Page 79 of Better Than Gelato
I stand there waist-deep, checking Jake out, and it doesn’t do anything to slow my heart rate. For a scientist, Jake has the muscles of an athlete, and I remember that he played soccer at Johns Hopkins. A bead of water drips down his sculpted shoulder, over his chest and through the gauntlet of abdominals as I watch, mesmerized. This image of him, naked from the waist up, standing in the Mediterranean and glistening in the sun, is one I’ll have with me for a long time.
Jake coughs, and I snap out of my ogling. I spot a buoy thirty yards out.
“How about a race?” I say, pointing.
“You’re on,” Jake says. “On your mark, get set, g?—”
I’m under the water before he can finish. I take long strokes with my arms and hard kicks with my legs, and it feels good to get this energy out. It’s been ages since I’ve swam, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it. I come up for air, then keep pushing myself as hard and as fast as I can. When I smack my hand against the buoy, Jake is a half a body length behind me.
“You smoked me!” he says when he reaches me.
“I really did.” I can’t help gloating a little.
“I had no idea you were such a good swimmer.”
“What can I say? I’m a California girl.”
“Stupid Arizona desert with its stupid cactuses,” Jake grumbles. “So, darts, swimming, any other secret talents I should know about?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Although I do play the bagpipes.”
Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. “The bagpipes? Really?”
“Learned from my paternal grandmother. She also taught me Swedish. My accent isn't great, but I can carry on a conversation.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“I’m also a two-time regional chess champion. And last year, I published a book of limericks.”
“Is that so?” His eyes narrow, and he’s smiling.
“Did I go too far with the chess champion?”
“I believed all of it right up until the limericks.”
“I knew that one was too much. I could sense it.” I wipe a strand of wet hair out of my face.
“So how much of that is real?”
“The darts,” I say with a smile. “And the swimming.”
He shakes his head. “What should I do with you?”
“I have some ideas,” I say, and then we’re kissing again.
We slowly make our way back to the beach. We do more races, a handstand contest, and Diego and Jake build a decent-looking sandcastle with a moat and everything. We stay until the sun is almost setting, then we grab dinner and catch the last train back home.
“I think I’m going to go with Columbia,” Jake says as I snuggle in next to him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s an amazing school. Their research is cutting edge. And I’ve always thought it would be cool to live in New York City.”
“They’re lucky to get you,” I say, pushing down the rising sadness I feel about my own thwarted college plans.
Jake asks what kind of house I want to live in and after some discussion, we agree on a beach house with a secret passageway. This game of make-believe is addicting. It’s easy to picture a wonderful life with Jake if I look at us ten years down the road and not two. The odds for long distance relationships aren’t good. And one of us relocating really means me following him to New York.
But I don’t think of those things. I stubbornly and defiantly block them out. Instead, I think about Jake in the ocean, smiling at me with saltwater dripping off his shoulders.
