I rolled my eyes, reaching out to shove her shoulder. My mind was still turning over his words, the tension in his hands, the way he shut that book like he wanted to shut out more than just a story.

I didn’t know what to tell him.

I didn’t know how to reach him when he locked himself away like this, when the past wrapped itself around him so tightly that even fiction seemed to remind him of wounds that hadn’t healed.

So, I did what I always did when I wasn’t sure what else to do: I tried to fill the silence. Anything to break the stillness, even if it meant saying something meaningless.

“Well…” I said, my voice coming out a little louder than I’d intended. Wait, what was he talking about again? Oh, right—the hero who kept making stupid choices. “Well,” I repeated with a shrug, “at least he’s got a cool sword, right?”

To my complete and utter surprise, the corner of Blake’s mouth lifted, and he let out a soft breath through his nose, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention.

But I was always paying attention.

It was the closest thing to a laugh I’d heard from him so far.

* * *

Summer crept in the way it always did—slow at first, then all at once, drowning us in heat. Every weekend, we piled into the car and drove two hours out of Los Angeles to Big Bear Lake, trading the city’s noise for the hum of cicadas and the water quietly lapping against the shore.

The days stretched long and lazy, golden and warm, blurring together in a haze of sunburned shoulders, melted popsicles, and cicadas screaming their little bug hearts out.

Evenings smelled like campfire smoke, sunscreen, and whatever questionable meat Dad was grilling.

We spent hours fishing with him, mostly because he loved it and because the idea of denying a grown man his favorite weekend activity was too cruel to consider. The water was so clear that we could see the fish mocking us as they swam just out of reach.

At night, we camped beneath a sky so wide it made me feel like a tiny, insignificant speck of dust, which was both humbling and kind of rude.

Then, one fateful, sun-drenched afternoon, Blake turned to me with that particular quiet determination of his that meant he was about to ruin my peace.

“Teach me,” he insisted.

I squinted at him, wiping sweat from my brow. “Teach you what?”

“How to swim.”

He always wanted to learn new things—always pushing himself, never satisfied with what he already knew. He couldn’t wait for swimming lessons, couldn’t stand the idea of waiting when the water was right there, stretching wide and inviting before him.

So I taught him how to swim.

Or tried to…