Swimming is the perfect distraction from thinking about Alex. Now that I’m focused on not drowning, I don’t have time to obsess about making out with him. Initially, I try everything to forget him. I study constantly to prepare for finals in three weeks. I stay in my room as much as possible to avoid seeing him. I watch more movies than my brain can handle. Action and thrillers like The Mummy Returns, Men in Black, and Pearl Harbor keep me company for days. Until it gets old. All of my antics lose their ability to distract me eventually. Then I’m right back where I started, craving someone I can never have.

After the date, Alex confirms that it was magical, but can’t happen again. He’s happy to be friends, but he doesn’t want me to get romantically attached since he knows I’m attracted to him. He’s right. His honesty is a blessing, but I’m already attached. How could I not be? My experience of dating has been distorted. I have known men primarily through the lens of pain, abuse, and rejection. When a chance is finally given to see the other side, my brain explodes in desire like someone who hasn’t eaten in a month devouring the worst food possible. It doesn’t matter, at least it’s food.

I reflect on my hunger while staring at the amazingly chiseled swim instructor, six-ab Brett. This is my third lesson this week. There are six of us in the class. Everyone else seems to get it, but I keep sinking like a rock. I hate being submerged in water. It’s unnatural and dangerous, but Dartmouth is one of three Ivy League schools that still require a stupid swim test to graduate. Something else they never put in those glossy brochures. You have to take it before you graduate, but I decided to start lessons early since I know it’s going to be an eternity before I get comfortable in a pool. I only started this week, but I’ve nearly drowned twice. The lifeguard saved me the first time and another student the second. I freak out when I can’t touch the bottom of the pool with my feet and start to pull myself under.