“Jess’s going to make sure I don’t drown. I’ve never been a very strong swimmer.” Even if Keats bought that lame excuse, Isabella’s guilty expression is a dead giveaway.
“I thought that’s why I’m here?”
“No, you’re my swimming buddy. I need to do laps regularly to fit back into my wedding dress.”
I pretend to scratch my nose to hide my smile. That felt so good listening to Isabella put Keats in his place. “Buddy” and “wedding” all in one breath. Take a hint, mate.
Keats slips off his shirt and even Isabella can’t hide her reaction to his body. Her eyes widen at the sight of his lion tattoo and abs that no one who wears a suit all day is supposed to have. Isabella takes a step back and turns away to rifle through her gear bag.
“What are you doing here?” Keats mouths at me while his ex isn’t looking.
I point at Isabella. “She asked me,” I annunciate soundlessly, hiding my disappointment that he’s not that happy to see me.
Isabella turns around, a navy blue cloth swimming cap and pair of goggles in hand. Damn. She is serious about this swimming. She puts the cap against her forehead to hold it in place while she pulls the rest of it over her head. Next, she works her fingers around the elastic, pushing stray hair into the cap.
“You missed a spot,” Keats says, reaching out to tuck the smallest wisp of hair near her temple. The heel of his palm brushes against her cheek, making Isabella suck in her breath and avert her eyes.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, walking away towards the water while she negotiates her tight goggles.
“Smooth, Keats,” I tease as he follows her with his gaze.
“I’m not done yet.” He grabs a pair of goggles from the backpack he’s brought with him, then slips off his pants to reveal fitted black Speedos that only ever look good on competitive swimmers, and him.
Isabella has chosen Lane 8, probably because it’s the widest and it’s closest to the wall. Only two other lanes are currently in use—it seems Thursday night is not exactly swimming night for a lot of people. One lane has a middle aged woman with a floatation belt around her waist and flippers on her feet. The other has a beefy man in his early forties, talking to himself whenever he stops at the ends of his lane.
“How’s the water?” Keats calls out to Isabella.
“Very slightly heated.” She smiles up at him as he bends a knee to dip his opposite foot into the pool.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he says, crossing his arms over his pebbled nipples. “That feels colder than usual.”
“Come on, best man,” Isabella goads playfully.
Keats takes in a deep breath and blows it out. “Fuck it,” he says before tucking himself into a cannonball and jumping into the deep end of the pool.
The splash makes Isabella squeal, and reaches me, almost drenching my tablet computer.
“Oi!” I complain.
“Sorry, Jess,” Keats says, winking at me. He pulls his goggles over his head, fitting them over his blue eyes. With his short hair, he doesn’t need a swimming cap, and with his hair wet and his body covered in water droplets—I’m in danger of melting into a pool of hormones. “So, what now?” he asks Isabella. “Do I race you to the other end?”
She chuckles. “Yeah, right. Not unless three laps for you counts as one for me.”
“We can do that.”
“All right then. Off you go. You can use that side of the lane. I’ll stay over here. Don’t watch me, okay? You just keep on swimming.”
Keats grins before he pushes off and does a leisurely freestyle. Isabella flashes me a grateful smile before pushing off herself. Her version of freestyle isn’t so smooth. Her arms don’t quite glide through the water optimally, and her legs barely make a splash behind her. It’s kind of painful to watch. I just want to dive in there and coach her but that would mean getting in a pool in public. I sit on the bench at about the halfway mark just in case Isabella does need saving.
Keats reaches the other end of the lane before Isabella is even halfway through her first lap. He does an impressive underwater tumble and pushes off, passing Isabella on his way back to the deep end. By the time Isabella, touches the wall at the shallow end of her first fifty metres, she’s out of breath and Keats is just two seconds behind her.
“You okay?” I hear him ask her. The silence of the mostly empty facility allows his voice to travel back to me.
“I haven’t swum laps in years. I suck more than I thought.”
“It’s just practice.” His gentleness is heartbreaking. I consider walking away but it’s like a train wreck that I can’t turn away from.
“Did you really do three laps?” Isabella keeps herself submerged to her chin.
Keats nods, smiling.
“How did you do that?” Her smile is reserved, and appropriately not flirty. “You don’t even look tired.”
He stands up, and in the shallow end, the water only reaches halfway up his abs. Isabella stays low in the water, whether to escape the chill from the persistent, cold spring air or to hide her body, or both, I’m not sure. But she keeps at least a metre away from her ex-boyfriend.
“If you lift your legs higher up in the water, that would reduce your drag and actually help propel you forward. You got a kickboard?”
Isabella shakes her head.
“You kinda need to…” He stops and mimes a beautiful freestyle stroke out of the water. “You need to lengthen your body more—try to use your core to pull your legs higher in the water.”
“That sounds like an awful lot to remember. I’m practically drowning here.”
“It’s easy. Here.” He takes a step towards her.
Isabella takes a matching step back.
“No, I’m fine. I’ve got it. Thanks.” She pushes off and swims away, looking
