The Pairing(31)

I haven’t wanted to ask. I didn’t want to hear him lie to save my feelings, but he’s brought it up now.

“Do you ever miss California?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, eyes closed to the sun. “All the time.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. We sit in companionable quiet for a while, just us and the cherries and the ocean.

“I wish I brought something to swim in,” Kit says, as much to himself as to me.

I think of our talk about experiencing places—swimming in it, he said. I can hear the Ravel piece he played for me, the flute trills and strings rushing in and out like sea-foam. If he can give me that, I can give him something back. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?

I spring to my feet and face the rocks, my back to him.

“Stand up.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of him. “What?”

“Stand up and turn around. Face the horizon.”

Over the whoosh of the waves, I hear the crinkle of paper, the rustle of leather, a zipper. Kit, tucking our things safely away before he does whatever ridiculous thing I have in mind. I’m glad only the rocks can see me smiling.

“Okay,” he says. “Now what?”

“On three, we take off our clothes.”

I can’t see his face, but I know the exact velocity at which his brows just shot up.

“Sorry?”

“I won’t look at you, you don’t look at me. We take our clothes off and jump in as fast as we can.”

A pause. The waves roll in again.

“Specifically how naked am I getting?”

“As naked as you want to get, I guess.”

“How naked are you getting?”

“Underwear only.”

Another pause.

“Underwear only,” he repeats, his tone neutral. “Okay.”

“Ready?”

“I hope so.”

“One, two, three!”

I rip my shirt off over my head, drop my shorts, and leap.

The water is cool, but not the shocking cold I expect from a lifetime swimming in the Pacific. It swirls around me in smooth, strong whorls, and I stay down for as long as I can, letting it hold my body and push up on the bottoms of my feet. I kick to the surface just as Kit splashes in.

“You hesitated!” I yell when he comes up.

“No, I didn’t!” He pushes wet hair away from his face. “I just didn’t know if you meant it.”

“Why, because I can’t be spontaneous?” I say. “I’ll have you know I’ve become very spontaneous. You know how they say to do one thing every day that scares you?”

“You do that?”

“Well, I’m working my way up. Right now I’m at one a week.”

“I see,” he says. “What scares you this week?”

This, something in me answers automatically. You.

“Bull testicles,” I say. “I’m gonna eat some in Spain.”

I dive under and swim a quick lap, five meters out and back, just to pop up behind Kit and startle him.

“Ah, okay!” He spins around, paddling backward. “You win, you’re spontaneous. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

I laugh, swallowing the words down with a blazing gulp of air.

“It’s good to see you swimming,” he says.

Kit was at the swim meet where I messed up my shoulder, and he was there for the years after, when I hated the thought of learning to swim again. He was there before too, so many chlorine-scented summers. He’s missed the past few years of chin-ups every morning to shore up my muscles and exploratory dips at Corona del Mar, but he knows what it means for me to be back in the water.

“Yeah. It feels good.”

We tread water for what feels like ages, our bare shoulders rising and falling with each swell, just talking. I feel sun-roasted and salt-brined, like a tomato in a jar. Life is silly and random and magnificent, and I’m experiencing it all the way. I’m in it up to my nips. I’m in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, a delirious pink tide pool of happy accidents, and despite it all, I’m glad that it’s Kit here with me. I can’t think of anything happier or more accidental than that.

When an especially big wave rolls in, Kit twists around to catch it head-on, and I see the thin, straight line of black text on the top of his left shoulder, running horizontally between the base of his neck and the shoulder joint.

“Oh, hey,” I say, “there’s your third tattoo.”

Kit tucks his chin back to look at it. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about it back there.”

“What does it say?

“Just a line from a book.”

“What book?”

“The Silmarillion.”

“Ah, of course,” I say. Kit’s family introduced me to genre fiction and Renaissance festivals after a childhood of Serious Art. His parents used to say they stole Kit from Rivendell, on account of how he had the air of like an ethereal elf child. Tolkien was always his favorite. “Nerd. Can I read it?”

He turns, and I push myself closer, glad I’m a strong enough swimmer to keep our naked skin from accidentally touching.

The words read, surpasse tous les joyaux.

“It’s in French,” I say, a little disappointed.