Left Drowning(92)

“That’s all right.” Chris is smiling at me, and he gestures to the house. “Well, go find out.”

I call for Jonah and he immediately returns to me, his tail thumping against my legs. I hear the others behind us, and then James is next to me. “Holy shit, Blythe,” he says. He is as stunned as I am. “The house is so big.” He takes my hand. “I didn’t remember it being this big.”

“Me neither.”

“Go inside,” Eric prods. “Check it all out.”

I turn to James, and he gives me a look that tells me he agrees with what I’m about to say.

“We’re all going in together.”

Sabin’s hand is on my shoulder. “Don’t you think you two should do this alone?”

“No. This is for all of us.”

***

It takes that entire first month for me to feel like the house is in acceptable shape. The furnishings that came with it are outdated, but they fit the feel of a summer vacation home. I can’t imagine this old house filled with a bunch of sleek modern shit from Crate and Barrel. It is supposed to have the mismatched chairs and a lumpy sofa. The dining room has a long wooden farmer’s table with exactly enough room for all of us to sit comfortably on the benches, worn soft over time. I’m grateful I thought ahead to order so much online, because the kitchen is filled with essentials and we have all-new sheets and towels.

There are six modestly sized bedrooms upstairs. Eric and Zach are in one room, and the rest of us in our own rooms. Although I suspect that Estelle and James are sharing on occasion. I’m pretending that their overt flirtation is nothing more than innocent fun, but the floor in the upstairs hallway creaks loudly, and I hear doors open and close at odd hours. The rooms all have sturdy-enough platform beds, and I’ve replaced a few of the more saggy mattresses with thicker versions made of memory foam. So far I have not actually heard beds squeaking, and I am grateful. We salvaged a number of old quilts, although it took a few rounds through the washing machine for me to feel as though they were hygienic enough to sleep under. General dusting, vacuuming, scouring, and polishing have made a world of difference. The house feels warm and alive. James has started ripping up linoleum on one of the bathrooms and tiling it himself, and I’m very impressed with what he knows how to do.

While James and Estelle may be room hopping, Chris and I have stayed in separate rooms. We are affectionate, regularly touching each other in passing, even snuggling on the couch by the fire at the end of the day. We started a routine where he reads aloud to me from old paperbacks at night, and there is something incredibly intimate about it. Yet we haven’t even kissed. We are coupled up, that is clear, but we haven’t acted on it. Chris hasn’t actually tried to get things going, but that’s because I haven’t let him. I know how he moves, how he sounds, how he breathes when he’s about to move in. I haven’t let it happen because … well, because he was supposed to get married less than a month ago. Because I’m scared. But I let him hold me in his arms, I let him stroke my hair, and I let him watch me. And he watches me all the time. I love the feel of his eyes on me, the way he takes me in and the way the hint of a smile crosses his face when he knows that I’ve caught him.

Of course, I watch him, too. He, and James, and Sabin have been painting the outside of the house, and watching Chris shirtless on the ladder while he works on my house is undeniably hot. I’m glad he doesn’t hide his scar from anyone. James did give me a questioning look, but I just shook my head. Sometimes I take a break from what I’m doing and sit on the lawn under the guise of supervising. I used to yell out, “You missed a spot!” every few minutes just to piss them off, but after all three of them tackled me with dripping paintbrushes last week, I stopped. I’m still washing paint from my hair.

I notice one thing in particular about the painting process: how Chris subtly discourages Sabin from working on a ladder. He frequently redirects Sabin to the lower windows, to the porch, and to the siding that he can reach from the ground. He has the same unspoken concern that I do. Sabin is drinking too much. We all drink, yes, and I’m no exception, but Sabin is consistently drinking during the day. I know that he’s just staying around the house, and we’ve got a fun party atmosphere going on, but his drinking has a different edge to it. He’s been in a great mood, though, so it’s not like it’s causing trouble. Yet.

It’s an unusually warm Saturday almost four weeks from the day we arrived when I take my first swim alone. We usually go down to the ocean as a group, but for some reason, after my early evening run on this particular day, I want time alone.

The water is absolutely frigid when I jump in, and I’ll be lucky to finish more than just a few laps, but the shock of the cold and subsequent rush of adrenaline is amazing. I’m a competent swimmer, and I stay fairly close to the shore, but when I look up, I notice that Chris is watching me. He never gets in the water, and I wish I knew why. But he always wears his suit anyway and keeps one eye on me at all times. I get the feeling he’s standing guard over me, making sure that I am safe.

It’s around seven I’m guessing, and the light is beautiful, with the sun just thinking about descending for the night. I keep swimming, and every time I lift my head from the water to breathe, I see Chris’s figure on the shore. I would know him from any distance. I swim the crawl in long, slow strokes.