Page 23 of Good Graces

“Dorks with elite athletic ability,” Liam corrects, then checks his phone. “Shit, okay, we reallydoneed to go.”

Birdie sighs. “That’s what Isaid.”

I raise a brow. “You’re training him, slowly but surely.”

She smirks. “Someone has to do it.”

Liam dramatically winks at me as Birdie drags him toward the door, still muttering about punctuality. “Later, Flipper,” he calls.

“Try not to get fired today,” Birdie adds.

“Try not to let him make a public spectacle of his devotion to you,” I shoot back.

She grins over her shoulder. “Too late.”

They leave, Birdie talking about her internship, Liam listening with the kind of attention that would make any other guy seem whipped but just makes him look steady. Like he’s never once questioned where he stands with her.

It must be nice, I think, to love someone without hesitation. To be loved right back and not wonder what’s coming next.

A few minutes after they’re gone, the house settles into silence. The good kind, the kind that usually helps me focus. But today, it just sits there, loud in all the wrong ways.

I toss my empty bottle into the sink and rake a hand through my damp hair.

Fifteen minutes until I have to be at Sycamore. Fifteen minutes until I’m back in the same orbit as the girl I can’t stop thinking about and can’t seem to forget.

I grab my keys, square my shoulders, and try to remember how to act like she doesn’t matter.

* * *

On the pool deck,the heat clings, but it’s different today. No blinding sun, no sharp glare bouncing off the water. There’s an overcast sky, clouds stretched dense and unmoving across the horizon. It’s still hot, still humid, but with that deceptive edge that makes it easy to forget the burn creeping up on bare skin until it’s too late.

Sweat beads at the back of my neck, slick under the collar of my uniform. My sunglasses slide slightly down the bridge of my nose, and I push them back up, shifting in my chair to find some position that doesn’t make my lower back hate me.

The afternoon crowd is already restless. Not just the kids but the adults, too. Tensions fraying under the weight of too much sun, too many overpriced drinks, too many egos clashing over whose poolside lounge chair was technically reserved first.

From my perch, I clock it all.

The way the lifeguard stationed at the shallow end is already starting to look drained. The way a group of bored teenagers near the diving board are eyeing each other, hyping up whatever foolish idea they’re about to attempt next. The way a dad with an expensive-looking watch is gesturing a little too aggressively at one of the servers, probably pissed that his drink wasn’t cold enough.

It’s the kind of day where patience wears thin, where someone’s bound to snap over something ridiculous. The kind of day I hate the most.

I scrub my temples, resisting the urge to check the clock again. It doesn’t matter. The shift will drag at the same pace it always does. Slow. Uneventful.

Or so I think.

A flicker of motion catches my eye in the deep end. Quick. Unsteady. A kid, maybe eight, pushing off from the wall like he’s determined to prove something to himself. I sit up straighter. He’s moving, but not with confidence. Not with the kind of control you want to see in the deep section.

I don’t need to see his face to recognize the signs—arms slowing, body tipping slightly off balance, the effort suddenly outweighing the ability. Then, just as I shift forward, ready to blow my whistle, a bigger kid rockets past him. The wake slams into the smaller one, water splashing straight over his head.

One second. That’s all it takes.

The younger kid gasps, eyes wide, panic blooming across his face as he flails for the surface. Then he goes under.

My body reacts before my brain fully registers it. I’m out of my chair, whistle piercing through the air. I hit the water hard, cool blue closing in around me as I cut through the lane with sharp, efficient strokes. It’s instinct. Training.

I reach him fast, my rescue tube already against my chest. I slip it between us, guiding his arms over the top so he can float while I keep hold. His breathing is ragged, mouth open as he gasps and coughs, but he’s conscious and responsive. I angle us toward the shallow end, kicking steadily as I tow him back.

“You’re okay,” I tell him, voice steady, even. “I’ve got you.”

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