He gives the kayak one more hard shove, tipping me over into the cold water. It sloshes over my face for just a second before my life vest pops me above the surface. “Are you kidding me?” I shriek, swimming toward him, grabbing the side of his boat now.
“I didn’t break the rule,” he argues.
“You dumped me in the lake,” I say, trying and failing to tip him in. “That’s so much worse.”
“Fine, fine,” he says. “I’m getting in.” But as he says it, he’s grabbing his paddle, slicing it into the water, trying to get away.
I grab hold of one side and yank as hard as I can.
It takes a few seconds of struggle, but in the end, I manage it.
Miles crashes into the lake. He resurfaces, soaked and sputtering, and slicks his hair out of his face, eyes crinkled against the sun. “Didn’t even check if I could swim or not,” he tuts, pretending to be aghast.
“I would’ve saved you,” I say.
“You?” he says. “I’m, like, forty pounds heavier than you.”
“First of all,” I say, “you’re absolutely not. And second of all, I have a life vest. We would’ve been fine.”
He swims toward me, loops an arm around my back, my stomach lifting into my chest at the feeling of his skin on mine, his weight pulling us downward as my heart buoys into the back of my throat. “Your physics are off, Daphne,” he says against my ear as we start to sink.
I wriggle around to face him, pushing away before anything can keep me there. “I knew you could swim, Miles.”
“How?” he asks.
“One, everything about you,” I say. “Two, I’ve seen pictures.”
“When you and Ashleigh were snooping?” he teases.
“Yes, when we were snooping,” I admit.
He nods, treading water in front of me. “Thought so.”
“Have you ever snooped?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
I study him until he laughs, glances toward the island again, then meets my eyes. “Fine, a couple of times when you’ve left your door open, I’ve peeked in. But it’s not like I’m digging through your drawers.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “I did not dig through your drawers. Not that I would have needed to, since they were all open.”
“You looked in them.” He swims closer.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“In case you were wondering,” he says, “your drawers have never been open while your door was.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” I say.
“It’s been spotless,” he says. “Not a single hint as to who you are.”
“Pretty boring of me,” I say.
“Mysterious,” he counters. “Like a puzzle.”
“Or a highly organized silverware tray,” I say.
Under the water, our calves brush against one another. A thrum travels straight up my thigh into my abdomen. “The same way you dress.”
“Like a silverware tray?” I say.
He shakes his head. Another graze of our legs, a little higher this time. “Like a secret.”
A heady rush of tension. To defuse it, I say, “Like I’m hiding an extra set of arms.”
“Think I would’ve noticed that,” he says.
Our hands brush under the water. The second time, our fingers slip together, knuckles briefly sliding against each other before we pull away.
I backstroke away from him, turning my face up toward the sun. When my pulse has settled, I ask, “Should we paddle a little longer?”
“If you want to,” he says.
I stare across the glistening turquoise water toward the shore of the island. It’s not as far as I thought. It feels possible now, that we could make it.
“I want to,” I tell him.
15
