Page 85 of How to Walk Away

He frowned like he didn’t get my obscure American reference to my dad’s favorite Burt Reynolds movie, and then he went on. “The great thing about water is it makes everything easier.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to walk,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

I suddenly got the feeling he was about to pull me into the pool. “Be careful!”

He read the nervousness on my face. “Listen. This is the shallow end. It only comes to your waist.”

“But I can’t stand up.”

“You might be able to in the water.”

“What if I fall in?”

“I’ll catch you.”

“But what if youdon’t?”

Ian lifted an eyebrow. “If I suddenly have a heart attack and die while we’re in the middle of the pool, I might not catch you. If that happens, float on your back to the edge, and then scream your lungs out until someone comes to help you. Because you are in a hospital, you will get medical care quickly, and because you are on massive antibiotics already, it’s unlikely you’ll get an infection, but if you do, again, you’re already at the hospital.”

“What about you?”

“I’m dead already. Just leave me in the pool.”

I stifled a smile. “That would traumatize the other patients.”

“Toss me in the bin, then. Whatever.”

I took a deep breath and geared up for going in. Ian went to put his palms on either side of my ribs, right on the skin, just under my two-piece top—and watching it happen gave me the giddy anticipation you get when someone’s coming to tickle you.

I sucked in a breath.

He stopped short of touching me. “What?”

No way was I explaining to him how visceral the anticipation of hishands on my body was. That was need-to-know information. “I’m ticklish,” I said.

He nodded, like,Noted,and then continued.

“I’ve got you,” he said—and all of a sudden, out of context, he was different. He was the Ian from the roof. He was not the guy in the PT gym with the cartoon scribble of angst above his head. He was not the guy who answered my questions with one-word nonanswers, and grunts, and total silence. He was a guy who had just cracked a joke—possibly two! He was looking into my eyes, and paying attention, and promising me I could trust him.

“Areyouticklish?” I asked.

He gave me a look. “Do Ilookticklish?”

I felt a strong temptation to find out, but I was scared I might fall into the water. “Who are you?” I said then, peering at him.

He frowned, as if the question made no sense. “I’m the guy who’s going to walk you across the pool.”

With that, he pulled me toward him in a little nudge, and I popped off the edge—and instead of floating down gracefully, I squealed and grabbed him tight around the neck in what could only be described as a very clingy hug.

I didn’t mean to. I was just going to bob into the water, like always.

But this wasn’t always. My burns felt extra-naked, and I didn’t trust my legs to work any better in the water than out. I didn’t entirely trust Ian, either. And so: the chicken version of a leap of faith—one that involved clutching his neck with my face buried into the crook of his wet, post-cannonball shoulder.

“Too fast?” he said.

I nodded into his neck, liking the way the skin felt.

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