Three Feet Deep

I've been dodging pool parties since sixth grade, which is exactly why Sarah's invitation hit different. She's the kind of girl who makes your stomach do backflips, and suddenly I'm staring at my pet goldfish, Fin, who's basically my only confidant.

"Big mistake, bro," I mutter, watching Fin swim in lazy circles. His tank sits by my window, collecting dust like my social dignity.

I show up to Sarah's house, heart hammering like a bass drop. Her backyard looks like something out of a teen movie—perfect turquoise pool, floaties everywhere, laughter bouncing off the fence. My sneakers feel like lead weights as I step onto the concrete.

Then I see her. Sarah in a mismatched bikini, hair dripping wet, smile brighter than the summer sun.

"Marcus!" she waves, droplets spraying everywhere. "You came!"

I attempt to look casual, leaning against the pool's edge. But my klutz instincts kick in, and I stumble sideways—straight into the water. The shock hits me like unexpected DM at 2 AM. I'm thrashing wildly, suddenly very aware that I never learned how to swim.

Strong hands grab my shoulders. It's Tyler, varsity swim team captain, looking confused.

"Dude, you're in three feet of water," he says, pulling me up. "Stand up."

I'm literally standing there, water hitting my chest, while everyone laughs. But not mean laughter—genuine "that was wild" laughter. Sarah's grinning like she just witnessed something legendary.

"You okay?" she asks, splashing over.

"Totally intentional," I lie, straight-faced. "Just testing the water temperature."

Tyler actually high-fives me. "Respect for the commitment."

The afternoon becomes a blur of cannonball contests and Sarah teaching me to float while my goldfish sits at home, probably judging my life choices. I realize I've been running from nothing but myself.

Later, Sarah texts me: "Best party crash ever 😉"

Some days, you just have to jump in the deep end. Or in my case, the shallow end.