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I squeeze his hand because words aren’t forming. It seems good enough for him.

“Can you swim?” he asks.

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

I can float. I can hold my breath underwater. I have strong leg muscles, but my coordination between kicking and moving my arms is incredibly amateurish. Clover can outswim me, Willow too. But I don’t tell Ian all of this. I say, quietly, “I’m a willing learner if you’re a capable teacher.”

He laughs at that. Head tossed back, sharp Adam’s apple bobbing, he’s a wonderful canvas of skin to touch, to kiss.

“Maybe,” he says.

“Maybe,” I repeat; the promise rests deep in my spine.

“The water’s warm,” he says with too much confidence. “I promise.”

“We’re not getting in there.”

“We’re not?”

I know better than to trust that dimple. His eyes are bright. His fingers are knotted too firmly around mine. I know what’s about to happen. But I jump first, pulling him with me. We sink right to the bottom; soaked denim weighs us down.

It’s not terrifying, fighting to crack the surface before water fills my lungs. Maybe that’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the muscle memory guiding me up. Maybe it’s Ian’s excited shouts echoing against the walls when I emerge. Maybe it’s because we’re still holding hands.

“Asshole.”

“You started this,” I yell, grinning. He smiles back; his hair is stuck to his forehead. I wade closer. We’re halfway between the shallow and deep ends of the pool. I’m breathing hard, but I ask, “Are you mad?”

“Do I look mad?”

“You look wet.”

“Funny.” He splashes me.

I retaliate with a bigger wave. We sway and thrash and never move too far. We float closer. Cold fingers intertwined; our palms kiss until our heartbeats intersect at that one point of contact.

Ian’s cheeks are ruddy; his skin is pale. Quick breaths push his lips apart. My breathing syncopates. He swallows, then says, “Can I—”

“Yes.”

He kisses me, softly at first, then, with a loud gasp, a curious tongue. I sink into it, sighing. My fingers thread into his soaked, dark hair. Our knees knock as we tread water. Our skin is cold. I focus on the heat of our mouths, on the taste of chlorine and matcha and something new happening. On Madonna singing about being crazy for someone.

Then, in silent agreement, we dunk underwater. We’re swallowed by blue-green and silence. For once, I can’t hear anything: not my thoughts, not my fears, the person I’m not or possibly am. I only hear my thunderous heartbeat, and it’s the most calming noise ever.

* * *

It’s the strangest thing, lyingin someone else’s bed, gradually learning the shape of their pillow. The newness of wearing their athletic shorts and Pokémon socks as you stretch. Or adjusting to the way their Maplewood swim team hoodie with sleeves so long they bunch over your knuckles feels.

Face-to-face, we’re so close our noses touch. Our foreheads bump whenever one of us shifts. Our quiet breaths are underscored by the rain falling outside Ian’s bedroom window.

I could compare all this to days with Dimi in his bedroom. I don’t. Instead, my eyes roam from Ian’s lazy expression to all the things I notice about his room. He has posters dedicated to weird anime and even weirder ’80s musicians pinned at awkward angles on marigold-painted walls. In a corner is a piano-keys dresser, white drawers with thick black handles. Polaroids of palm trees, fresh oranges, the Pacific Ocean are taped everywhere. His black sheets are dotted with white stars. We’re lying in the middle of a galaxy.

I push hair off his forehead. His eyes trace my face. I bite my lip. It’s still sore from kissing, from his teeth. “You’re quiet.”

He shakes his head, which makes our noses nuzzle. That makes me giggle. His index finger repeatedly draws something against the inside of my wrist, letters, like an SOS, in pressure soft as a newborn’s heartbeat.

“I’m not usually this affectionate,” he says. “This is new. You’re new.” He hasn’t met my eyes. I don’t force him to. “This is strange and weird.”