He gave a deep, dark chuckle. “You let me do anything dark and dirty to that sweet body of yours, and we both know it.”
I rolled my eyes at him. He was right. He was always right.
“I hate this. I hate it. Are you aware that I hate it—” The water hit my waist and the fear went sharp — real now, the animal kind — and his hands tightened.
“Amy. Look at me. Who’s got you?”
“You do.”
“And what do you know as an absolute truth?”
I sighed. “You will protect me with your life.”
“Exactly. Now open your eyes.”
I hadn’t realized I had closed them. I opened them and looked around. We were standing in the middle of an eddy. Waist deep in river water.
“See. It’s not so bad.”
Past his shoulder I could see the river running behind him. In fact, I could see the river bottom. I could walk over to the other side if I wanted to, barely getting my feet wet.
“Now lie back,” he said, moving behind me, his arms coming around me, one broad palm flat between my shoulder blades and the other under my thighs. “I’ve got the whole weight of you. Lie back on my hands.”
And I did the bravest thing I’d done since I stepped onto that raft. I lay back on the surface of the thing that almost killed me, held up by the man who hadn’t let it. And never would.
The sky was bright blue, the water surprisingly warm. My hair floated out around my head like a crown. The water washed over my shoulders, my belly, my legs, and it held me. The knot that had been in my stomach since that fateful day finally let go. I floated. I floated and the river hummed under me and above me was all that sky.
And I… whooped. Loudly. An actual, genuine, enthusiastic whoop, the very kind I’d promised myself I’d make, and heard Garrick make a low sound that I’d learned meant more than most men’s speeches.
“I’m doing it.”
“You’re doing it.”
“I’m — Garrick, take your hands away.”
A pause. “You sure?”
“Before I change my mind, take them —” and he did. He didn’t move away, just let his hands fall away. And I floated. Me. Alone. On the water, on my back, on the far side of the worst day and best summer of my life, held up by nothing but physics and faith.
I lasted eleven glorious seconds before I got cocky, tried to wave at him and started to sink.
Of course, he had me before my head went under, those strong arms hauling me up against his chest, water streaming off both of us, my legs going around his waist out of pure habit while I coughed and laughed at the same time.
“Eleven seconds,” I gasped. “New record. Somebody call the Olympics.”
“You waved.” He pushed the wet hair off my face.
“I was celebrating.”
“You sank.”
“Details.” I grinned at him, watching the grin he’d given up trying to fight curl up the ends of his mouth. I sighed.
This was my whole world now, standing hip-deep in the thing I used to fear — and my heart did the swoop it was never, apparently, going to stop doing. “Admit it. You’re proud of me.”
“I am proud of you,” he said, no hesitation. Then his hands slid down and gripped the backs of my thighs, hitching me higher against him, and his mouth moved to my ear.
“You know what happens now.”