Page 94 of The Love Haters

Guess this must be it.

But didn’t military people live in… I don’t know—barracks, or something?

All the time I’d spent with Hutch, and it had never once occurred to me that he went home every night andslept on the water.

It made him even more appealing, if that was possible.

I hesitated a minute before walking down the dock to get things started. I wasn’t sure what to make of his hot-cold thing. No doubt he was angry about having to do this. But was he really so angry that it completely nullified all the things he’d said—and done—just two nights before?

It seemed extreme. But he wasn’t explaining—and I didn’t know how to make him explain.

I didn’t see a way out. So I guessed I’d just have to go through.

The good news is, the first load of stuff I carried with me, as I went to go knock on Hutch’s door, was just my overnight bag—not the bag with all my camera equipment.

As soon as I stepped off the dock onto the back deck of the boat, two things happened: one, Hutch opened the back door, and two, George Bailey scrambled down the spiral stairs from the rooftop and bounded right at me to catapult himself into my arms.

Thinking, again, contrary to all laws of physics, that I was going to catch him.

Which, of course, I didn’t.

But, this time, George Bailey didn’t just knock me down.

He knocked meoverboard.

Me, and himself, and my overnight bag. We all flew backward and plunged into the very cold, very wet, very watery water of the marina.

Yes, I’d been taking swim lessons with Hutch. And yes, I’d passed my SWET training. But those had been controlled conditions. Now I was in a much deeper, much realernaturalbody of water. And now I had all my clothes—and sneakers—on. And now I was tangled in the cross-body strap of my duffel bag. With a Great Dane plunging in after me and then using my body as a climbing structure to scramble back up toward the surface.

Given the shock of it all, I did a pretty good job of pulling myself together. I followed Hutch’s advice and said to myself,You’ve been underwater before. And that was enough to help me not panic. I wriggled out of the shoulder strap and reminded myself that my body fat wanted to float. Whatever air was in my lungs would also want to float—though I wasn’t sure if George Bailey’s impact had knocked all of that out.Make your hands into fins, I commanded myself.Kick your feet.

Amazingly, I listened.

Even more amazingly, it worked.

I could see sunlight filtering down from above—and I reached for it. And kicked like hell. And before I knew it, I surfaced.

I was halfway through a triumphant breath when Hutch surfaced right next to me.

Without even saying anything, he manhandled me, flipped me around, and maneuvered me toward the boat—exactly like he’d done to the soul he rescued yesterday.

Despite the fact that I’d just handled the moment competently myself, I confess that it did feel surprisingly comforting to be taken in Hutch’s arms. It was a physical and undeniable feeling of safety that just doesn’t come along too often in day-to-day life.

Still, on principle, I argued.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, as he swam us toward the boat ladder.

“I’m rescuing you.”

“But I already rescued myself!”

As he grabbed the ladder, he let go of me.

I turned around, grabbed the ladder, too, and faced Hutch in the water.

He looked at me, realizing that was true. “I guess you did.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been teaching me to do?”

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