Page 19 of Open Water

“You haven’t been down long. Just lie here until you feel better. There is no rush.”

Stroke, Stroke, Stroke. Tangle. Fingers against my scalp. And another stroke. Then, his hand is on my back, calmly rubbing the length of my spine.

“Simon knows we’re here and says we should just come up when you are ready. We can sit here the whole lesson if you need it. “

I don’t know what to say. I just curl further into him. Push my knees up so they are flush against his backside.

He smells of soap. Of some laundry detergent I don’t recognise. I should ask what he uses so I can buy it and keep it in jars all over the house to make everything smell of Matteo.

Not that I will ever speak to him again. Not after the spectacle I must have made of myself to end up like this. Clinging to him like a baby.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asks. I try to nod into his stomach as he leans over and fishes my iPhone out of my back pocket. He then grabs my arm and forces my hand around, so he can use my thumb to unlock it.

I pant desperately into his guts and let my arm recoil back around his waist with a groan.

“I’m going to put my number in your contacts. And send myself a text so I have yours. Is that okay?”

“Why?” I squeal weakly. I still haven’t got my head together. I still have my guard down.

“Because nobody should go through what you go through alone,” he says softly, his stomach is moving up and down against me as he talks. A familiar ping goes off on his phone that must be buried somewhere in his jacket. It’s close. Vibrating against his body. “I’ve added you on Insta, and why are you called Tom on Facebook?”

“M’Dad.” I breathe out through my mouth. Hard. Breathe back in. Focus Max. Focus.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t try so hard. Just lie here and snuggle until you can breathe better.” The fingers are back in my hair. Stroking softly. “Do you want to tell me why you snoop on your Dad’s Facebook?” I can hear it in his voice, that he is smiling. Taking the piss. Whilst I am slowly dying again.

“Not snooping. Dad doesn’t do social media, but we started an account for him for some reason and I still have it. I haven’t got Facebook.” I am almost totally out of breath after squirming out all those words in one go. So now I am back to panting as my chest aches with the over-exhaustion.

“Seriously, Pumpkin.” He is still smiling.

“Pumpkin?” I squeal. He is ridiculous. Even more ridiculous than me.

“I always wanted to call someone Pumpkin. Tilda wouldn’t let me. She doesn’t believe in terms of endearment. Says they strip people of dignity. Anyway, you are a little pumpkin so I’m calling you that.”

“Tilda?” Shit. Here we go. Girlfriend. Go on. Crush my heart. Just stomp on it.

“Yeah? Redhead chick I always hang out with. She’s my best friend in the whole world. We have known each other since we went to German toddler group as kids, and then we played naked in each other’s paddling pools. I have pictures. They are really useful when I need to get Tilda to do me favours.” He giggles softly, and I don’t know what to say. So, not a girlfriend. Well, there is probably more. Next minute, he will start talking about the love of his life who is the prettiest girl in the world or some crap.

“Anyway, Pumpkin,” he continues and he’s stroking again. His flat palm rubbing circles over my shoulder. “When these things happen, just call me. Or text me. Just a word of where you are, and I will come find you, because these panic-thingies you get are scary as hell when you are just watching from the sidelines. I saw you have one a while back and the damn school nurse wouldn’t let me near you. She said just to let you get on with it. You looked so frightened. It wasn’t right. It was almost cruel. I got to you first this time and you calmed down much quicker when I was holding on to you. You shouldn’t be on your own like this. Just promise you will call me? Or text, or just shout for me and someone will go get me.”

He sounds almost distraught. Like I have scarred him for life with my fucked-up panic attacks.

“I can’t control it. They just come on so quickly and I lose all sense of reality. I just get so fucking scared.” Here we go. Here come the tears of relief. Another of my party tricks.

He tugs me closer as I bury my face back in the warmth of him. He smells so bloody nice. His stomach is my new happy place. I could die right now, and I would be happy. Put it on my freaking tombstone.Here lies Max Andersson. Died happy, face down in a stomach of bliss smelling of Summer Breeze detergent. Available in all reputable supermarkets and detergent retailers.

“Which is why you shouldn’t be alone. You are so bloody pig-headed not letting anyone be your friend. People try all the time, inviting you to stuff, and trying to talk to you, and you just flip them off like they annoy you. Don’t flip me off, Pumpkin. Trust me. I am like a leech when I put my mind to it. Just ask Tilda. I sleep in her bed just so she won’t get herself a boyfriend. Because I am always there. Snuggling up to her and annoying the shit out of her. She doesn’t really mind me being there, though, and to be honest, she has probably shagged that Henke in Year 3 already and just not told me. Fucking girls and their fucking drama and secrets.”

He’s funny and I am kind of half laughing under my tears and sobs. Hiccups and spasms travelling through my body as he strokes my arms.

“Thank you,” I snivel out. I mean it. I am so fucking grateful that he is still here.

“Anytime, Pumpkin. Please promise you will call me. If you don’t I’ll find out, and then I’ll have to follow you around like some creep just in case. And everyone will talk about me being totally out of order stalking you and it will be this big gossip drama shit and everyone will think I have a massive crush on you.”

I don’t dare to look up. I just snort.

This is the time when I should say something smart. Like raise an eyebrow at him and ask innocently “Have you? Have you got a crush on me?” with a seductive smile. Blow him a kiss. Act totally inappropriate and smarmy and make him run away faster than light.

I don’t. Of course. Instead, I hug him like a crazy person. I am a crazy person.

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