“Percy?” I don’t hear Sam until he puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s looking at me funny, and I realize a few tears have managed to sneak out of their holding cells. I wipe them away and try to smile.
“Sorry . . . I feel like I was just transported back in time for a second.”
“I get that.” Sam is quiet and then crosses his arms across his chest. “Speaking of going back in time . . . think you could still do it?” He nods to the other side of the lake.
“Swim across?” I scoff.
“That’s what I thought. Too old and out of shape for it now,” he says with a tut.
“Are you screwing with me?” Sam’s mouth ticks up on one side. “You brought me here to insult my age and my body? That’s low, even for you, Dr. Florek.” The other side of his mouth moves upward.
“Your body looks good from where I’m standing,” Sam says, looking me up and down.
“Perv.” I unsuccessfully fight back a grin. “You sound like your brother.” My eyes go wide at what I’ve just said, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s been a long time,” he continues. “I’m just saying we aren’t as spry as we used to be.”
“Spry? Who says ‘spry’？ What are you, seventy-five years old?” I tease. “And speak for yourself, old man. I am plenty spry. Not all of us have gone soft.” I poke his stomach, which is so hard it’s like negative percent body fat. He smirks at me. I narrow my eyes, then study the far shore.
“Let’s say I do it: swim across the lake. What’s in it for me?”
“Other than bragging rights? Hmm . . .” He rubs his chin, and I stare at the tendons snaking along in his forearm. “I’ll give you a present.”
“A present?”
“A good one. You know I’m an excellent present giver.” It’s true: Sam used to give the best gifts. Once, he mailed me a worn copy of Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing. It wasn’t a special occasion, but he’d wrapped it up and left a note on the inside cover: Found this at the secondhand store. I think it was waiting for you.
“Humble as always, Sam. Any idea what this excellent gift will be?”
“None whatsoever.” I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me or the big grin across my face.
“Well, in that case,” I say, unbuttoning my shorts, “how could I refuse?” Sam gapes at me. He didn’t think I’d do it. “You better still know how to row.”
* * *
I LIFT MY shirt over my head and stand with my hands on my hips. Sam’s mouth is still hanging open, and while my two-piece is hardly skimpy, I suddenly feel extremely exposed. I have no issues with my body. Okay, yes, I have plenty of issues, but I recognize them as insecurities and don’t tend to worry too much about my soft belly or bumpy thighs. My relationship with my body is one of the few healthy ones I have. I go to a regular spin class and do a weight circuit a couple of times a week, but it’s mostly because I can manage my stress better when I exercise. I’m by no means as toned as the insufferable women who do spinning in short shorts and sports bras, but that’s not the goal. I’m fitish—there are just some jiggles in places I like to think are fine to be a bit jiggly. Sam’s gaze runs down to my chest and back to my face.
“I can row,” he says, a suspicious glimmer in his eye. He pulls his T-shirt over his head and drops it on the dock. Now I’m the one gaping.
“Are you serious?” I squawk, flailing at his torso, my verbal filter completely removed. Eighteen-year-old Sam was in great shape, but adult Sam has a freaking six-pack. His skin is golden and so is the hair that dusts his broad chest. It gets darker as it forms a line from his belly button to below his jeans. His shoulders and arms are muscular but not in a weirdly thick way.
Sam bends over to take off his socks and sneakers, then rolls up his jeans so his ankles and the bottoms of his calves are bare.
“I know, I’ve gone soft,” he says, his blue eyes glittering like sun on water.
I give him my most unimpressed look. “I’m not sure the shirtlessness is necessary.”
“It’s sunny out. It’s going to be hot in the boat.” He shrugs.
“You’re trouble.” I scowl. “I’m going to assume those aren’t just decorative”—I motion at his arms—“and that you’ll be able to keep up with me.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says and steps into the boat.