Funny Story(53)

“She keeps insisting she’s here to ‘be there’ for me,” he says.

“Well,” I say, “maybe she is.”

He gives me a look. “She never tells me when things are bad, but she’s not good at hiding it either.” He looks away, out toward the island, and shakes it off. “I’ll figure it out. It’s fine.”

When he looks back, he’s grinning, seemingly unbothered, though this time I’m not totally convinced. “You still good, or you want to turn back?” he asks, clearly done with the topic of Julia.

So I let it go. “I’m good.”

When the sun is high enough for the water to settle into its usual brilliant crystal green, Miles stops paddling and takes off his sweatshirt and shirt in one move, dropping them into his lap. I hold out for another twenty minutes until I can no longer stand the way my tank top sticks to me, then relent and peel it away from my bathing suit.

“It’s pretty amazing,” Miles says.

I pull my shirt off and glance over at him as I slip my life vest back on. He’s gazing toward the forested island, the last morning remnants of mist clinging to it, his kayak bumping into mine.

“It is,” I say, feeling the need to whisper it, for some reason.

He looks. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” I say.

He tucks his chin, a teasing curve to his lips. “Even though you hate it?”

“I don’t hate it,” I say.

He seems unconvinced.

“I actually think I like it,” I say. “I’m just not good at it, and it stresses me out feeling like I’m making someone wait on me.”

“Why?” he says.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“But I don’t mind,” he says.

“You say that,” I reply.

“I’m not training for the Olympics, Daphne,” he says. “Why would I give a shit?”

“When we used to try to hike together, I’d get out of breath and Peter would—” I realize my mistake too late.

Miles probably would’ve missed the slipup, if not for the way my sentence screeches to a halt.

The corner of his mouth quirks as he reaches toward my kayak.

I shake my head, but he doesn’t slow his progress.

“No!” I shriek as he knocks me to one side. “I didn’t say it!”

“You one-hundred-percent said it,” he argues.

“Different Peter!” I cry, laughing as we struggle against each other for a minute. “Different Peter!”

“Should’ve called him Pete, then,” Miles says.

He gives the kayak one more hard shove, tipping me over into the cold water. It sloshes over my face for just a second before my life vest pops me above the surface. “Are you kidding me?” I shriek, swimming toward him, grabbing the side of his boat now.

“I didn’t break the rule,” he argues.

“You dumped me in the lake,” I say, trying and failing to tip him in. “That’s so much worse.”

“Fine, fine,” he says. “I’m getting in.” But as he says it, he’s grabbing his paddle, slicing it into the water, trying to get away.

I grab hold of one side and yank as hard as I can.

It takes a few seconds of struggle, but in the end, I manage it.

Miles crashes into the lake. He resurfaces, soaked and sputtering, and slicks his hair out of his face, eyes crinkled against the sun. “Didn’t even check if I could swim or not,” he tuts, pretending to be aghast.

“I would’ve saved you,” I say.

“You?” he says. “I’m, like, forty pounds heavier than you.”

“First of all,” I say, “you’re absolutely not. And second of all, I have a life vest. We would’ve been fine.”

He swims toward me, loops an arm around my back, my stomach lifting into my chest at the feeling of his skin on mine, his weight pulling us downward as my heart buoys into the back of my throat. “Your physics are off, Daphne,” he says against my ear as we start to sink.

I wriggle around to face him, pushing away before anything can keep me there. “I knew you could swim, Miles.”

“How?” he asks.

“One, everything about you,” I say. “Two, I’ve seen pictures.”

“When you and Ashleigh were snooping?” he teases.

“Yes, when we were snooping,” I admit.

He nods, treading water in front of me. “Thought so.”

“Have you ever snooped?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

I study him until he laughs, glances toward the island again, then meets my eyes. “Fine, a couple of times when you’ve left your door open, I’ve peeked in. But it’s not like I’m digging through your drawers.”

“Excuse me,” I say. “I did not dig through your drawers. Not that I would have needed to, since they were all open.”

“You looked in them.” He swims closer.

“I didn’t,” I say.

“In case you were wondering,” he says, “your drawers have never been open while your door was.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” I say.