Page 102 of Ominous: Part 1
He drops his hands to the water, and I watch his six-pack flex as he does. It’s unreal, how fit he is. “You’ll see,” he says again. Then, without waiting, he sinks under the water, right in front of me, on his knees, his hands coming to the back of my thighs.
I suck in a breath at his touch, barely remembering to start the timer on the stopwatch with the feel of his fingers on my body, his head level with my low belly, the water up to my chest here.
He presses his head to my core, his teeth plucking at the fabric of my swimsuit, and I try to breathe. To not squirm away.
His hands run up and down the backs of my thighs, dangerously close to my ass, his fingertips brushing the underside, but he always stops short, like he’s teasing the hell out of both of us. I dart my gaze from the numbers spinning upward on the stopwatch screen, to his wavy black hair, fanning out in the water. I see the coil of muscles in his shoulders, the lines on the underside of his biceps from gripping my thighs. His forehead is pressed to me as he bites my stomach, and I can’t see his face because of it as my core contracts, my hips arching backward, pressing further into his hands.
I place a hand on his head, weaving my fingers through the thick strands of his hair, unable to stop myself.
He bites me again, this time on my thigh as he lowers his head, and I jump, heat coursing under my skin. He licks a line up my leg, only to tug at the cutout of my swimsuit with his teeth.
I tighten my fingers in his hair, my nipples hardening into sharp points, I’m barely able to stay standing. I want to sink down into the water with him.Jesus Christ.
But after a second, he presses his lips to the crease of my thigh, making my belly jump, then rests his head once more on my stomach.
I feel like I can breathe a little easier, but I keep my hand fisted in his hair.
It’s intimate in a tender way, how he rests against me. Heat swells in my chest, and I massage his scalp, feeling somehow like I’m taking care of him.
His touch doesn’t tighten against my thighs. If anything, as the time passes, he only seems to relax, like he lives for this. And being this close to him, watching him giddily show me how long he can hold his breath underwater, I almost feel it too.
Because I have no memories of being afraid of the water. I was in it at such a young age, all I experience now—whether in a pool, like this, or tumbling along the harsh waves of the Atlantic—is a strangled mix of excitement and peace. Two contradicting emotions, but the water has always inspired people in the strangest ways. Poems, essays, books, and movies. The sea, the water, it coaxes forth awe and wonder and maybe, in some people, terror.
It can hold everything. Sirens and ships alike.
I tear my eyes from Eli’s broad shoulders, my grip in his hair, and look at the number on the screen.
My breath hitches as I widen my eyes. Nervousness nips at the edges of my mind.
If something happened to him… I can’t see his neighbors from here, but I know I could run, and I could call the police, but I’m too tipsy to beuseful.
I promise myself I’ll give him ten more seconds.
Just ten, and if he doesn’t come up then, I’ll drag him to the surface.
The seconds pass. We’re at two minutes. It ticks by, but I feel Eli still holding onto me, and even though I said I would bring him up, I know he’s okay, right? He’s on his knees, leaning into me, but he’s still holding on, which means he didn’t pass out or something…
Nerves gnaw at my fingers, wrapped tight around the watch, other hand digging into his hair.
Come up, Eli. I get it. You’re good at everything.
But even my annoyance can’t combat my fear. I think of what he said, about Winslet. The dress, draped between the house and the lake.
I think about his missing photos in the yearbook. I bypassed any questions about those. It was hard enough to hold onto talking about the police. Being around Eli doesn’t make me stupid, but he’s a lot to focus on. He requires all of my attention, or else… I’ll miss something. I think I already have.
Almost three minutes.
I release the stopwatch, letting it dangle from my wrist as something like real fear, maybe for the first time ever with him, shoots through me when I reach for his arms. I have to squat down a little, and I drag my nails across his shoulders when I realize he isn’t moving, not even looking up. I dig deep, blistering his skin all the way past the crook of his elbow, the water lapping at my chest now, and I curl my fingers around his forearms and pull. His own hands come away from my thighs easily, and for a split second, I think he might be dead.
I know it’s irrational. I assume when someone drowns… Well, this close to him, I would know, wouldn’t I?
But I’ve never seen anyone drown.
And in the moment before he comes up, on his own, his head less than an inch from the surface, I remember his fantasy. About the bathtub. And the razorblade.
And I remember something else too. I told him drowning someone sounded easy. His words echo in my head as the sun beats down on my back.“Because you haven’t seen someone drown.”
He breaks the surface then with a splash, standing on his own two feet, and I release him, grabbing the watch as it swings from my arm. It’s black and boring and waterproof, but I need something to hold onto. I clench my fist around it, and he takes a deep breath in, but it doesn’t sound a thing like gasping.
