Page 103 - In Five Years

I look down at my feet. “It’s okay,” I say. “I get it.”
The water comes up to greet us.
Aaron jumps back. “Shit, that’s cold,” he says.
“It’s not that bad; it’s August. You don’t even want to know what it feels like

in May.”
He hops around for another moment and then stops, staring at me. All at once,

he kicks up the retreating water. It lands on me in a cascade, the icy droplets
dotting my body like chicken pox.
“Not cool,” I say.
I splash him back, and he holds up his towel in defense. But then we’re

running farther into the ocean, gathering more and more water in our attacks
until we’re both soaking wet, his towel nothing more than a dripping

deadweight.
I duck my head under the water and let the shock of cold cool my head. I
don’t bother taking off my hat. When I come back up, Aaron is a foot from me.

He stares at me so intently I have the instinct to look behind me but don’t.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I just . . .” He shrugs. “I like you.”

Instantly, I’m not in the Atlantic anymore; we’re not here on this beach but,
instead, in that apartment, in that bed. His hands, devoid of the sopping towel,
are on me. His mouth on my neck, his body moving slowly, deliberately over

mine—asking, kneading, pressing. The pulse of the blood in my veins pumping
to a rhythm of yes.
I close my eyes. Stop. Stop. Stop.

“Race you back,” I say.
I kick up some water and take off. I know I’m faster than him—I’m faster
than most people, and he’s weighed down by ten pounds of towel. I’ll beat him

in a flash. When I get back to the blanket, Bella is awake. She rolls over,
sleepily, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Where did you go?” she asks.

I’m breathing too hard to answer.