Page 8 of Beyond the Stroke

My near-sighted vision reveals that this guy is gorgeous.

Strong jaw, piercing blue eyes and the fullest lips I’ve ever seen on a man. They look like pillows that would be soft and plush, yet unyieldingly firm if necessary.

Even with his hair wet, I can see it’s sandy in color with some natural highlights from the sun.

He’s shirtless, as one might be while swimming in the ocean, with beads of water dripping down his golden skin. He smiles at me, a devastating smile that combined with his five o’clock shadow has me panting.

Maybe I did drown out in the water after all because my body feels all light and tingly, like I’m floating outside myself.

It’s a startling feeling that I’m not used to.

If I were into fairy tales and Disney princesses, then this would be the moment when the birds sing and the audience sighshow romantic. Scarlett would eat this up.

But not me. Because at the same time I’m realizing the man who pulled me out of the ocean is gorgeous, I’m acutely aware that this mermaid portrayal has gone off the rails. That the job I was hired for was not carried out and now I’m abeached mermaid whose auburn wig is floating somewhere in the Atlantic along with my dignity.

Oh, and every breath I attempt to take is like sucking through a straw.

Breathe, Summer.

I can’t.

The man is moving his lips, saying something my oxygen-deprived brain doesn’t register.

I close my eyes to help me narrow the focus on my breathing. Every part of me needs to focus on that.

But it’s not working.

With every breath that feels impossible to take, my anxiety rises. The panic feeds into my ability to breathe, and it becomes an endless loop of struggle.

Finally, I open my eyes to connect with the stranger’s and manage to get out two words. “M-my in-inhaler.”

three

. . .

SUMMER

The man nods in recognition so I must have spoken clear enough for him to understand.

There’s a flurry of movement, the man yelling out to the crowd and eventually he returns with my inhaler. He must have been guided to my backpack and found it there.

I ignore his worried stare and take a deep inhale of medication. Or as deep as I can for what little there is left inside. Then, I wait.

He waits, too. Kneeling in front of me, quiet and patient while my airway relaxes.

Within a few minutes, the medication starts to work and my breathing slowly returns to normal. He must notice because that dazzling smile of his reappears.

“That’s better.” He nods, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. “You had me worried.”

I think he’s just being nice, but when I meet his gaze, I see the sincerity there. And the worry.

I nod. “I’m okay now.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” He scans my body. “It would make me feel better if you got checked out.”

“Well, it wouldn’t make me feel better to pay for an emergency room visit.”

“I get it, but we need to make sure you’re okay.”

---