It was kind of beautiful in the heated pool.
Looking at the austere tiles, the tall ceiling, perhaps that was an odd thing to call such a sterile room. But it was the warmth and emptiness of it. The white noise of a whirring fan, and the gentle sounds of water around his body, the kind he'd hear while taking a bath. For the first time Shane was grateful for the small population of the valley; he had the whole spa to himself.
It was tempting to bring a six-pack along. Cracking open a cold beer in a hot shower was one of the few things in life that never lost its magic. But between the booze and the steam he'd probably pass out, and he had a brief vision of Lewis finding his drowned, bloated body in the pool when coming to lock up for the night. It seemed a small part of him wanted to live after all, or at least to go without Lewis of all people finding his corpse. And having sat in the water an hour already – several times nodding and jumping awake when his chin hit the water – he was starting to think he'd made the right decision.
Ever since the fiasco at the dock he'd been avoiding Sophia. He even changed routes to and from work so they wouldn't accidentally bump into each other, and when his aunt mentioned that she was stopping to see the ranch that afternoon Shane's brain went into overdrive finding an excuse to leave.
Maybe he should be grateful. This was his first time in the bathhouse and he had to admit he liked it. The heavy air slowed his racing thoughts, and the sleepiness almost felt like a buzz, an imitation drunkenness. He might even consider coming more often – if only this kind of privacy was guaranteed every time. It was tough enough to deal with the world when he was wearing a shirt; he didn't want to run into anyone without one.
Then, as if to answer the opposite of his prayers, the door to the pool room creaked open.
No. It can't be her.
Maybe he was seeing things. The heat, the steam, the sleepiness; it was possible.
He ducked under the water, smoothing his hair and rubbing his eyes, and when he emerged she was still standing there surrounded by the tiles: Sophia, in the same blue dress as the dance. Fluorescent bulbs mingled with the late afternoon sun streaming through the high windows above, and she turned her attention to the light, looking thoughtful.
Shane became suddenly conscious of his body. He was out of shape, soft in the chest, with a belly that betrayed his habits at the bar and was covered in too much dark hair. He sank lower and lower until only his head remained above water, but even then felt exposed.
But Sophia wasn't paying attention to him. She'd turned away from the light, stepping out of her shoes and walking toward the pool. Once at the edge she sat down and lowered herself in, still in her dress.
Hallucinating. He had to be hallucinating.
She neither sought nor avoided his gaze; Shane was just part of the backdrop. First she walked up to her waist, the skirt of her dress billowing in a circle around her. Then she slid down to her elbows, her chest, her neck, and for a moment tread water before pushing off – shooting backward as gracefully as an octopus in open ocean. Her body slowed, then rose to the surface where she floated on her back. Steam rose in clouds from her skin. She closed her eyes, and she drifted.
With a rapidly gaining pulse, Shane thought it was the most sensual thing he'd ever seen.
Shane sat and Sophia floated, her fingers occasionally drawing in the water at her sides, spinning herself in languid circles. He stared at the clock behind its metal cage on the far wall. If he didn't, he'd end up staring at her the whole time.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The second hand moved like a metronome, a maddening millisecond behind its tick, and Shane focused on the delayed movement and distant sound as it circled. Once. Twice. Five times. Ten. He'd been in the steam far too long and was feeling woozy but there was no way he'd stand up before she did.
What do I say? What can a person even say to this?
The dance in the woods, the shared whiskey at the dock, and now this – this bizarre, sensual show – what was she doing? Was she messing with him? He knew that women often did the strangest things, like kiss you on the cheek or buy you a drink without it ever meaning more than a kiss and a drink. But what could all this possibly mean, other than to make him want her?
Because if that was her intention it was working.
Just when Shane thought he couldn't feel any more lightheaded, her figure gently sunk below the surface of the water. She pushed forward, rising to her neck, her shoulders, her waist; it was as if someone rewound the scene of her entering the pool. With fluid movements she waded back to the stairs, pushing handfuls of water behind her, and then rose up the steps with her wet blue dress clinging to every slope.
Oh shit.
How long had it been since this happened? He remembered what it felt like, of course he remembered. But he didn't remember it feeling like this. The nausea in his stomach that was strangely exhilarating. The awareness of even the most infinitesimal movements inside him, so that the trickle of blood through his veins felt like a babbling brook. Shane couldn't recall a time he'd been so alive in his own body: suddenly he was alert to everything.
Then she slipped her shoes on, and without looking at him even once she was gone.
He scurried out of the pool. Heart pounding, he sat on the edge for a moment to give her a head start, then dried off and threw on his clothes. As he ran out the door he noticed the sign on it: Changing Room, over a little male figure. She'd gone through the men's room – hadn't even hesitated.
He stepped into the early evening air just in time to see her disappear down the lane on her bike, tangerine sunlight on her still dripping hair.
Shane lay in bed looking into the darkness. It was late. He'd gone to the saloon that evening, but having nursed only a few beers he wasn't drunk – just open enough to think, to attempt to untangle himself.
Was it her though? Or only the idea of her?
He wasn't sure he knew the difference yet, but at the moment he didn't care. He thought he felt happy. Or at least some distant cousin of happiness, something that shimmered like it from afar.
Hope?
He was hard but rolled on his back and simply held it in his hand, staring at the ceiling.
He remembered the warmth of her waist when they danced. The way she'd kicked his foot at the dock, the weight of it striking his body. And when he closed his eyes, he couldn't picture anything but her figure rising from the pool in that pale blue dress. He stroked himself; it felt better than he thought it would and he quickly rubbed again. And he was right – it hadn't felt like this before, not even close. He could still picture the way the soaked creases of the fabric stuck to her body. He bit his lip, stroking harder. Fuck. The water that dripped from her skirt and rained down the back of her legs; he stroked faster, and shit – shit, it was good, it was too good –
But then he saw her smile: that crooked, adorable smile, when she tilted her head and lifted one corner of her mouth. He sighed and dropped himself, staring again at the ceiling.
Shane didn't want to fuck Sophia on polyester seats under a streetlamp. He wished she'd get out of his head completely, because right now all he could think about was how she'd feel if she knew. Repulsed? Violated? Somehow flattered didn't seem like an option.
Trying to ignore the emptiness now in his chest, he rolled over and yanked the pillow on top of his head.
