Wrong About the Guy(17)

He dropped down into a sitting position next to me. “How’s the water?”

“Nice.”

He put his feet in. “Ahh. It’s been way too long.”

“When was the last time you swam in a pool?”

“About an hour ago. Right before we left to come here.”

His father emerged, looking lean and toned in his bathing suit, and dove right in the deep end, then emerged in a crawl, which he continued down the length of the pool.

Aaron stood up. “Are you a jump-right-in kind of person or a slowly-get-acclimated kind of person?”

I clambered up. “Slowly get acclimated. Or not get acclimated at all and stay dry in the sun.”

“In that case, let me help you.” He caught me around my waist and spun me out toward the pool. “Ready?”

I nodded, so he gave me a gentle shove and I let myself tumble in. He jumped in right after and I scolded him for splashing me inadvertently, and then when he apologized, I splashed him right in the face.

He mock snarled and whipped his head back to get the wet hair out of his eyes and dove under the water. I turned, trying to see where he was going, and felt him touch the back of my leg. I turned again, in that direction, just as he surfaced on the other side and flicked a palmful of water right at me.

We fooled around like that for a while, splashing and laughing and sinking down and springing up until we were out of breath. Then we swam over to the edge of the pool, where we clung on, slowly cycling our legs in the water, while we talked about stuff like movies and restaurants, and Michael steadily did laps behind us—another adult who saw the pool as exercise, not fun.

After about ten more minutes, he swam to the steps, got out, shook himself off, and said, “That’s it for me.” He disappeared into the changing room and came back out a few minutes later, dressed and dry, and headed back to the group.

The gates clanged again, interrupting my list of the best coffee shops on the west side of LA. I looked over and was surprised to see George Nussbaum walking in, awkwardly carrying Jacob low in his arms. As soon as he saw me, Jacob struggled to get down. George set him squarely on his feet and Jacob ran over to the edge of the pool and held his arms out to me.

“You want to swim?” I said, and he took a step toward the pool like he was going to walk right into it. “Whoa! Stop!” I reached up to hold on to his leg so he couldn’t jump in. “Not yet. You need a swim diaper.” I looked up at George, who had come closer. “Can you go get him one? They’re in the top drawer in the middle changing room.”

“Yeah, okay.” He was wearing jeans and his usual long-sleeved oxford—although today the sleeves were rolled to just below his elbow. “Hi,” he said, his eyes settling on Aaron. “I’m George.”

“Aaron.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Tutoring. I thought.”

“Tutoring?” Aaron repeated. “School hasn’t even started yet.”

“SATs,” I explained. “Mom found out that George went to Harvard and practically wet herself. She thinks the Ivy League is contagious, so he comes over once in a while and says stuff like, ‘What does epitome mean?’”

“And do you know?” Aaron asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Brilliant and modest,” he said admiringly. “The perfect woman.”

I fluttered my eyelashes at him before looking back up at George. “I thought I told you last week that I had plans today.”

“You always say you have plans. And your mom confirmed the appointment when I texted her a couple of days ago.”

Jacob knelt down next to the pool and dipped his fingers in the water, then raised his hand so he could watch the drips fall.

“She invited me to join you for dinner,” George said as we all watched Jacob watching the drips. “I feel funny about it, but she knows I’m free for the next two hours, so I don’t have much of an excuse to leave.”

“You should stay.” I decided to be generous and forgive him for being mean about Heather. “There’s a ton of food. If you want to come swim with us, there are men’s suits in the same changing room that has Jacob’s swim diapers. Speaking of which—”

“Oh, right. I’ll get that now. Want me to put it on him?”

“He won’t let you,” I said. “Just bring it here.”

He nodded and made his way into the changing room.

“How is he your tutor?” Aaron asked, lowering his voice. “He looks like he’s our age.”

“He’s not that much older—just precocious. He went to college when he was like sixteen. According to his brother, he got a perfect score on the SATs.”

“The SATs are overrated. Everyone knows the real test of brilliance is being able to balance a Styrofoam noodle on the palm of your hand.” He proceeded to demonstrate with admirable dexterity.

I tried to get Jacob to look at Aaron’s trick, but he was too fascinated by the water running off his fingers to glance over.

“Here you go.” George had returned and was studying the swim diaper in his hand. “How is it different from a regular one?”

“It holds the poop in but lets the pee out.”

“‘Out’ as in . . . into the pool?”