In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1) (29 page)

“Who?” Tori had
shocked and appalled me by asking. She followed baseball, not
swimming. That had led to some Google searches, which had led to some
drooling, and the idle statement by me, “lucky physical therapist
who gets to work with him.”

Tori had given me that
look, the one that said, “that’s not such a bad idea.” And once
I’d remembered he had that mysterious, untold backstory, it was all
over. We were on the idea like white on rice. She’d gotten her job
in PR, I’d started pursuing mine with the team, and the rest was
history. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t had a full part in coming up
with the scheme.

My father had said it
to me, back in Rio. I couldn’t change the past. All I could control
was my behavior moving forward. It was up to me to decide how I was
going to handle things in the future. Better, I hoped.

Which was why I’d
brought up the whole thing with my boss. She was a big, intimidating
woman who’d played water polo in college and still enjoyed
hammering her opponents in supposedly “recreational” game play in
her master’s league.

Hesitant, guilty, I’d
asked if I could meet with her on my first day back in the office.
She’d been eating a large pastrami sandwich while we spoke, the
multiple layers of tomato and lettuce dropping out as she took bites.

“Spit it out,”
she’d said to me, spitting out a few things, herself.

“Um, it’s about
something you might read about me online. On a blog?”

“Have you broken the
law?” She locked me in her steely gaze.

“No! No, nothing like
that.”

“Then I don’t
care.”

“Well, you might.”
I didn’t want to push. She’d just given me a get out of jail free
card. But I didn’t want any more unfinished business, any more
worries about untold truths. “It might affect your opinion of me as
a professional working for you.”

“Are you still the
same person you were when you left here a month ago?”

“Yes.” Honestly, I
felt pretty different. But as far as she was concerned, I had the
same skills as a physical therapist.

“Then we’re good.
Let me eat my lunch.” She motioned to the door. She wasn’t being
rude; she was just to the point.

“Hey,” she called
after me as I got up to leave. “What happens in the Village, stays
in the Village.” And she gave me a wink.

Maybe she had seen that
article after all.

§

I wanted to spend a lot
of time crying. Behind closed doors, in bed, covers drawn up, shades
pulled down. That was part of why it was good that I was between
apartments. My parents weren’t having it. Up early every morning,
they usually let me sleep until around eight. But that was it.

I’d hear a
tap,
tap
on my door. “Hey honey, I’m heading to the
Farmer’s Market. Let’s go pick some corn for dinner.”

Or, “Come on with me
to the center. They need someone to help with the littles.” The
facility where my mom worked had a large pool, and to make some extra
income they offered community swim lessons. With the younger
learn-to-swims, they needed to keep the student-to-teacher ratio low,
and they were always happy when I could help out. A little extra cash
in my pocket didn’t hurt, either.

Plus, it helped to
distract me. My parents weren’t trying to pretend nothing had
happened. They weren’t glossing over my pain and distress, nor were
they telling me everything would be fine.

“Yup, you’re in a
muddle,” my father had agreed, patting me on the shoulder.

“It’s a shame.”
My mother shook her head. But neither of them would let me lay around
moping.

“It’s a beautiful
day. The sun is shining. You’re young and healthy.” My mother
would barge into my room, throw open the curtains, bustle around
straightening up any clutter she saw.

I might grumble,
especially in the early morning hours, but it was their turf, their
rules. I was working on finding another apartment and had discovered
a couple good leads, but they didn’t open up until October first.
Until then, if I was living under their roof, wallowing in self-pity
wasn’t on the agenda.

I liked helping with
the swim lessons more than I’d thought. I’d belonged to a
recreational swim team as a kid, and I’d taught swim lessons as a
camp counselor. It felt fun to get back in the water with kids again.

It was good to get back
to work, too, but the swim lessons were more of an escape. Physical
therapy reminded me of Chase, especially since our center now had a
damn framed, signed photo of him in the lobby. When my boss first
showed it to me, delighted, I’d felt so shocked. At the sight of
his smiling face, I’d backed up into a wall, bumping against it and
smacking my head. That was helpful, though, as it gave a plausible
excuse for why my eyes filled with tears.

“You all right there?
Looks like you really whacked your head,” my boss had asked.

“Fine, I’m fine,”
I’d assured her, looking away from the framed photo, the real
source of distress. Chase looked so damn handsome and proud and
happy. When had he sent it? It must have been before he found out
about the blogging.

“He must have loved
working with you. Great job, Emma.”

Great job, Emma. Her
words seemed to echo around me, mocking, and I excused myself to go
have a little cry in the bathroom.

At the senior center?
No framed photos of Chase. The little ones in the swim classes hadn’t
even heard of Chase Carter.

On Wednesdays, I helped
out in a class with infants. Babies, in the water? Come on, now. They
were so plump and adorable. The parents got in the water with them,
too, so I was mostly just there as an extra set of eyes for safety.
But sometimes I’d get to hold babies and swoosh them around in the
warm water, making silly noises and smiling at their delight. Most
really little ones had an instinctive love of their natural habitat,
maybe reminding them of their footloose and fancy-free days in the
womb with none of the daily hassles like diaper changes or dropping
your pacifier. Just moving, kicking, buoyant and relaxed, in the
water.

When did we lose that
unselfconscious joy? It was probably during the teenage years. We
stopped simply enjoying things and started worrying. What did we look
like in those jeans? What did that girl really mean when she said
“sure”? Was that guy looking over because he thought you were
cute or because you had something caught in your teeth?

The good news was I saw
unfettered joy bubbling up again in some of the seniors. Not all of
them. Unfortunately, some seniors at the center seemed trapped in
clinical depression, isolated, not engaging with the world around
them. But there were some at the other end of the spectrum, too.
There was one elderly woman I especially enjoyed seeing. She came
down to the pool every day in a bright, flowered bathing cap and a
skirted suit she called her “swimming costume.” She was always
smiling, sometimes humming a little tune. She took absolute delight
in the water, floating, sometimes paddling around, sometimes kicking
with a board, always enjoying herself.

I hoped I’d be like
her when I grew older. Because at the moment, I was nothing like her.
I kept it together relatively well during the day. But at night,
dinner done, physical therapy sessions and swim lessons finished, the
hours stretched and I had too much time for memories.

It had felt so good
with Chase, so real and right. We’d clicked, like you read about in
books, that elusive feeling when you didn’t even have to wonder if
it was right, was he the one? You just knew. I felt an almost
physical pain away from him. Our connection had been so intimate and
intense, making me feel so vulnerable and cared for at the same time.
I’d been able to let myself go in ways I never had before, reaching
deeper pleasure than I’d ever thought possible.

And then I’d fucked
it up royally. There were a lot of things I felt awful about, but the
worst of it was that I really had done something wrong. I had been
dishonest. What I’d done wasn’t as bad as that article had
claimed. I hadn’t faked my credentials. And I hadn’t actually run
a smear story on him.

But I had taken the job
with a hidden agenda. I’d known he wouldn’t want his full story
told, and I’d gone in with the intent to open him up, get him
sharing and talking. I hadn’t thought about the consequences on his
end. I’d worried about my side of things, first how many blog
followers I’d get, and then as my feelings grew, would I get hurt?

I liked to think of
myself as a thoughtful, considerate, caring person. But I felt like a
large, unforgiving mirror in harsh lighting was being held right in
front of my face, showing me the opposite. It made me question
everything. Maybe I’d dated such jerks in the past because they
made me look good next to them? I could be the saint to their sinner.
Maybe I’d liked using my friendship with Tori as an excuse to do
things I knew I shouldn’t, partying all night, blogging about
gossip? She gave me an excuse to be naughty. While I might tsk and
shake my head, all the while I was actually enjoying the ride.

I guessed that’s what
sucked about being a grown up. You couldn’t hide in adolescent
angst anymore. There was no pretense that people just didn’t
understand you, you’d been dealt a raw hand, couldn’t I get a
do-over please? You had to take responsibility for your actions.
Bleck.

My notebook was filled
with letters I started but didn’t send to Chase. I kept starting,
then stopping. I’d find myself writing five pages about the
background of my friendship with Tori, then snap the notebook closed
in frustration. I’d start trying to tell him how I felt about him,
how I’d never felt that way about anyone before in my life. Then
I’d look at the words and find them so inadequate, so lacking and
clichéd, there was no way I could rely on them.

But, the thing was, I
hadn’t given up hope. He’d told me he needed time, but hadn’t
told me forever. Hard as it was, I understood and respected his
request. Not only had things between us gone up in flames, he’d
just finished years of backbreaking work, all culminating in the
Olympics. Wherever he was now, he had to be facing a large helping of
“now what?” I wished I were by his side, that we were somehow
figuring out things together. But with each passing day, I had to
acknowledge that didn’t look too likely.

I finally sent him an email:

Dear Chase,

I’m
sorry I got to know you without telling you everything.

I’m
sorry I wanted to learn your secrets and share them.

I’m in love with you. Please forgive me.

Love, Emma

It felt inadequate. It
felt stupid. But at least it was something. Maybe eventually he’d
want to talk to me, and maybe eventually listen, and maybe, just
maybe, we could work our way out of the mess. I had to hope we could.

§

It was a Thursday
afternoon in mid-September and I was down at the senior center,
giving a one-on-one learn-to-swim lesson to a four-year-old. She wore
a Tinkerbell swimsuit with ruffles and rhinestones. I used it as a
distraction while I eased her into the water, her white-knuckled
fingers gripping my arms instead of the side of the pool.

“Do you like sparkly
things?” I asked her, holding her in the water, gently bobbing up
and down. See, nothing to be afraid of here. She warmed to the topic,
telling me about a new pair of sandals with not just flowers, but
glittery flowers.

“Did you know we have
a prize box?” I asked her and her eyes got wide. “When you do six
lessons, you get a certificate showing what you’ve learned. And you
get to choose a prize from the treasure chest. Some of them are
sparkly.”

That got her attention
and before long, she was putting her face right in the water and
blowing bubbles like a champion.

“Mind if I give her
some pointers?” asked a deep masculine voice I instantly recognized
but didn’t dare believe I was actually hearing. Crouching down at
the edge of the pool was none other than Chase.

“What—?!” I
nearly dropped my poor student, who looked up at the giant man like
he might be a space alien.

“Are you Chase
Carter?” The little girl’s mother appeared by his side, all
a-twitter. “You won gold in Rio! We watched you!”

“Hi, ma’am.” He
stood up and shook her hand. She didn’t want to let go. “You’ve
got a good little swimmer here.” He gave a smile to my student, who
now looked awestruck.

“You think so?” I
could see the gears spinning in the mother’s mind. Was Olympic gold
in her daughter’s future? “How much do you charge for a lesson? I
didn’t know you were teaching here!”

“Sorry, I’m just
visiting a friend.”

A friend who could not
close her mouth she was so shocked. But apparently I was the only one
who felt that way. The rest of the facility erupted in excitement,
circling around him, wanting autographs, asking questions. Giving me
a sheepish look, he started shaking hands and signing things like a
flier offering a community soccer clinic, or a card advertising a
local business.

The lesson over, I
climbed out, wrapped myself in a towel, and waited outside the
throng, still unable to believe he was there in Vero Beach, at the
senior center pool, standing in regular old baggy shorts and a
T-shirt but still looking every inch the elite athlete with his long,
powerful build. Why was he there? It was probably a good thing,
right? He wouldn’t have come to see me to tell me he didn’t want
to see me. Or would he?

It took him a while to
disengage himself. An especially persistent elderly woman was clearly
enjoying the freedom that came from old age to do exactly what she
wanted.

“One more!” she
kept gleefully declaring, throwing her arms around him and pressing
her cheek against him.

“OK,” he laughingly
agreed. The woman, who had to be in her 80s, barely came up to the
middle of his chest.