Water That Knows

The hotel pool was supposed to close at sunset, but here I was, ankle-deep in water that still held the day's heat, watching Marcus strip off his shirt. We were supposed to be here for Sarah's wedding—my oldest friend, his younger sister—but somewhere between the rehearsal dinner and now, we'd both slipped away.

"You coming in or what?" Marcus asked, already swimming toward the deeper end.

I hesitated. The word friend sat between us like a wall I'd been carefully building for three years, ever since that night in his kitchen when he'd rested his palm against mine and neither of us had pulled away. Until his phone had rung—Sarah, needing something—and the moment had dissolved into whatever this was now.

A ginger cat appeared on the pool deck, eyeing us with what looked like judgment. It was the same stray that had been trailing me all weekend, curling around my ankles at the reception, watching from balcony railings. Maybe it sensed what I was avoiding.

I slid into the pool. The water swallowed my sounds, my doubts, the ridiculous hope that still lived in my chest despite all my better judgment. We were both swimming now, parallel strokes in the dark, maintaining a careful distance.

"Sarah asked about us," Marcus said, treading water. "She thinks we're both idiots."

"She's not wrong."

He drifted closer. I could see the scar on his shoulder from the bike accident I'd driven him to the hospital for, the year we'd both pretended not to notice how much time we were spending together. The cat meowed from the deck, annoyed by our cowardice.

"I'm done pretending," Marcus said. "Three years of waiting for you to—"

"For you to what?" I countered, though my voice wavered. "You never said anything either."

"I'm saying something now." He reached out, his palm finding mine underwater, and the shock of contact felt like finally breaking the surface after holding your breath too long. The cat abandoned us, disappearing into the shadows with a disgusted flick of its tail.

Some things, I realized, have to be said in the dark, surrounded by water that keeps no score and carries no judgment. We weren't friends anymore. Maybe we never really were.