Love, Hate & Other Filters(21)

When I come up for air again, Phil places his hand on my shoulder. “Now I want you to float on your back. It’s the same idea as the dead man’s float, but you don’t have to hold your breath, and you can keep your eyes open. See?” Phil lies down on the water like it’s a feather bed. “You can kick a little if you want to propel yourself.”

I imitate Phil’s movements. And it sort of works.

“Great. Tilt your head all the way back until the water covers your ears. Relax your neck.”

I kick my legs and find myself moving softly through the water. Before I know it, I’m parallel with Phil in the middle of the pond.

“Isn’t this nice?” Phil asks as he gazes up at the few cumulus clouds in the sky. “I could float for hours. It’s so relaxing.”

I open my eyes to a sky the color of blue cornflowers and treetops swaying in the light breeze. It’s quiet all around except for the sound of our movements in the water. I turn my head and shoulders to look at Phil. My body begins to slip into the pond. Water fills my open mouth. I’m caught by surprise and splash wildly.

Phil grabs me, one arm under my legs and the other behind my back, forming a sort of chair for me in his arms.

“I got you. Are you okay?” He furrows his brow, and when he looks at me, his green eyes tighten with worry. He draws me a little closer into him.

I cough, partly out of embarrassment. “Y-y-y-e-e-s-s. I’m fine.” My lungs burn. “I hope you were right when you said the water was clean.”

“You can probably skip the tetanus shot. But I’m sorry. I should have told you to keep your body as horizontal as possible.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Pretty ballsy talk for someone who can’t swim.” Phil loosens his grip on my back as if he might let me fall into the water.

“Don’t,” I yell and wrap both my arms around his neck. Goosebumps rise up on every millimeter of my body. My chest smashes up against Phil. He averts his eyes, but tightens his grip around my back. I’m suddenly very aware that my skin is a living organ because it registers the slight temperature change as his hand edges from cool to warm. I can feel the wrinkles of his pruney fingertips embedding their whorls into my body. The world slows down. My breathing, the journey of the drips of water that trail from his skin onto mine, the rise and fall of his chest, the blink of his eyelids.

In the movies, you can achieve slow motion in two ways, first, by overcranking, basically capturing each frame at a much faster rate with your camera than it will be played back on a projector. Then there’s time stretching, where you insert new frames in postproduction between the ones already filmed but linger longer on each one. That’s what this feels like, but where each of the new frames I add is just a blank screen of longing.

“I can make it from here, thanks,” I whisper as I slip out of his arms back into the water.

In a movie, this would be The Moment for the couple. But right now, I’m the only one in this moment. And anyway, you can’t have The Moment when your feelings are buried so deep you’re afraid they’ll burn up if they see the light.

We wade back to shore.

Phil collapses onto the blanket, faceup in the afternoon sun. He closes his eyes.

I wind my towel tightly around myself and sit down. I pull out my ponytail and comb my fingers through my hair. It falls loose across the width of my back, the wet strands sticking to my body. The sun warms my skin as I tuck my knees up under my chin. Phil’s eyes are still closed, and I watch his chest rise and fall with his breaths. Droplets of water on his skin slowly dissolve into the heat. Phil’s arm is bent under his head, the muscle in his biceps taut and smooth. I twirl a small section of dripping hair around my index finger and try and force myself to look away and out across the water. It’s hopeless.

Phil touches the small of my back, startling me. “Are you hungry?” he asks, sitting up. He reaches for the cooler and pulls out sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, and a couple of pops. “Turkey and Swiss. No pork. I remembered.”

“Thanks,” I say as Phil hands me the sandwich. “It’s sweet of you.” Violet is the only one of my friends who ever thinks about my dietary restrictions.

“Swimming always makes me hungry, so I figured I’d bring provisions.”

“I wasn’t exactly swimming.” I take a bite, realizing how hungry I am, too.

“You’ll get there.”

I chew for a while, pretending to focus on my food, but really focusing on him. “You’re a good teacher. You have way more patience than me.”

“When’s our next lesson?” Phil asks.

It’s the question I’ve been hoping for all afternoon. On the other hand, it means flailing around in the water again. “After the pond hits eighty degrees?”

He laughs. “That will be … never. How about tomorrow? I’m not working until the afternoon. Same time?”

I hesitate. I should hesitate. But I can’t help myself. “I have to be at work at three.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

I’ll probably regret it, but for now, for a minute, I allow myself to be the character in the romantic movie. The adorkable girl who gets the guy. Because this definitely doesn’t feel like real life, not mine, anyway.