If my life has a top ten list, this is in the top three. Leo on the beach. It’s the image that keeps coming back as I lie in bed tonight, thinking about tomorrow and the sex I’m determined to have, no matter what now, so Leo will be happy. I’ll be happy, too, of course—this isn’t all for him. I still don’t know if I love Leo, like from-the-heart love him, but maybe I do. I think about the day on the beach and it makes me feel all warm inside. Tingly. Nice. That could be love. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on the word.

What I do know is that I’m ready this time. Seriously. I’m ready.

Because Leo is a miracle, I tell myself.

And I want to believe.

Chapter 6

6

Saturday afternoon. I’m nervous as I make my way into the pool area where (after some light internet stalking) I figured out that Leo’s swim meet was being held. But it’s a good nervous. I feel prepared this time. Ready, like I said. I even feel pretty. My hair has been tamed and braided over one shoulder. I’m wearing some light makeup and the prearranged outfit and a pair of strappy sandals that show off the pedicure Afton gave me. The shoes are Afton’s, too. We don’t have the same size bodies, so we’ve never been able to share clothes, but we do have the same size feet: seven and a half.

I trot those strappy sandals up to a seat in the bleachers. From above I spot Leo right away. His cowlick is covered by a swim cap, and his eyes with goggles, but I still recognize him by his height and the chest-forward way he strides along the edge of the pool. He’s wearing a black Speedo with a bright blue letter Q on the side—Q for Quicksilver, the name of his swim team.

I don’t try to get his attention, and I don’t text to tell him I’m here. I don’t want him to know yet. I’ve been imagining a moment while he’s swimming when he’ll look up, and then he’ll see me here, and I will wave and cheer, and he will smile and swim even faster.

He’s gorgeous in the water, graceful in a way he isn’t on solid ground. I compose a half dozen mental sketches of him swimming, the shapes filling my mind: the double arcs of his arms sluicing through the crystalline liquid, his legs trailing behind, the fierce set of his mouth as he pushes forward. I can almost understand his preoccupation with Michael Phelps. There’s something mesmerizing about watching Leo do what he does best.