The air in Johnny's backyard tasted like chlorine and cut grass, thick and wet against my skin. The pool sat flat and blue, round like a coin dropped into the concrete, and the filter hummed a low steady note that reminded me of the way the minivan engine used to sound before it died.
"You coming in or what?" Jimmy cannonballed past me, sending a sheet of water across the deck. Marla shrieked, already waist-deep, her blonde hair darkened to wet rope against her shoulders.
I didn't answer. I was looking at Johnny.
He sat on the edge of the shallow end, his feet in the water, his pale legs skinny and long. His chest was narrow, ribs visible when he breathed, his shoulders already pink despite the SPF 15 I'd watched him slather on twenty minutes ago. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin, sitting there all angles and joints, like he'd been assembled wrong and was still figuring out the fit.
"Paige." Marla's voice cut through. "Eyes up here."
I felt my face heat. I turned, dropped my towel on a plastic chair, and walked to the edge of the pool. The concrete burned under my heels. The black bikini I'd picked out this morning — modest, simple, no ruffles, no tags that said "beach bunny" or "baby" — felt different now. In my bedroom mirror it had been fine. Here, under the sun, with Johnny six feet away, it felt like a confession.
I stepped down into the water. Cold at first, then nothing. It hit my thighs, my stomach, my chest. I pushed off and let myself float for a second, arms out, face to the sun, feeling the weight lift off my bones.
When I opened my eyes, Johnny was looking at me.
Just for a second. Then he looked away, rubbed the back of his neck, and stared at the filter like it had the answers to something.
I swam toward him.
"You're burning," I said, treading water a foot from his knees.
"I'm not burning."
"You're pink. You look like a lobster."
He glanced down at his shoulders. "I put sunscreen on."
"Not enough." I kicked water at him. It splashed his thigh, his hip. He flinched but didn't move. "You're supposed to reapply."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
He almost smiled. That thing he did where his mouth twitched and his eyes stayed serious. I loved that. I wanted to make him do it again.
I reached out and flicked his knee. A quick tap, my wet fingers against his skin. "You should get in."
"I'm in."
"Your feet are in. That's not the same."
He looked at me. For a beat too long. His eyes moved from my face down to where the water lapped at my collarbone, then back up. Something shifted in his expression — a crack, a softening — and then it was gone.
"Maybe later," he said.
I flicked his knee again. "You're boring."
"You're annoying."
"Same thing."
That almost-smile again. He shook his head and looked away, but I saw it. I felt it like a win.
I pushed off and swam a lazy circle around the pool, past Marla and Jimmy splashing by the deep end, past the floating thermometer, past the spot where the filter pulled at the water like a slow breath. I came back to the shallow end. He was still there. Still sitting. Still watching the filter.
"You do this every time," I said, stopping in front of him.
"Do what?"
"Sit there like a statue."
"I'm supervising."
"You're brooding."
"Same thing."
I laughed. It came out surprised, like it always did with him. He had a way of pulling it out of me before I could stop it.
I flicked his knee again. Harder this time. "Get in."
"Paige."
"Get in, get in, get in."
He sighed — long, theatrical — and stood up. Water dripped from his calves. He looked down at me, and for a second I thought he might do something. Reach for me. Grab me. Pull me under.
Then he jumped in.
The splash hit me full in the face. I sputtered, wiped my eyes, and when I looked up, he was already swimming. Steady strokes, his arms cutting through the water, his body pulling itself across the pool with a rhythm I hadn't expected. He reached the far end, touched the wall, flipped, and swam back.
I watched him do three laps before I stopped hoping.
"He does that," Jimmy said, floating past me on his back. "Just ignore him."
"I'm trying."
I climbed out of the pool. The air hit my wet skin and I shivered. I sat down on the edge where Johnny had been, my feet in the water, and watched him swim. His arms moved in that steady rhythm. His breath came in measured pulls. He wasn't looking at me. He wasn't looking at anyone.
Marla paddled over and hooked her elbows on the edge beside me. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You're staring."
"I'm not staring."
"You're staring so hard I think he might catch fire."
I elbowed her. She laughed, pushed off, and swam back to Jimmy.
Johnny finished his lap at the shallow end and stood up. Water streamed off his shoulders, his chest, his arms. He was breathing hard, his ribs rising and falling. He pushed his wet hair back from his forehead and looked at me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm watching the water."
He snorted. Not quite a laugh, but close. He walked past me to the ladder and climbed out. Water ran down his back, his shorts clinging to his skinny hips. I watched the drops trace paths down his spine and felt something twist in my chest.
He grabbed his towel and sat down on the chair next to mine. Close enough that I could smell the chlorine on his skin. Close enough that if I leaned over, my shoulder would touch his.
I didn't lean.
"You're a good swimmer," I said.
"Thanks."
"Where'd you learn?"
"Y camps. When I was a kid." He rubbed the towel over his hair, drying it into messy spikes. "Haven't done it in a while."
"Could've fooled me."
He looked at me. That direct look, his eyes green in the sun, his lips parted like he was about to say something. He didn't say it. He looked away and tossed the towel onto the chair.
I slid back into the pool. The water was warmer now, or I'd gotten used to it. I floated on my back, arms out, eyes closed, feeling the sun on my face and the water in my ears, muffling the world into a soft hum.
A hand grabbed my ankle.
I gasped. My eyes flew open. I kicked, splashed, and went under for a second before I surfaced, sputtering, to find Johnny standing in the water beside me. He was smiling. A real smile, his teeth showing, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Gotcha," he said.
I was too startled to be mad. My heart was hammering — not from fear, from something else. That jolt. That touch. His hand on my skin, even for a second.
"You —" I started. I didn't know how to finish.
He was still smiling. He was looking at me like he'd won something, and maybe he had. He turned and swam away, slow and easy, back toward the deep end.
I stayed where I was. My ankle burned where he'd touched it. I ran my thumb over the spot, feeling the ghost of his grip, and watched him pull himself out of the pool on the far side.
He didn't look back.
Marla appeared beside me, treading water. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"That didn't look like nothing."
"It was nothing."
She gave me a look. That knowing look she'd been giving me since the bowling alley, I didn't have an answer for it. I didn't have an answer for any of it.
I pushed off the wall and swam to the deep end. Johnny was sitting on the edge again, his feet in the water, his back to me. I swam up behind him and stopped a foot from his legs.
He didn't turn around.
"Johnny."
He turned. His face was unreadable. That careful stillness he wore like armor.
"What?"
I didn't have a plan. I just wanted him to look at me. To really look at me. Not at the water, not at the filter, not at some point a thousand yards past my shoulder. At me.
I reached out and flicked his knee. Soft this time. A tap. A question.
He looked at my hand. Then at my face. Something flickered in his eyes — the same crack I'd seen before, the same softening — and then it was gone, sealed shut.
He stood up.
"I'm gonna grab a soda," he said. "You want one?"
I shook my head.
He walked toward the house. I watched him go, his wet footprints dark on the concrete, the back door sliding open and closed behind him.
Marla floated up beside me. "So," she said. "That was weird."
"It wasn't weird."
"It was a little weird."
I didn't answer. I was still looking at the door he'd disappeared through.
"He grabbed your ankle," Marla said. "That's something."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing."
I turned to face her. "What am I supposed to do, Marla? Throw myself at him?"
"Maybe."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
I didn't have an answer for her. Or I had too many, and none of them were ones I could say out loud. Because I'm thirteen. Because he's sixteen. Because his mom already told him to stay away from me. Because he looks at me like he wants to and then he looks away like he's scared of it.
Because I don't know how to be the one who crosses that line.
"I'm gonna get a soda too," I said, and climbed out of the pool.
The concrete burned my feet. I didn't care.
The sliding door was heavy. I pulled it open and stepped into the kitchen. The air was cooler, darker, the blinds half-drawn. Johnny was standing at the counter, a can of Coke in his hand, the tab open. He looked up when I walked in.
"Changed your mind?"
"Yeah."
He grabbed another can from the fridge and slid it across the counter toward me. I caught it. The metal was cold, wet with condensation. I didn't open it. I just held it, letting the cold seep into my palm.
We stood there. The fridge hummed. The fan in the corner pushed air across my damp skin. I shivered.
"You're cold," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
"It's the A/C."
"We don't have A/C."
I laughed. A short, broken thing. "Then it's the fan."
He set down his Coke. He walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a towel — a clean one, dry, folded — and handed it to me. "Here."
I took it. Wrapped it around my shoulders. It smelled like detergent and something else, something warm. Him.
"Thanks," I said.
"Yeah."
We stood there. The fan hummed. The water from my hair dripped onto the linoleum.
"Johnny."
"Yeah?"
I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask him what he was doing. What we were doing. Why he could touch my ankle underwater but couldn't look at me for more than three seconds. Why he sat at the edge of the pool like he was waiting for permission to join me.
I didn't say any of it.
"Never mind."
I turned and walked back to the sliding door. I could feel him watching me. I didn't turn around.
I stepped back into the sun and let the door close behind me.
Marla and Jimmy were playing a game in the deep end — Marco Polo, their voices echoing off the fence. I sat down on the edge of the pool, my feet in the water, the towel still wrapped around my shoulders.
The door slid open behind me. I didn't look.
Johnny walked past me and sat down on the edge, a few feet away. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to ignore.
He didn't say anything. He just sat there, his feet in the water, his hands on his knees, staring at the far end of the pool like it held the secret to something.
I wanted to flick his knee again. I wanted him to grab my ankle again. I wanted him to do something, anything, that told me I wasn't imagining the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching.
He didn't do anything.
But he didn't leave.
So I sat there, next to him, the sun drying the water on my skin, the towel warming my shoulders, the space between us humming with something neither of us knew how to name.
And for a while, that was enough.
I sat there for what felt like forever, the water lapping at my ankles, the sun drying the chlorine into my skin. Johnny didn't move. He just stared at the deep end like it held the answer to a question I couldn't hear.
Marla's voice cut through the heat. "Paige! Come play."
I didn't answer. I didn't look away from the water.
"Paige."
"I'm good."
She splashed over, water beading on her shoulders, her blue eyes narrowing at me. "You okay?"
"Fine." My voice came out flat. I didn't bother fixing it.
She looked at Johnny, then back at me. Something passed between them — a look I couldn't read — and then she shrugged and paddled back to Jimmy, who was doing handstands in the shallow end, his pale legs kicking at the air.
The afternoon stretched. The sun moved across the sky. I watched the shadows lengthen across the concrete, and I waited for Johnny to do something — say something — touch me again. He didn't.
At some point, Jimmy climbed out and shook himself off like a dog. "I'm hungry."
"Always," Marla said.
Johnny stood. "I'll make sandwiches."
He walked past me without looking down. The screen door slammed behind him.
I watched him go, and something in my chest went tight. I wanted to follow him. I wanted to grab his hand and make him look at me. I wanted to ask what the hell we were doing.
I stayed where I was.
Later, we ate on the patio — turkey sandwiches and potato chips, the four of us sitting around a plastic table that wobbled when you leaned on it. Jimmy and Marla talked about school, about teachers, about who was dating who. I picked at my bread. Johnny ate in silence, his eyes on his plate.
Marla caught my eye once. She raised an eyebrow. I shook my head.
She didn't push.
The sun was low when Marla's mom pulled into the driveway. Marla stood, brushing crumbs off her shorts. "Come on, Paige."
I stood. I didn't look at Johnny. I couldn't.
"Thanks for having us," Marla said, the polite words automatic.
"Yeah," Jimmy said, already heading inside. "See you guys."
Johnny stood too. He was a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his face unreadable. "See you," he said.
I finally looked at him. His eyes met mine for a second — just a second — and then he looked away, at the fence, at the sky, anywhere but at me.
My throat burned. "Bye, Johnny."
"Bye, Paige."
I walked to the car. I didn't turn around. I got in the back seat and watched the house shrink in the side mirror until Marla's mom turned the corner and it was gone.
I didn't say anything the whole ride home.
---
That night, Johnny lay on his bed in the dark, the fan churning hot air across his bare chest. He couldn't sleep. His mind kept circling back to the pool — the way Paige had looked at him, the curve of her hip in that black bikini, the way she flicked his knee like it was nothing when it was everything.
He'd grabbed her ankle. He told himself it was playful. A tease. But the second his fingers closed around her skin, he'd felt it — a jolt, hot and electric, running up his arm and settling somewhere deep in his gut. He'd wanted to pull her toward him, into the water, into his arms. He'd wanted to feel her body against his.
He'd let go instead. He'd swam laps until his lungs burned.
Now he lay in the dark, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling fan's slow rotation. His body was a traitor — his cock half-hard just from remembering the way her wet hair had clung to her neck.
He thought about his mother's words. She's too young, Johnny. You hear me?
He heard. He fucking heard. But that didn't change the way she looked at him, the way she said his name, the way her hand had been on his chest at the bowling alley, trembling, her lips parted, waiting.
He'd pulled away. Twice now. He was running out of reasons to keep doing it.
He rolled onto his side, punched the pillow, closed his eyes. Her face was there, behind his lids — her freckles, her curls, the way her smile turned shy when he caught her staring.
Just wait, he told himself. Wait until she's older. It's the right thing to do.
But his body didn't care about right. His body remembered the weight of her in the dark lane, the sound of her breathing, the way she'd said thank you like she meant something he couldn't name.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. "Fuck," he whispered into the dark.
The fan hummed. The night pressed in. He could still smell her — chlorine and something sweet, something that made his chest ache.
He didn't sleep for a long time. And when he finally did, he dreamed of her mouth, her hands, the water closing over both of them.
He didn't know that in a month, in the back of a broken-down minivan, everything would change.
He didn't know she'd already decided for him.
The fan kept turning. The night kept moving. And somewhere in the dark, two hearts beat in separate rooms, tangled in the same wrong, patient ache.