Page 87 of Swim To Me

I feel my mouth pop open, heart beginning to pound, not from nerves but sheer disbelief.

“The swimmer?” she continues, staring up at me with round, surprised eyes.

That makes the two of us.

This hasn’t happened in… a long time.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I hear myself say, the noise from the busy street of London disappearing away into the background.

“Oh my god! My brother used to idolise you! Do you think I could get an autograph?”

My fingers come up to pinch the brim of the cap I wish I was wearing; for years after the accident, when my name still cropped up in the press here and there, I took to wearing a snapback whenever I stepped outside of my front door. But my fingers pinch thin air. After my fame died down, and I got recognised less, I was able to stop hiding behind my disguise.

I fucking wish I had that bloody cap on right now.

“Sure.” I smile. It’s not exactly painted on; I don’t mind signing something and taking a picture all because I got famous for doing something I loved. But the whole thing just feels a bit surreal, and at that exact moment Delilah’s sweet voice pops into my head.

“Why is this girl asking for you autograph, Grey?” dream Delilah asks me. “What does she mean her brother used to idolise you? Idolise you for what? Did he know you?”

I can’t answer her because my head is spinning so much.

I only popped out to grab some coffees.

The young woman is pulling a bunch of paper from the depths of her handbag, producing a creased sheet and a pen dusted with crumbs.

I take both, trying to hide my shaking hands, signing my old signature I haven’t drawn in months, if not over a year. The loops and swirls come back to me with muscle memory, but I still can’t shake the feeling of strangeness.

A mobile phone is positioned in front of me face, and I bend my knees to fit into the frame, half smiling, half squinting against the blinding sun and the photo flash.

“Thank you so much!” she gushes, taking back the paper and pen. “Seriously, you’ve made my day, I—”

“You’re welcome… I hope you don’t mind if I ask you that don’t post that photo anywhere? It’s just I’m not in the press much anymore and—”

I feel guilty on instant. Guilty for asking this poor woman not to post the photo to her social media, and guilty because that sounds specifically like I’m trying to keep a secret, even to my own ears, and that’s the last thing I want. It’s just… I haven’t told Delilah yet and this is so not the way I want her to find out.

“That’s fine.” The woman flashes me a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for stopping.”

I raise my hand to the stranger in as silent farewell while she walks away, taking two personal pieces of myself with her.

I’m still in a daze at the café, stumbling over my words, completely unlike myself and getting my own order wrong. There’s too much sugary syrup sitting in the bottom of my cup, but I force myself to sip from the rim in an attempt to steady my nerves. The other drinks are clutched in a cardboard tray in my unsteady grip.

“Are you okay?” a co-worker asks me once I’ve placed the drinks on the communal table in the staff room. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

That’s because I have.

The ghost of my fucking past.

“I’m fine,” I reply, already walking to take my shift back on the lifeguard chair.

If I thought the guilt of not telling Delilah after she spilled her guts to me was bad before, it’s nothing compared to the way I feel now.

I’ve just been stopped in the street. I’ve just been recognised. I’ve just been asked for a photo and a signature.

So, what’s stopping that from happening when I’m out and about with Delilah?

Absolutely nothing.

The easiest thing would be to hide away.

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