Page 18 of Cool for the Summer

“Told you.” He grins back and gets up, changing his sunglasses out for blue-tinted goggles that he produces from somewhere. He goes to the deep end and dives in smoothly, takes a few strokes, and easily comes up next to me.

“Of course you’re a good swimmer,” I say with affected grumpiness.

“My parents made me do a sport. They were picturing football, but I picked the swim team.”

“Ah. That explains what you’re wearing.”

He laughs and glances down at his crotch. “What—you wouldn’t wear one of these?”

“Not in public.”

“Well, this is private property,” he says. “But I guess some of us are more mature than others.” And then he splashes me, hitting me square across the face with a spray of water.

I snort in surprise, wipe my eyes. The little shit. “Very mature.”

Beck laughs again and I take the bait—I splash water back in his direction, but he’s too fast.

He throws himself backward and starts reverse frog-kicking out of the splash zone. I launch myself forward, and a chase ensues. He’s fast, darting like a fish to evade my attempts to get him back, but I have a longer reach, and eventually I succeed in pushing a wave of water into his face, leaving him sputtering and laughing and retaliating with his own wave of water.

I ignore the slight ridiculousness of two grown men having a splash fight in the middle of the afternoon. It’s too much fun. Beck finally calls a truce and swims to the side of the pool, where he takes off his goggles. I swim up to him, breathless, my cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

“You look like a raccoon,” I say, raising my finger and grazing the delicate skin under his right eye, where the goggles have left a pink imprint. At the contact, I yank my hand back. I hadn’t intended to touch him.

“I’m sure I do,” Beck agrees. He sighs. “You look like a cologne ad.”

“Huh?” I look down at myself, waist deep in water, the hair on my chest matted down, my nipples standing at attention. My skin is naturally tinted olive, though if I spent more time shirtless in the sun I’d brown like a roasted almond. Water drips into my eyes from my hair. I sniff and run my hand through my hair to get it off my forehead. I don’t get the compliment, if there was one.

“Never mind,” Beck says, hoisting himself out of the water with ease on arms that flex with lean muscle. He walks briskly over to his lounge chair and wraps himself in the large towel. “I’m going to get dinner started. Bring Cleo in with you?”

“Sure.”

He collects his things and latches the gate behind him, leaving the music playing. I have the feeling I’ve done something wrong, but I’m not sure what. I push away from the wall, swim a couple of lazy laps, keeping my head above water. It feels good to move, but it’s not as enjoyable out here alone.

I force my thoughts away from how much fun Beck is and think about practical matters. Swimming is good exercise. I should order some swim goggles or find the nearest big box store and buy some. I could get some more shorts, too. Maybe a few board games. Unless Jack and Pete have a collection. Does Beck like games? I happen to know Kingston is a poker player. Maybe we could get a group together this weekend?—

With a start, I realize I’m no longer considering bouncing and leaving the house and Cleo to Beck. I made Pete a promise, and I’m going to keep my word. But more than that—I owe it to Beck to hold up my end of the bargain. To be the kind of roommate he deserves, even if it means I’m sometimes bored in this Pleasantville of a town.

My mother used to say boredom is good for you—it forces you to get creative.

Maybe I’ll get so bored I’ll actually write my play.

EIGHT

DONOVAN

After showeringoff the pool water and dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, I take myself on a belated tour of the house. I find striped blue pool towels in the upstairs hall closet, and in the TV room there’s a cupboard with DVDs ranging from buddy cop action movies to foreign romances. There’s also a set of DVDs of the television show that’s based on the Super Rupert books Jack writes and Pete illustrates. Am I a bad friend for never making time to watch it? The producers based the art on Pete’s style, and Pete was consulted heavily, though he and Jack aren’t otherwise involved with the production.

In a wooden chest behind the big sand-colored L-shaped couch where Beck took his nap yesterday, I discover a treasure trove of games, from a battered chess board and Yahtzee to more modern cooperative games. There are playing cards, a cribbage board, and a large quantity of poker chips.

Score.

Beck is in the kitchen, seemingly freshly showered, dressed in the same shorts from the morning and a clean white T-shirt.

“I’m going to feed Cleo.”

“Right on schedule.” Beck smiles at me and I concentrate on following Pete’s recipe—a combination of two different dog foods, both clearly high-end brands. Cleo comes running at the sound of the canisters of dog food opening, and she waits with barely disguised excitement, watching me with soft brown eyes while I measure out her meal.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Beck says, closing the fridge door with his hip. He seems really comfortable in the kitchen, and I vaguely wish I knew how to make more than ramen and cereal. Living in New York, takeout is my friend.

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