Dave swaps his fin. “Got it. Sorry.”
I turn to check my own equipment. One small moment of gratitude that Muir knows exactly when to step in and exactlywhat tone to use despite him being practically brand new to this operation.
Which I hate.
Competence shouldn't be attractive on someone who destroyed you.
Rex is helping a woman with her mask seal—Patricia, mid-fifties, round-faced and cheerful, with short gray hair and laugh lines deep enough to map a life. Her husband hovers nearby, tall and thin with nervous hands and a camera around his neck.
“You doing okay?” Rex asks. Quiet. Just for me. Dave has moved on to asking about lake geology.
“Fine.”
His hand lands on my shoulder.
It's casual. The kind of thing he's done a hundred times. But suddenly I'm aware of it. Aware of Patricia watching with that soft, approving look people get when they see couples they find charming. Aware that I'mnoticingher noticing, which is worse than the touch itself.
I hate this.
“You're tense.” Rex's thumb moves in a small circle against my shoulder blade. Not romantic. Just the way he'd work a knot out of a rope. “Shoulders are up around your ears.”
“I'm fine.”
“You look like someone just asked you to do calculus in front of an audience.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Which, granted, is your baseline state, but this is anewflavor of panic.”
I almost smile.
“Patricia over there thinks I'm genuinely lovely,” he continues, still low. “I'm going to lean into that. Watch this.” He straightens, keeping his hand on my shoulder, and turns to help the second local with her mask. Does it with such exaggerated gentleness—such theatrical care—that it's impossible not to see the joke. At himself. At the situation. At this whole ridiculous performance.
He glances back.Better?
I nod.
It is.
In the water,everything gets simple.
That's what I love about diving. Down here, there's only one question:what's happening right now and what do I do about it?
Look. Listen. Breathe. Move.
The lake does the rest.
I lead the group through orientation. First ledge. Visibility check. Basic signals in real conditions. They're doing well. Dave, remarkably, is an excellent diver once he's actually underwater. The medium forces the focus he couldn't quite manage on the dock. He moves carefully. Signals clearly. Only tries to pet aperch once, and when I give him a look through my mask, he pulls his hand back with visible contrition.
Muir's guiding the rear.
Standard formation. I'm lead, he's tail. I check every forty-five seconds like I'm supposed to. Which means every forty-five seconds I'm looking in his direction. Professional. Required.
The fact that I notice exactly how he moves in the water is not professional. Easy. Unhurried.
The way I move in the lake. It's in his body the same way it's in mine.
At forty-five seconds, I glance back. He's checking Dave's buoyancy with one hand, steady and sure. His hair floats loose from its tie, pale gold in the filtered light.
At ninety seconds, I turn to verify formation again, and try not to commit his body and the way it moves to my memory.
At one hundred thirty-five seconds, I force myself to look away. Toward the pickerel. Toward anything but the way he moves, the way he's exactly as good at this as he is at everything else.