Page 45 of Breathing Under Water

“What if I decide I don’t want other friends?” He kicks a pebble on the street and then says, “Oh wait, that was a good one.” He crouches down and grabs the little stone, bringing it closer to his face for a better look and then shoving it into the pocket of his shorts.

“Maybe you don’t want other friends,” I repeat. “That’s something only you can decide. In my opinion, having other people to talk to and share experiences with really adds value in life.”

“I have my family for that.”

“Well, then, you may be the luckiest one among us.”

Later, when I’m seated on a worn leather bench at the charming Whole Bean coffee shop, I watch Beck walk back toward our table, a small plate of biscotti in one hand and a packet of Domino sugar in the other. He’s wearing lightweight khaki cargo pants and a navy t-shirt, and I’m suddenly curious if these are the kinds of clothes he wears to work to do the “field research” I’ve heard about from Leo. Out of nowhere, I have this deep urge to know more details about Beck’s life, what’s going on beneath that put-together surface. But that would not be keeping things light and casual, I remind myself, as my feelings and wants ricochet off the different walls of my brain.

“I always think one of these will be enough,” he says, tearing open the sugar as he sits back in his seat across from me. “But I really prefer things sweeter.”

“Ha!” I point an accusatory finger at him. “Then I am definitely not your type.”

His head cocks to the side. “Why would you say that?”

I lean back against the cushion, wondering how much to say.

“I wasn’t completely honest with Leo.”

Beck’s eyes narrow, and I instantly imagine so many different scenarios where he’s had to protect his brother over the years.

“No, nothing like that,” I hurry out, unsure what I’m even denying. “It’s just, I didn’t tell him I got fired. I didn’t want him to think he had anything to do with it. That shitstorm was all me and my colossal stupidity.”

I then recount all the reckless, embarrassing decisions I made that led to me being out of a job. I feel like I’m at confession. After I’ve gotten out all the dirty details, I add, “I shouldn’t even be here right now. I should still be parked in front of my computer searching for alternate employment.”

Almost as soon as I left Hollyhock on Wednesday, my first call had been the Sizz. But the position I left at the diner has been filled.

After a couple of hours of job hunting, I finally opened the binder Glory gave me and tried to make sense of just how flush we are based on her investments. But once I started reading, it quickly became obvious that the binder is full of ramblings, errors, and delusions. All those notes in the margins turned out to be as crazy as they’d first appeared. One notation said the money in the savings account had been invested in “overseas love affairs,” and right below it, in smaller print, were the words“Love be unkind and unkindness is best forgotten.” I still don’t know what any of that means, except that when I checked the savings account, it didn’t show $330,000 like the binder said, but a meager $28,000. No investments, no stocks. None of the funds referred to in the binder seem to exist. It has all been spent or moved, or maybe it never existed in the first place. She thought she had me all set up, but the dementia clearly affected her reasoning. Now all I know for sure is that Glory and I are well and truly fucked.

There’s only one solution, which is why I emailed a real estate broker last night. I’m ready for him to start showing our house to potential buyers, and the sooner the better. But Beck doesn’t need to know any of that.

We’re both silent for a moment. I look down into my coffee, stirring it idly with the skinny wooden stirrer.

“You did the best you could for the kids,” Beck says. “And besides, it would have been pretty awkward for me to start seriously dating my kid brother’s teacher, don’t you think?”

“Seriously dating?” I ask, suddenly pulled back from my little pity party. “Who said anything about that?” I should tell him I don’t have time for things like boyfriends in my life, that I have too many commitments and a mountain of expenses that may soon bury me. But I want so badly to pretend for a minute that I can enjoy things like this, that I can just be on a date with a cute guy, worrying only about whether I’m having a good hair day. Looking at Beck across from me with his caramel-colored eyes and that flirty smirk, I want to live in that version of reality for a few moments longer.

“We’ll see,” he says, and I can’t deny that I’m being pulled in by the mischief in his eyes. As we continue looking at eachother, he seems to be studying my face. I wonder what he sees, if he’s going to say more. But then he goes back to casual conversation. “So how’d you end up teaching those lessons at the club anyhow?”

“Full disclosure?”

He nods.

“The manager at Hollyhock. She knew I needed community service hours to keep my scholarship, and I was way behind. I actually shot her down when she first suggested it. I mean, what do I know about kids with special needs?”

“From the looks of it, you’ve figured out a lot,” he says. “I’ve seen plenty of well-meaning people do everything wrong when it comes to Leo. Making too many demands of him, trying to force eye contact, shouting at him like he’s hard of hearing, you name it. Somehow you’ve just known how to behave with him from the beginning.”

“I mean, I guess.” I think over Beck’s words. “But it’s pretty basic when you think about it. Treating him with respect, acknowledging that different doesn’t mean lesser. I was so nervous at the beginning that I’d screw up by, like, offending one of the kids or being too awkward with them. On the flip side, fucking around with Hollyhock royalty... I never saw that particular screwup coming.”

“But why kids with autism?” Beck asks. “If they freaked you out, why not get your service hours with other underserved groups, like kids from the wrong side of the tracks or something?”

I snort at the suggestion. “The wrong side of the tracks? Hollyhockers would sooner get rid of all the train tracks on earth, orabolish rail travel altogether, before letting any kids like that step foot on their hallowed country club grounds. So my manager suggested special needs. I guess because even rich kids can have autism. I fought her on it in the beginning. But when it seemed like the only way I could get my hours...” I shrug, a little sorry I can’t give him a more flattering reason, but I’m just too tired to try spinning it any other way.

Beck sips his coffee without responding, and I wonder if I’ve shown too much of myself. The silence makes me nervous, and after a beat, I start talking again.

“I recently saw a statistic that more than forty percent of Americans don’t know how to swim. Swimming was just given to me though, and in a way where I thought I had the right to question whether I even liked it. I never understood what a privilege it is to be able to exist and move inside water, in this whole other dimension. It’s like an alternate reality. But some people, they don’t ever get the chance to feel that.” Beck’s eyes haven’t left mine. The level of focus feels intense, as if I’m speaking about something he understands. I take it as encouragement and keep going.

“I saw online that the percentage of kids with autism who can’t swim is even bigger because the adults in their life fail to teach them. So many obstacles can prevent them from getting in the water. Sensory issues, fear, struggling with transitions, stuff you’d assume. But what really hit me was how the neurotypical adults are the real obstacle. They just don’t think the kids will be able to do it.”