The Rom-Commers(80)

“I’m more afraid of you falling off it.”

“I’m not going to fall.”

Charlie started edging his way toward me.

“Cut it out!” I said. “You’re scared of heights.”

“I’m not scared of heights. I’m scared of water.”

I pointed down at the pool. “What do you think that is?”

“I can’t just leave you up here. I have to come get you.”

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t even swim.”

“I can swim. I just don’t swim.”

“Get down,” I told him. “Leave this to the professionals.”

“The drunk professionals? In evening gowns?”

The evening gown. I’d almost forgotten. Then, just because I suspected he’d say anything I wanted him to right now, I said, “Don’t I look amazing in this thing?”

And then Charlie surprised me by saying, “You look fucking incredible.”

Wow. Okay. That was better than I’d hoped for.

“Emma,” Charlie said. “Please come here. You’re so drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” I said. “I just drank too much.”

“That’s the literal definition of being drunk.”

“Why are you so argumentative?”

“Why won’t you come here?”

“Because,” I said. “I don’t want to.”

It felt good to defy him. And upset him. And worry him. Was this what all the parenting books I’d read while raising Sylvie had meant by “attention-getting behaviors”? I never understood it until now. It did feel good to have someone’s full attention—good or bad. Especially someone who already had yours.

I wouldn’t notice this until I thought about it later, but that thing Charlie was so good at where he pretended like things didn’t matter? He wasn’t doing that right now.

He was the opposite of nonchalant.

He wasn’t pretending not to care. He was openly caring. Very much.

Maybe I liked that, too.

Charlie had made it halfway out on the board—to the part where the side rails ended. He was clutching the railing with white knuckles as he stretched his other hand out to me. I looked at it. It was trembling.

Huh.

I could scare the hell out of him on a high dive.

Maybe that was enough for me. Or maybe I’d sobered up a little. Or maybe I just didn’t want to ruin Sylvie’s dress. But I decided to come down.

“Fine,” I said. “No swan dive.”

I felt the sigh exit Charlie’s body. “Thank you,” he said, leaning farther out.

But why did walking back feel so much harder than walking out had been?

Maybe because I’d realized Charlie was right.

I was more drunk than any person on a high dive had any right to be.

This was a bad idea.

Bad ideas are a lot scarier once you realize how bad they are.

I took a step, and then bent my knees to absorb the bounce of the board.

I took another step, and did it again.

And then I took a third step … and it was probably the alcohol, but the too-big shoes certainly weren’t helping: the board under me bounced a little, and I guess it pushed the heel sideways as it came up, and the too-big sandal was loose enough that the whole shoe rotated under my foot … and then, to sum up: I tripped.

And fell. Into the pool.





Twenty-Six

IT WAS BASICALLY a belly flop—but onto my side.

I tripped on that crazy shoe—and then I went over. Not gracefully.

Whatever I did on the way down, it was—I think we can all agree—not a swan dive.

The specifics are a bit blurry, but there was flailing involved. And thrashing. And screaming. And then a shatter like a shotgun as the side of my body smacked the surface of the water so hard that it popped the side seam of my sister’s maxi dress.

It hurt like hell. And it knocked the wind out of me, too. And all I could do was sink downward for a minute, hopelessly tangled in Maria von Trapp’s curtains.

In that moment, I felt so bad for what I’d just done to Charlie.

Poor, aquaphobic Charlie. He’d shimmy back down the ladder as fast as he could and then call 911 as he paced back and forth at the edge, watching me undulate beneath the surface—helpless to save me.

Oh, god. I was a goner. They’d never get here in time.

This was it. I’d die in Esther Williams’s pool and become a footnote on her Wikipedia page: *A failed screenwriter drowned in the pool of her second mansion after getting stood up by a man who couldn’t swim. Her last words were: “Cold beef Wellington is not a delicacy!”

What were my last words? Were they guinea-pig related?

Now we’d never know.

A fitting end for me, in a way. Maybe my mermaid screenplay would sell now—with the macabre addition of a real-life aquatic tragedy to the story.

No matter what, Charlie would carry the crushing guilt of this moment for the rest of his life. I’d wanted revenge, yes—but not this much.

Poor guy.

But then, before I had the chance to list any more regrets, or feel thankful for my blessings, or start writing my mental obituary, something clamped around my waist and started yanking and tugging me up toward the surface.