Page 8

8

WARREN

The water shocks my system the second I dive in. Sharp and bracing, like it’s trying to scrape clean everything I’ve been carrying. Regret, frustration, the weight of my conversation with Quinn. It all dulls under the surface.

By the second lap, the noise in my head begins to quiet. The ache in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it fades, just enough to breathe around it. The pull of the water gives me something else to focus on. A clarity I can’t find anywhere else.

Each stroke cuts a little deeper through the static. The push off the wall. The stretch. The breath. Nothing matters except the turn ahead. I’m not thinking about what I should’ve said. I’m not thinking about the way she looked at me or how fast I caved when she got close again.

It’s just me and the lane now. Ten 200-meter repeats. Descending intervals. The kind of set that leaves no room for doubt, no space for anything except the burn in my shoulders, the tight coil in my core, the steady tick of the pace clock pushing me forward.

I’ve been swimming since I was eight years old. My mom signed me up for summer league after I nearly broke my arm falling out of a tree in the backyard. Said I needed something to burn off energy, something to keep me out of trouble. I rolled my eyes at the time, but the second I hit the water, something in me clicked.

The way the world disappeared, the way everything slowed down to just my body, my breath, my control—it made sense. And by the time I was ten, I wasn’t just good. I was winning.

By high school, swimming was everything. Morning practices before the sun, afternoon doubles, weight training, dryland workouts. I qualified for Junior Nationals at sixteen, state champion in the 200 and 400 free by seventeen. Scouts started watching. Schools started calling.

Dayton gave me the best offer. The best training. The best chance to push myself further.

Now, I’m a senior. Final year. Last shot.

I’m no longer the prodigy or the one to watch.

I’m still good—damn good—but not NCAA champion material. Not Olympic circuit. Not the kind of swimmer who racks up NIL deals or has SportsCenter knocking. And that’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it.

I still chase the time clock like it owes me something. Still crave the quiet clarity that comes with pushing my body to its edge. I don’t need medals to prove I’m getting better. I just need the water.

I finish my last rep and grip the pool’s edge, dragging in lungfuls of air. My arms shake, my pulse pounds, my whole body hums with exertion.

That was good, but not good enough.

I duck under, run a hand over my face, let the water mute everything for a few seconds longer. When I finally pull myself out, I check the time again. Another tenth of a second shaved off.

Faster, but not fast enough.

The thought sticks as I grab my towel, rake it over my head, and make my way to the locker room. I used to swim like I was chasing something. Now it feels more like I’m trying to outrun it.

My body’s wrung out, but my mind is already on to the next thing. Because if I qualify for Nationals again this year, then what?

And if I don’t?

I shake it off, exhaling hard. No point chasing questions I can’t answer yet. Turning over possibilities doesn’t make them any more certain. It’s just mental noise. And that won’t make me faster, won’t make the decision any easier when the time comes.

I’d be better off putting my energy where it actually matters—swim, train, push harder.

By the time I get back to the house, I only have about thirty minutes left before I need to head to the club. The door’s unlocked. Of course it is. Liam and his girlfriend are already up.

“Don’t stress, baby, we’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, you said that twenty minutes ago.”

I step into the kitchen to find Birdie pacing near the fridge, tucking her short bob into place while Liam leans against the counter, watching her with obvious amusement.

She huffs, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. “I told you I wanted to be there early .”

“And we will be.” He reaches out, easily tugging her toward him by the belt loop of her jeans, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Promise.”

Birdie exhales, tension visibly unwinding under his touch. “I know. I just hate feeling rushed.”

“I know you do.” He kisses her temple again, easy and familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times. “But you’re gonna kill it today. And I’ll be right there after practice to pick you up, yeah?”

Her expression eases into something small and warm. “Yeah.”

I shake my head. “How much PDA can two people possibly squeeze into a morning?”

Liam tilts his head. “We’re inside our own home. How is that PDA?”

I gesture vaguely between them, rubbing my temple. “I wasn’t meaning it in the literal sense.”

Liam’s green eyes glint. “Right. So, you’re just jealous, then?”

“No,” I say flatly, popping the cap on my drink. “Merely trying not to choke on the sheer amount of heart eyes happening in this room.”

Liam smirks and tosses an arm over his girlfriend’s shoulder. “Can’t help it. I’m very in love.”

Birdie laughs. “It’s true. Have you seen his Birdie shrine?”

Liam’s brows skyrocket. “I actually don’t have one of those, but you’ve just given me a brilliant idea. Can I have a lock of your hair?”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Birdie snickers but doesn’t move away, her attention flicking back to her bag.

Liam watches her, still smiling, before glancing over at me. “Good practice?”

“Decent.” I down half a bottle of water and bite into an apple. “Times are still improving.”

Liam nods, knowing exactly what that means. “Times. Right. Like, five meters per second or whatever.”

I snort. “Yeah, I’m twice as fast as the world record holder.”

Birdie shakes her head. “You two are both major dorks.”

“Dorks with elite athletic ability,” Liam corrects, then checks his phone. “Shit, okay, we really do need to go.”

Birdie sighs. “That’s what I said .”

I raise a brow. “You’re training him, slowly but surely.”

She smirks. “Someone has to do it.”

Liam dramatically winks at me as Birdie drags him toward the door, still muttering about punctuality. “Later, Flipper,” he calls.

“Try not to get fired today,” Birdie adds.

“Try not to let him make a public spectacle of his devotion to you,” I shoot back.

She grins over her shoulder. “Too late.”

They leave, Birdie talking about her internship, Liam listening with the kind of attention that would make any other guy seem whipped but just makes him look steady. Like he’s never once questioned where he stands with her.

It must be nice, I think, to love someone without hesitation. To be loved right back and not wonder what’s coming next.

A few minutes after they’re gone, the house settles into silence. The good kind, the kind that usually helps me focus. But today, it just sits there, loud in all the wrong ways.

I toss my empty bottle into the sink and rake a hand through my damp hair.

Fifteen minutes until I have to be at Sycamore. Fifteen minutes until I’m back in the same orbit as the girl I can’t stop thinking about and can’t seem to forget.

I grab my keys, square my shoulders, and try to remember how to act like she doesn’t matter.

* * *

On the pool deck, the heat clings, but it’s different today. No blinding sun, no sharp glare bouncing off the water. There’s an overcast sky, clouds stretched dense and unmoving across the horizon. It’s still hot, still humid, but with that deceptive edge that makes it easy to forget the burn creeping up on bare skin until it’s too late.

Sweat beads at the back of my neck, slick under the collar of my uniform. My sunglasses slide slightly down the bridge of my nose, and I push them back up, shifting in my chair to find some position that doesn’t make my lower back hate me.

The afternoon crowd is already restless. Not just the kids but the adults, too. Tensions fraying under the weight of too much sun, too many overpriced drinks, too many egos clashing over whose poolside lounge chair was technically reserved first.

From my perch, I clock it all.

The way the lifeguard stationed at the shallow end is already starting to look drained. The way a group of bored teenagers near the diving board are eyeing each other, hyping up whatever foolish idea they’re about to attempt next. The way a dad with an expensive-looking watch is gesturing a little too aggressively at one of the servers, probably pissed that his drink wasn’t cold enough.

It’s the kind of day where patience wears thin, where someone’s bound to snap over something ridiculous. The kind of day I hate the most.

I scrub my temples, resisting the urge to check the clock again. It doesn’t matter. The shift will drag at the same pace it always does. Slow. Uneventful.

Or so I think.

A flicker of motion catches my eye in the deep end. Quick. Unsteady. A kid, maybe eight, pushing off from the wall like he’s determined to prove something to himself. I sit up straighter. He’s moving, but not with confidence. Not with the kind of control you want to see in the deep section.

I don’t need to see his face to recognize the signs—arms slowing, body tipping slightly off balance, the effort suddenly outweighing the ability. Then, just as I shift forward, ready to blow my whistle, a bigger kid rockets past him. The wake slams into the smaller one, water splashing straight over his head.

One second. That’s all it takes.

The younger kid gasps, eyes wide, panic blooming across his face as he flails for the surface. Then he goes under.

My body reacts before my brain fully registers it. I’m out of my chair, whistle piercing through the air. I hit the water hard, cool blue closing in around me as I cut through the lane with sharp, efficient strokes. It’s instinct. Training.

I reach him fast, my rescue tube already against my chest. I slip it between us, guiding his arms over the top so he can float while I keep hold. His breathing is ragged, mouth open as he gasps and coughs, but he’s conscious and responsive. I angle us toward the shallow end, kicking steadily as I tow him back.

“You’re okay,” I tell him, voice steady, even. “I’ve got you.”

A couple of other patrons are already moving. Someone’s getting the parents. I hoist the kid onto the deck, kneeling beside him as he coughs up water, his eyes wide and wet and panicked.

“You good?” I ask, giving him a second to breathe. “Can you tell me your name?”

He nods shakily. “Owen Satterly.”

“Alright, Owen.” I shift back, letting him sit up. “You’re safe now. But no more deep end unless you’re with an adult, yeah?”

Another nod, this one more embarrassed than scared. I sit with him for another minute until his breathing evens out, until his parents arrive, fussing and thanking me a hundred times before leading him off with a towel wrapped tight around his shoulders.

The second they’re gone, I exhale, rolling my shoulders.

It wasn’t bad. A routine save, nothing I haven’t handled before. But I suppose you never get used to the fear of the what-ifs .

It’s also enough for management to call it for the day. The pool’s too crowded, too chaotic, and Robbie—our manager—doesn’t like taking unnecessary risks. He blows the final whistle and calls for maintenance to shock the water, using it as a tidy excuse to shut everything down until morning.

By the time I’m drying off and heading to the staff room, Zane’s just showing up for his shift. He takes one look at my damp hair and smirks. “You finally fall in, Mercer?”

“Kid needed a pull,” I mutter, shaking water from my ears. “Pool’s shut down. Did no one tell you?”

Zane groans. “I hauled my ass here for what? To stand around and look pretty?”

I snort, but my attention flicks to the schedule taped up on the wall. I already know what it says. I checked it this morning. And yesterday. And possibly the day before that, too.

Quinn was supposed to be caddying for the Mancini group, but I haven’t seen a glimpse of her all day. In fact, the Mancinis are with Mikey—I saw them together when I came in this morning.

I shouldn’t notice. Shouldn’t care. But the empty space where she’s supposed to be? I feel it anyway.

“Where’s Quinn?” I ask, voice even. “She’s on the schedule.”

Robbie glances up from the paperwork he’s stacking. “Called out.”

I nod, but something tightens in my chest.

Robbie studies me, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You gonna act like you haven’t been tracking her whereabouts like it’s your second job?”

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I’m not tracking anything. She was just supposed to be here.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek and sighs. “Look, I probably should’ve told you she was coming back. Thought about giving you a heads-up. But I didn’t want to lose you.”

I keep my posture relaxed, my tone flat. “You probably would have.”

Robbie’s lips twitch like he doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go.

I grab my bag and head for the door. Almost out. Almost clear.

Then he says, “It was a family thing.”

I pause. Turn back. “What?”

“That’s why she called out. Said it had something to do with her little brother. Some kind of emergency.”

The truth hits me hard. I know her brother, Wesley. He must be a junior in high school by now.

He’s sharp like she is, but he was born early. He spent months in the NICU, small and fragile in ways Quinn never was. Even after he got stronger, there were always complications. The seizures. The heart condition. The way his body never let him feel completely safe in it.

I remember the hospital visits. The middle-of-the-night phone calls. The way Quinn used to balance everything—school, work, life—like she was always bracing for something to go wrong.

She never talked about it much. Not in detail. But I didn’t need the details.

I saw it in the way her hands clenched when her phone rang late at night, how her shoulders locked tight with tension before she even looked at the screen. In the way exhaustion sat heavy beneath her eyes some mornings, the dark circles she never quite managed to cover up. In the way she never let herself rest, like the moment she did, the world would pull the rug out from under her.

I saw it in the way she loved him. Fiercely, protectively, like it was stitched into her bones. And now, something’s wrong.

I swallow hard. “What kind of emergency?”

Robbie shrugs. “Don’t know. She just called out last minute, said she couldn’t come in.”

I nod slowly, distracted, forcing my fingers to loosen around the strap of my bag. “Alright. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s not my business. Not anymore. But that doesn’t stop my stomach from knotting or my mind from racing through worst-case scenarios. It doesn’t stop the part of me that still cares. Still worries.

Outside, the heat presses close. Heavy and unmoving. I step out into it and pause.

This was supposed to be simple. A summer job. A paycheck. Nothing more. Even when she showed up again, I told myself I could manage. Keep her on the periphery. Let her blur into the background.

But Quinn’s never been background noise.

And no matter how much I want to be indifferent, I’m not.

I can’t be.