Page 55 of The Rom-Commers

But Charlie shook his head. “I don’t swim.”

I turned. “Never?”

He shrugged, like he was about to tell me something fundamentally boring. “I had a near-drowning accident as a kid.”

“Why do you own a house with a pool if you don’t swim?”

“My wife wanted it.Ex-wife.”

“Did she swim?”

“She didn’t swim, either, to be honest.”

“Why did she want a pool, then?”

“She liked the idea of swimming,” Charlie said. “But she didn’t like to mess up her hair.”

I thought about my own hair—the fact that it was pre–messed up. Maybe that was a type of blessing.

I could feel Charlie looking at my curls, pulled back, as ever, in their little pom-pom ponytail. “I bet you don’t have that problem,” he said.

Was he complimenting me or insulting me?

“Swimming is my sport,” I said, moving on. “I swim every day at home. It’s the one thing I do for myself. Every morning at fiveA.M.—”

“Ouch,” Charlie said.

“—I swim sixty laps.”

“Every morning?” Charlie challenged, like I had to be exaggerating.

“Yep.”

“Even on weekends?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t it tiring?”

I shrugged. “Life is tiring. Swimming is just swimming.”

Then I turned to head back inside.

“Where are you going?” Charlie asked.

I turned back. “To get my suit.”

“You brought a swimsuit?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“To swim.”

“How did you know I’d have a pool?”

“I didn’t even know I’d be staying here! But I knew I’d find a pool somewhere.”

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