I turn my head slowly to look at him. There’s not a hint of how he’s feeling in his posture—he sounds as emotionless as he would if he were discussing the hotel restaurant. But what he’s just told me . . . I may not like Lucas, but that makes my heart ache for the little boy he was.
“I’m so sorry, Lucas, that’s awful.”
“It was a workplace accident, actually. He was a labourer. But yes. I’m sorry I asked about yours. It’s just . . . habit.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I settle cross-legged on the tiles, squeezing the pool water out of the bottom of my trousers.
“My parents were always into sailing—these madcap adventures all around the world,” I say. My voice barely carries above the sounds of the water. “It was never my thing, really, but after I left home, they bought a new boat and took it all over the place. America, the Caribbean, Norway. And one day . . . their boat sank.”
I watch Lucas; he’s still expressionless. I wonder if that one was on his list. It’s just the sort of death a kid might imagine for the parent he doesn’t remember. To me, though, it had seemed absolutely impossible. My parents were such experienced sailors—I never considered their adventures dangerous. It was just what they always did.
“It was so sudden,” I say. “People act like that’s better, but I don’t know. It was like the world fundamentally changed into a horrible place in a split second and I was completely unequipped to handle it.” I can hear how odd my voice sounds as I try to keep it breezy. “Anyway, now you know why I’m so ‘childish,’ as you put it. Life is so short! You can be gone just like that.” I click my fingers as I stand, looking down at the gigantic puddle I’ve left on the tiles beneath me. “You’ve got to live every moment and enjoy it.”
Lucas tilts his head, saying nothing. I head for the towels, then pause as he says, “No, you don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“You don’t have to enjoy every moment. Nobody can do that. It would be . . . exhausting.”
I’m thrown. I didn’t think I needed to worry about Lucas being more tactful with me on account of my dead parents.
“Well, I do,” I say a little defensively. “That’s how I live my life.”
“No,” Lucas says.
He turns to look back at me, droplets sliding along the hard line of his jaw.
“You don’t,” he says. “You have bad days, too. Everyone has bad days. As you so often like to remind me—you’re a human.”
“You know what? Most people do not use the news of my parents’ death as a chance to tell me I’m not living my life right,” I snap. But it’s hard to muster my usual frustration—I can’t forget his steady, low voice saying, I always used to make up how he died.
“I’m not saying that,” Lucas says. “I’m saying you’re not being honest.”
He pulls himself up onto the side of the pool, and even in the midst of this conversation, I can’t help but suck in a breath as the water paints his shirt to his skin. I can see every steely muscle, every contour. After a moment it makes me wonder what he can see, and I look down at myself to notice that my own shirt is clinging to my bra as if I’m in some sort of noughties frat-boy comedy film. Shit. I spin and reach for a towel from the basket by the wall.
“You are very positive, especially given what you’ve been through in your life,” Lucas says behind me. “But you are still a real person. You swear when you drop things, and you think certain guests are idiots. You play dirty to win a bet.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .” Only with you, I almost say. Nobody else in this hotel would ever say that I swear or think badly of guests. If you asked Ollie whether I’d play dirty to win a bet, he’d go, Izzy Jenkins? No way. She’s a total sweetheart.
I pull the towel around me, but all it does is bring the cold, soaked clothes closer to my skin—I need to strip off and get in a hot shower. I’m starting to shake, and I’m filled with the mess of emotions Lucas always seems to stir up in me: frustration, uncertainty, and the shadowy hurt that’s been lurking there since last winter.
“So neither of us is perfect, then,” I say.
“Precisely,” Lucas says with satisfaction. He strolls off towards the men’s changing room—not bothering with a towel, shirt clinging to the muscles of his back. I am left with the irritating sense that somehow, I’ve just managed to prove his point.