Hurricane Kiss by Deborah Blumenthal Page B

from my eyes. I hoisted myself up and sat on the side of the pool, trying to catch my breath. “I didn’t see you come in.”
    â€œSorry, I called you, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
    He dropped down next to me, put his feet in the water. We gazed at each other, neither of us saying anything, the silence growing strained, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. A dragonfly swooped down, skimming its iridescent blue-green wings along the surface of the water, before rising up and perching itself on River’s shoulder, its wings fluttering, the insect equivalent of a preening peacock.
    Even bugs are drawn to him. I almost laughed.
    His lips curled up into a smile. He blew at it softly, and the dragonfly lifted off. I followed its flight and then glanced back at River.
    â€œIn half an hour, they can devour an amount of food equal to their entire body weight.”
    â€œI don’t remember learning that in bio,” he said, smirking. “I must have been out sick that day.”
    â€œNo, that came from the inside of a Snapple lid.”
    â€œI have a lot in common with dragonflies then,” he said, “I’m always starved too.”
    Our eyes met and everything inside me seized up. I turned away, reaching for the towel on the lounge chair behind me, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders.
    Without a word, River leaned toward me and lifted a strand of wet hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my face. He lifted a second strand on the other side with the same light stroke of his fingers, slipping it behind the other ear.
    It wasn’t anything, the lightest touch. It meant nothing. But the sensation shot through me, setting off painful stings of longing, which was crazy and confusing. I swallowed hard and finally looked away. I had a boyfriend, this was wrong. River probably came on to girls all the time, to see who and what he could get. Guys like him did that. Why not?
    â€œSo,” I said abruptly, “why did you—”
    â€œYou’re not getting enough air on the intake,” he said, turning serious.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhen you swim. You’re not getting enough air when you inhale because you’re not getting enough out at the exhale.”
    â€œYou can see that?”
    â€œI used to swim competitively, and we videotaped ourselves so we could study our form and see what we were doing wrong.”
    â€œOh … well … thanks. I’ll try to exhale harder. Next time.”
    â€œTry it now,” he said, motioning for me to get back into the pool. “I’ll watch you.”
    I hesitated.
    â€œGo on,” he said, motioning to the water.
    I got back in and he followed me in. He swam alongside me, watching intently as I went from one end of the pool to the other, working at breathing out harder and then deliberately taking in more air. Finally I stopped and looked up at him questioningly.
    â€œBetter,” he said. “How does it feel?”
    I shrugged. “I’m not sure. How’s it supposed to feel?”
    â€œKeep going. You’ll know.”
    Why did everything he said sound like …
    I kept swimming and so did he, keeping pace with me. He seemed to really care that I got it right. When I stopped he held his hand up for a high five.
    â€œYou got it,” he said, his hand hitting mine. “You’ll see, you’ll swim stronger now.”
    â€œI’m taking the lifeguard test for a job at the pool,” I said, climbing out of the water. Why did I tell him? He didn’t ask.
    â€œCool,” he said, following me out. “Which pool?”
    â€œWest U.”
    â€œWow,” he said. “I just applied for that too. What a coincidence.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah, I definitely want that job.”
    â€œOh.” Why was I wasting my time preparing? I didn’t stand a chance.
    He looked at me straight-faced