watering a withered flower won’t make it bloom again

The key reader beeps as you swipe your fob, and you’re hit with the wall of humidity as soon as you open the door. The pool is mostly empty—it’s far too late for anyone else to be awake, let alone ready for a swim. But still, the pool has one occupant, and you make your way around the concrete and tile decking to the long edge, toeing out of your sandals and sitting so you can watch. You feel your shorts dampen with the water that clings to the edge, but right now, you don’t really care. 

The water is remarkably warm on your legs as you dangle them just below the surface. Waves from the lone swimmer lap at your shins. You watch as he goes through lap after lap, transition after transition, back and forth and back again. He used to do this competitively, used to be one of the best in his age group, but the years have slowed him, and he’s no longer in practice the way he was. 

Still, the pool wasn’t meant to be used like this. It doesn’t have swim lanes, or any of the underwater markings so necessary for any sort of serious swimming. It was built for families to spend summer evenings, for couples having lazy weekends, teens looking to let off some steam. Not for former near-pros who need somewhere to disappear to when the fire in their veins threatens to burn them alive. 

Backstroke. Butterfly. Breaststroke. He alternates between them as easily as breathing. Maybe, for him, it is. 

You clutch a towel in your lap. It was warm when you left the apartment, but now, it’s lost its fresh-from-the-dryer appeal. You aren’t really sure what you were expecting when you made the trek down to the complex’s pool. 

Whatever it was, getting ignored wasn’t part of it. 

Eventually, he slows. His strokes become more casual. He pushes himself around the water lazily, kicking his feet like a frog. And yet still, he says nothing. 

Until: “What time is it?”

“Late,” you answer solemnly. It comes out softer than you’d hoped it would. 

“You should be asleep.”

You hum. “Couldn’t. My favorite body pillow decided to have a pool day.”

His back is to you, and you can’t read his tone when he says, “There’s a body pillow in the closet you could have used.”

“I…” You aren’t really sure how to respond. Because explaining sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? You always slept better with him nearby. He knows that. It’s a metaphor. It’s… pointless, apparently.

The hurt creeps in again. You’d thought that a few hours was enough time to let its icy tendrils melt, enough for him to cool down and for you to patch yourself back up. Enough for the hurt on both sides to heal. You’d thought that the pool would help. 

The pool always helps. 

Your fingers tighten in the soft fabric of the towel, and you nod quietly. Maybe tonight, the pool wasn’t enough. Maybe, for the first time in the years you’ve known him, this was something that couldn’t be patched over so easily. 

The two of you don’t fight. Not really. 95 percent of your problems are solved with rational thought and conversation. You’ve always approached things as a team, together as a united front. Even when you were slightly more than best friends. But that other five percent? It digs deep, builds thick walls, tells lies in the shadows of the mind.

He doesn’t want to burden you. You want nothing more than to help him carry the baggage he takes on. Hurt feelings take root in silence, pain builds until it bubbles over. You don’t even know it’s happening until something gives and everything explodes.

You’re not sure which is worse: that it got to this point in the first place, or that you don’t remember what the argument was even about.

You lose track of him in the water, you’re so engrossed in your thoughts. You’ve just convinced yourself to leave him be, to give him more time, more space. Your feet aren’t even out of the water yet, but a head of dark hair bobs its way over.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, voice soft. His honeyed baritone is laced with something that sounds almost like an apology, but he doesn’t say it. Not yet.

Dark eyes meet yours, and you can almost convince yourself that he’s the Chris of this morning–the one that was almost late to a meeting because he wouldn’t stop kissing you goodbye–and not the Chris of a few hours ago, who’d scolded you over a bowl of instant ramen and then told you that you were incapable of understanding what was bothering him.

“I didn’t mean…” He clears his throat, eyes darting to the towel you’re clutching. There’s a weak wobble in his voice when he speaks again. “I like being your body pillow. I just thought that maybe you’d want space after…”

You hate how you hesitate in reaching out, fingertips hovering just millimeters off his skin before ghosting across his forehead to brush his wet hair back off his face. “You’re doing it again.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to protect me from you, you know?” Your hand comes to rest against his cheek. His skin is cool from the water, and you brush some stray droplets away with your thumb. “No matter what’s bothering you. I might not have all the answers, but at least you won’t have to carry it alone.”

Chris leans into your touch, turning ever so slightly so that his lips brush your palm. “I love you.” He breathes it, like a prayer, like it’s sacred.

You lean down, then, and he pushes up to meet you halfway. Water rolls off of him in rivulets, soaking your legs as he settles between your knees. Strong arms hold him up, caging you in. Your hands cup his jaw, fingers curving along the sharp lines and soft skin. He tastes like chlorine and his favorite apricot lip balm; his lips mould to yours as though they were made to be there. It’s gentle, loving, a little desperate, as though he’s trying to tell you a million things all at once.

You’re breathless when he finally, reluctantly, pulls away, noses brushing, foreheads touching. You barely register how damp your clothes are now, how they stick to your skin.

“I am sorry. For everything.”

“I know you are. And I suppose I can forgive you. If you bring my favorite body pillow to bed.”