Family Law, Gin Phillips [top novels of all time .txt] 📗

could see the outline of my house, the kitchen window still lit up—but it was only another shadow.

I could be anywhere.

I walked around the edge of the pool, prolonging. I dipped one foot in and, yes, bracing was one word for it. It was like ice. I looked up at the stars again, and I liked the image of me swimming under them, kicking from one end of the pool to the other, Christmas blinking on my skin.

The temperature didn’t matter. I’d get used to it.

I reached for the bottom of my sundress, hiking it up, and as my elbows caught in fabric, the porch light came on. I pulled free of my dress just as Mr. Cleary stepped through the door.

He stood there under the eave of the house, the glow of the porch light brightening his feet and legs but not his face. I folded my dress, and I could tell he was watching. We were separated by the pool, and my bathing suit was a one-piece—all my bathing suits were one-pieces—but still here I was half naked with a grown man who was clothed, even though he’d said he was going to swim, and I wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than having him in his bathing suit.

He kept watching, only watching, and I still couldn’t see his face. I didn’t want to walk over to the patio chairs, which would take me close to him, so I dropped my dress onto the concrete. I dropped myself to the concrete, too, scooting to the edge of the deep end and folding my legs up to my chest.

“Did you finish your work?” I asked.

“I did.”

“Are you going to swim?”

“I need to get my suit,” he said, but he didn’t move.

You knew I was coming, I thought. You had plenty of time to put on your suit.

“It’s nice to have someone use the pool,” he said, standing there, faceless and unmoving.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I should have invited you over before now.”

I’d only have to scream, I told myself. My mother is about fifty steps away, and she could at least call the police.

Mr. Cleary took a step toward the pool, and he looked more human in motion. He lowered himself into one of the patio chairs, legs stretched out in front of him. I could see him better.

“Is it too cold for you?” he asked.

“No,” I said, as I eased my legs into the pool. My feet went slightly numb. My arms broke out in chill bumps.

“I wanted to finish up work before you got here,” he said, flexing his feet. “And swim trunks are not comfortable in terms of sitting for long periods of time. Now, honestly, I’m so damn tired that the thought of changing into my suit is exhausting. Maybe I’ll just jump in like this, huh? That would wake me up.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Are you sure it’s not too cold?” he asked. “You don’t have to swim, you know. It’s fine if you want to go home and come back some other time.”

He yawned, stretched, and let his arms drop, hands skimming the concrete.

I felt tired, too, from ricocheting back and forth between fear and comfort. Or, no, between fear and embarrassment. Because just as I decided that I shouldn’t trust this man—just as I decided that I shouldn’t jump in the pool because he could trap me there more easily than if I had space to run—just as I was planning escape routes, I’d look at his face and feel sure that I was imagining things.

“I’m fine,” I said. “But if you want to go to sleep, I can leave you—”

“No,” he said. “Although I’ll admit that I’m not sure I’ll join you. Even though you’ll accuse me of not knowing how to swim. You may have to take my word for it.”

“That sounds like what someone would say who doesn’t know how to swim,” I said.

“Hasn’t your mother ever taught you that you should flatter men’s egos?”

“Yes,” I said.

He did not want me to flatter his ego. I knew that much. If I hadn’t been rude to him that first time in the driveway, he would never have invited me to swim in his pool.

The water was feeling warmer. My chill bumps had settled down, and I slid a little farther until the water came to the middle of my thighs. He stood up and moved to the opposite side of the deep end, sitting on the concrete and dangling his feet in the water.

“Shit,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me it was too cold?”

He didn’t apologize for cursing. He didn’t move his feet, either. We sat across from each other, twenty feet of water and chlorine between us, and the stars stretched everywhere.

“It’s tricky going against your parents,” he said. “I wanted a pool, and when I told my dad I was thinking about putting one in, he said, ‘You’ll regret it. You won’t use it. It’s a lot of trouble.’ And, of course, that made me get the pool. Even though I was going in the opposite direction, he was still the point of departure.”

“The point of departure,” I said.

Grant shrugged. “My parents took us all to Mexico when I was ten—Acapulco—and we stayed in this place with a pool shaped like a big bean. It had all these huge flowers around it, maybe canna lilies, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. So maybe that’s why I wanted a pool.”

“You traveled to other countries when you were a kid?” I asked.

“Just that once.”

“Have you ever gone to the airport and just bought a ticket somewhere? Like, spur of the moment?”

He leaned back, resting on his hands. His shirt pulled up, showing a strip of his stomach. It didn’t bulge over his waistband.

“Never done it,” he said. “I like the idea, though.”

“Me too,” I said.

I leaned back on my hands, matching his pose. I made circles in the water with my feet. I could hear the bass rumble