Poolside Confessions

The Friday night pool party at Tyler's house was supposed to be legendary. Emma stood at the edge of the concrete deck, clutching her phone like it was a lifeline, watching everyone else cannonball into the glowing blue water while she remained fully clothed and completely terrified.

"You coming in or what?" Tyler called from the shallow end, splashing water toward her. His golden retriever, Buster, barked excitedly from his lounge chair, where he'd been appointed the unofficial party guard dog.

Emma's stomach did that awful twisting thing it always did when she was about to do something that required confidence. Which was basically everything.

"Maybe in a bit," she lied, though her phone buzzed with texts from her best friend Sarah, who'd bailed an hour ago because she "wasn't feeling social." Code for: she'd rather binge-watch Netflix than face the social hierarchy of sophomore year.

The real problem wasn't the water. Emma could swim. The problem was the new bikini she'd spent three weeks' worth of babysitting money on, the one that suddenly felt way too revealing, and the fact that Jordan—the really cute junior who'd actually acknowledged her existence in chemistry this week—was currently floating on an inflatable pizza slice, looking like something straight out of a teen movie.

"Your dog's judging me," Emma told Tyler, gesturing toward Buster, who had indeed positioned himself to stare judgmentally at her dryness.

"Buster doesn't judge anyone," Tyler said, climbing out of the pool. Water dripped from his hair. "That's why he's a good friend. Unlike certain people who promised they'd come to my party and then "suddenly remembered" they had family commitments."

He said it casually, but Emma heard the edge in his voice. She knew Sarah's excuse had been BS—Sarah's family did Friday game nights, not emergency obligations. Her friend had left her to navigate the shark-infested waters (literally and metaphorically) alone.

"Sarah's just... intimidated," Emma said weakly, knowing it sounded like the cop-out it was.

"Whatever." Tyler shrugged, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes anymore. "Hey, Jordan was asking about you earlier."

Emma's heart did that stupid flutter thing. "What? Why?"

"I don't know, maybe because he thinks you're cute?" Tyler rolled his eyes. "But if you don't get in the pool, you're never gonna know, because he's not coming to you."

Something about Tyler's directness—his typical older-brother energy—cut through her anxiety. Emma looked at the pool, the water rippling with movement and laughter, at Jordan still floating on his pizza slice, at Buster who'd now fallen asleep on his chair, completely over the drama.

She thought about how she'd spent fourteen years letting fear decide what she did and didn't do. How she let her friend's insecurities become her own. How she was standing on the edge—literally and metaphorically—watching everyone else live.

"Fine," she said, surprising herself. "But you have to promise not to splash me immediately."

"No promises," Tyler grinned, and cannonballed back into the pool just as Emma finally kicked off her sandals and jumped in.

The water was perfect. Jordan did actually swim over and introduce himself. And Emma sent Sarah a text from her waterproof phone case: pool parties aren't actually that scary. You should come next time.

Maybe she'd even believe it herself by then.