The Dog Who Couldn't Swim

The summer before junior year, I took a job walking Brutus—the world's most anxious 80-pound Golden Retriever—because I needed cash for concert tickets. What I didn't need was my crush Jake Martinez witnessing my absolute lowest moment.

I'd been crushing on Jake since freshman earth science, when he'd let me copy his homework after I forgot mine at home. Now he worked as a lifeguard at the country club pool where Brutus's owners lived. Perfect. Just perfect.

"You got this," I told myself, tightening my grip on Brutus's leash. The plan was simple: walk him past the pool, exit through the side gate, nobody dies.

But Brutus had other ideas.

A squirrel darted across the pavement. Brutus lunged. My flip-flop caught on a loose paving stone. Suddenly I was running—full sprint—after an escaped dog who was making a beeline for the only place he definitely shouldn't go.

"BRUTUS!" I screamed, my voice cracking exactly the way it always did when I was nervous.

Jake looked up from his lifeguard chair. His eyes went wide.

Brutus hit the water with a magnificent splash. The problem? Golden Retrievers are supposed to be natural swimmers. Brutus apparently missed that memo. He paddled frantically, going nowhere, looking at me with pure panic in those big brown eyes.

I didn't think. I just jumped in—clothes, phone, dignity be damned.

The pool was shockingly cold. I reached Brutus and grabbed his collar, towing him to the edge while Jake blew his whistle like he was directing traffic. By the time I hauled us both onto the deck, I was soaked, my mascara was running down my face, and half the pool was staring.

Jake knelt beside us, checking if Brutus was okay. Then he looked at me, water dripping from my hair, and started laughing. Not mean laughing—like, actual laughing.

"You just saved a dog from drowning in three feet of water," he said, grinning. "That's iconic, honestly."

I expected to die of embarrassment. Instead, I started laughing too. Something about how completely ridiculous it all was—me, my non-swimming dog, my ruined eyeliner—just broke something loose.

"Well," I said, pushing soaked hair off my face, "at least I made your shift more interesting."

Jake's smile softened. "You want to get food after my shift? My treat. For the heroic rescue."

Brutus shook himself out, spraying both of us with pool water. And somehow, standing there soaked and ridiculous, I finally felt like I could breathe.

Maybe junior year wouldn't be so bad after all.