s part of being a grown-up—knowing when to say you’re sorry and meaning it when you do.”
“But you don’t have to apologize for having feelings. Especially about the list.” He hesitates before adding in a softer voice, “And especially with me.”
Having feelings . . .
He pulls me against him, lifting me up as a big wave rolls in. For a moment, the water is deep enough that I’d be in over my head if I didn’t have a taller swimming buddy by my side.
The symbolism isn’t lost on me.
I am getting in over my head.
I need an intervention. A “to-don’t” list to keep me from breaking the friends-with-benefits rules.
I make a mental note to get on that . . . later . . . and concentrate on enjoying the rest of the afternoon. I swim to Jesse again and again, a little farther each time, until I’m swimming almost the entire length of the beach.
I’m not the only one.
Near me, the young boy is dog paddling on his own. When his eyes meet mine, I call out, “Sweet dog paddle, man!”
“Arf, arf,” he responds, making me laugh.
Kids are weird. And I love it.
By the time I finally step out of the surf at the end of the day, my arms are trembling and I feel like I’ve had an honest-to-God workout.