It was hot this morning before I finished breakfast (homegrown strawberries and raspberries and coffee) and so I changed into my pale pink bikini with the ruffles and a gold tiny horseshoe necklace and skipped church in order to worship at the house of chlorine and concrete.
Seems fitting, as the weather recently has been terrible and this week is supposed to be hot sun, so I broke out my new bottle of SPF 150000000 and a big floppy hat and have plans to hide out under the covered lounge chair every day.
Sam understood. He said consensus seems to be in favor of us spending some time apart. He returned to church today in his board shorts and a flannel shirt (because he's adorable like that), planning to talk about being perfect imperfect. I know that sermon. I've heard it before. He isn't worried about us-us. We'll be okay. He said me throwing myself to the wolf to take the pressure off probably wasn't the greatest idea but I think now that it was as I lower myself into the stinging blue water, my scrape screaming through the rest of my flesh, Caleb watching from the side with concern, his bare chest a rainbow of bruises in the shape of Lochlan's fists and the odd stair-step. We look like catastrophic accident victims at summer convalescent camp. We look tough, like survivors.
That's what we are.
I do one lap on my back and stop at the ladder. Caleb says I should do one more and I swear in his direction and get out. I'm a weak swimmer. I'm not a warrior. I'm not a fighter. I'm a withstander. I'm a with-stander. I'm a shadow sewn to the heels of a Peter Pan with red hair and freckles who I see step out of the patio doors suddenly. He walks down the steps and shields his eyes from the sun and I lift mine up to shield them in case he signals to me, one band in place today on my finger because he is indecisive and took the other one away again upon suggestion. He takes off his shirt, and empties his pockets and then begins to run across the lawn. He does a handspring over the fence and then cannonballs into the pool with a holler, showering both the Devil and I with lovely cool water.
He surfaces, shaking his head hard, his curls coming loose from their grasp on his skull, forming big circles again before they get soaked again when he floats on his back.
Literally. This is the best, he says and it's very hard to disagree with him, in spite of everything.
