Page 97 of Swim To Me

But I’m not willing to give up.

“Any idea on your next step?” Blake asks me the next morning, both of us using the complimentary sauna to dry off after our gruelling laps in the pool. He knows how I feel about Delilah, it’s written all over my face and I suppose someone like my closest brother, my best friend, might have already suspected my feelings for her long before I even figured them out for myself.

Stretching out my legs, I rub at my tired eyes with the heel of my hand. It’s rare of late for me to feel rejuvenated after being in the water. It’s probably got something to do with being up since half five in the morning, staring, unseeing, at my ceiling, unable to switch off. I’d listened to the outside noise of a drowsy London, the city already half-awake with early morning runners and men setting up their market stalls.

Once I heard the door close, Hudson on the way to his early morning gym session, I’d swung my legs out of bed and texted Blake to see if he was free.

Swiping a cool cloth along my forehead, I peer at my brother through the oppressive heat. “I’m not sure yet, she won’t return my calls I’m just going straight through to voicemail. Same thing with my texts.”

“At least they’re delivering, so you know you’re not blocked.”

Blake’s words light a sliver of hope in my chest, a light that continues to burn as I sit in the lifeguard’s chair at work, winding and unwinding the chain of my silver whistle around my hand.

My apartment is still quiet and dark, the night’s drawing in quicker now we’re moving further away from summer, when I get back, bone weary. I send a text to Hudson asking where he is, but get no immediate reply, so I set about making myself a quick stir fry for dinner.

I mindlessly switch on the TV while I eat, but nothing catches my attention, so I wash out my bowl and head into my bedroom, hoping maybe a day full of chlorine and fresh air will allow me another hour of sleep.

Crawling under the sheets, my eyes catch on the battered paperback book perched on my nightstand. I’d finished it a week ago, needing to know how it ended, while also using it as a tool to hold onto Delilah any way I could.

But I can’t selfishly keep her possession from her, I need to return it and maybe I’ll be able to talk to her in the process.

To nobody’s surprise, I can’t sleep again, up at the crack of dawn to see the sun rising steadily on Sunday morning. Hudson is still missing, his leftovers I cooked for him still tucked away in the fridge, so I brew a cup of coffee for one, desperately trying to ignore the feeling of loneliness. I’m unused to such quiet, having become accustomed to waking up with a text waiting on my phone from Delilah and the sound of my brother clattering about in the kitchen.

While I sip my hot coffee, I dig out an old notepad and pen, ripping out a blank section and pressing the ink to the paper. I’ve only written four lines when my hand begins to ache, unfamiliar with old fashioned writing, something I hardly ever do unless it’s to sign off a complaints or emergency form at the leisure centre. Everything else is easily computerized.

Still, I push through, draining my mug by the time I reach the end of the page.

I scan my own written words quickly and then fold it up, signing Delilah’s name on the front and slotting it in the front flap of the paperback book, leaving a visible portion sticking out of the top.

The sliver of hope Blake has awakened in my heart keeps me going, forcing me to take a shower, get dressed and head outside to somewhere other than work for the first time in a fortnight.

Groups of mothers pushing prams and dog walkers keep me company on the busy pavements as I walk to a flower shop, the book and my note tucked safely under my arm.

“How can I help you?” The florist asks me when I step inside, slightly overwhelmed by the strong perfume of flowers and foliage. She looks rushed off her feet, apron smeared with water stains and mud. I glance behind her at the stacks of premade bouquets, tied prettily with coloured ribbon and suddenly feel very out of my depth.

“I need a bouquet of flowers… Lilies, if you have them.”

“Sure. What colour are you looking for?”

“Pink,” I say, “with a cream ribbon.”

The florist bustles around me, selecting a handful of brightly coloured lilies from a bucket, and dripping water all over the floor as she cuts the stems. Artfully, she ties the bouquet together with my ribbon of choice, pushing both the flowers and the card reader towards me, while reading out my total. I pay with a waxy smile and then turn on my heel to leave.

A sudden chill in the air nips at the tips of my ears on my commute to Delilah’s apartment. I grip the flowers tighter, wishing I’d done a quick thirty minutes in the pool this morning to stave away the self-doubt.

If she doesn’t answer her door, I’ll have to leave her flowers and book with a neighbour and pray to God they’re a decent fucking human being and don’t just keep the gifts for themselves.

My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest with each step I take to Delilah’s floor, raising my fist to knock on the door.

When there’s no immediate answer, I knock again, feeling my jaw tick nervously, and then I knock again. “Delilah. Delilah, please, if you’re in there can you just open up so we can talk. I’m so fucking sorry, my heart feels like it’s breaking and I just—”

“Is this the part where you’d like me to feel sorry for you?”

I peer up, my hand sliding away from the open door, to find a younger, but still a carbon copy, of my Delilah staring back at me. I recognise her instantly as Delilah’s younger sister, Aurelia.

“Aurelia,” I breathe, the lump in my throat only growing by the second. “Is she in there? Please. I just want to talk; I made a huge mistake and—”

Aurelia stares at me with distain, eyes flickering to the book and flowers I hold in my hands as an offering of sorts. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

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