Page 67 of The Older Brother
The last swimmer to finish today’s freestyle rounds rests at the edge of the pool, disappointment weighing down her bottom lip and red eyes. These kids are twelve, a hard age to handle pressure and expectations. It’s the eager parents on the sidelines that make it hard. Their words aren’t always supportive. Frankly, they’re often not nice. This girl’s mom just finished shouting, “I told you to put in more practice. That’s what you get.”
Reminds me of my father.
Saylor squats at the side of the pool, tilting her clipboard to the side and tracing her finger along a series of numbers. I’m notsure what she’s saying, but her sad swimmer seems to be finding her grit again. It’s not a big smile, but it’s a present one. And by the time the girl lifts herself out of the water, she’s nodding and pounding knuckles with her coach.
“You’re so close,” Saylor says as the girl heads toward the locker room with energy in her step. Saylor glances toward the loud parent next and stares at the woman long enough to make her feel the heat. The woman busies herself with her phone after a few seconds, and if anyone recognizes this avoidance move, it’s me. I’ve done it. My father’s done it. Caleb. Yet one more thing we all have in common.
“You’re really good with them,” I say to Saylor as she slides her sunglasses to the top of her head on her way toward me.
She sits on the bench beside me and takes the half-filled water bottle from my hand, guzzling the rest down as she squints with one eye open on me.
“I hate the armchair coaching from parents. Not every kid is good at tuning out the extra noise. That girl’s gonna be just fine. So, she won’t be a freestyle swimmer. Her butterfly is strong. Her mom should hop in and let me time her.”
I chuckle at Saylor’s rant. She’s lit for sure.
“Sorry,” she says, wincing. “I just care about these kids, I guess.”
“I know you do.”
Her eyes shift to mine, and we lock gazes for a few quiet seconds. It feels nice, and there’s an instant understanding that accompanies our silence. She likes helping people. I love that about her.
“Give me five minutes to get dressed, then we can head to your mom’s,” she says, getting up and tossing the now empty water bottle toward a blue recycle container. She sinks the shot, and I raise my hands and let out a hushed, mock crowd noise.
“Probably the first shot I’ve ever made. We aren’t all hoops stars.” She shakes her head at me as she walks backward, and I hold my tongue because I’m no star either, but I kind of like that she sees me as one.
I head to the car to get the air on and to find my courage. The next several minutes are going to be heavy, and the selfish beast inside is tearing away at my resolve, begging me not to blow the best thing that’s ever happened to me. That’s what Saylor is. She’s a future. A confidant. Someone to love and feel loved with. And for once, I think I may deserve it. But not unless she knows about our families’ histories and the ugly places they cross.
Her hips sway with her joyful steps as she waves goodbye to her coworkers and skips toward my car. I take a deep breath and push my smile into my cheeks. She smells like chlorine and that vanilla shampoo she uses after she swims. Her hair is down, the wet waves sticking to the bare skin on her arms. She’s wearing a green halter dress that screams summer, the top hugging her breasts and the short skirt high above her knees as she sinks into the passenger seat. I hunger to run my hand over her thigh and travel between her legs, but I don’t deserve that yet. It’s time to share my darkness with someone, fully and completely. And Saylor is that person.Myperson. I hope.
“You look really nice,” I say, sucking in my top lip.
She gives me a coy smile as she buckles up.
“Why, thank you. I thought you might like this dress. I know green is your favorite color.” She shrugs it off, but I hold my gaze on her for a beat, wondering how the hell she knows that.
“What? I mean, it’s only the color of every birthday cake my mom ordered for you, and despite all the gray and black shirts in your closet, there are a few colors that pop out, like the green hoodie I’ve been eying.”
I shake my head and laugh.
“Don’t you dare steal my Notre Dame hoodie. I found that thing in a bar two years ago and it’s my favorite sweatshirt.” I shift into drive and begin to roll out of the lot, baffled at the details she notices.
“What other things do you keep locked away about me?” I glance at her before turning onto the main road. I’ll be stopping at the burger shop up ahead to grab a late lunch-early dinner for us before we head to my mom’s. It’s where I plan to bare my secrets, and I hope she’ll still be in the car after I’m done speaking. I deserve the rush of new love and infatuation for a few more minutes.
“Hmmm, well . . . you grind your teeth when you sleep. You should probably get one of those mouthguards,” she says, narrowing her gaze when our eyes meet.
“Right, well, I did know that, and a guard is not happening. I’ve tried. Chewed right through six of them.” My jaw constantly aches from the work my mouth apparently does at night. I know it’s stress. It started happening the day I walked in on my dad and her mom. But maybe I’ll finally stop hurting myself at night after today. Time will tell.
“Fair enough,” she says, a softness touching her eyes. She knows a thing or two about stress.
“So, I’m ruining my teeth. What else?” I need more. My courage is wavering, but she’s the heart of what makes me brave. How she sees me. Everything big and small.
“Okay, how about this? You save all your old IDs and licenses. I’ve checked out your wallet, and I think it’s cute that you hang onto your worst photos from your past.”
I wince as I mentally rifle through the images she’s seen. My hair has not always been agreeable, and there have been a few photos that look much like the mugshots I’ve also had taken.
“Relax, I thought they were all pretty cute. Especially the one from eighth grade.”
“Oh god,” I laugh out, pinching the bridge of my nose as my face warms. I definitely had a mullet in that one. And not the cool kind.
