Breath of Summer

The heat did not merely fall from the sky over Mill Valley; it settled like wet wool over the eyes and pressed down against the nape of the neck until every thought felt boiled down to lard.

The chlorine-heavy haze of the midsummer afternoon hung thick over the municipal pool, shimmering like heat mirages off scorching concrete. High above, the July sun baked the world down to bleached pastels, turning laughter sharp and distant.

Theodore sat on the edge of the shallow end, his feet submerged just deep enough to disturb the diamond light patterns dancing across the turquoise tiles. He held a can of lemonade against the back of his sun-warmed neck, his skin already blushing a cautious pink despite two coats of SPF 50.

Braxson stood three yards away, planted on the slick edge of the concrete in low-slung, vibrant crimson boardshorts, his wet chest catching the harsh daylight like oiled bronze. He shook his dripping hair, spraying water over three startled middle schoolers who scowled before quickly looking away when they saw who it was.

“Theo, my boy, you are committing a cardinal sin,” Braxson declared, voice booming with performative authority as he slapped Theodore’s shoulder with a damp, heavy palm.

Theodore flinched slightly, steadying his lemonade. “And what sin would that be? Not getting heatstroke?”

“Wasting prime scenery,” Braxson adjusted the tortoiseshell Persol sunglasses perched on the bridge of his straight nose, peering down through the amber-tinted lenses. “Get up. Come do a lap.”

“The water’s ninety degrees, Brax.”

“Then we go to the deep end where the cold water comes in from the well pump. Move. Before I pick you up by your belt loops and throw you in the filtration drain.”

Theodore sighed, the sound swallowed immediately by the shrieking chaos of thirty eight-year-olds leaping off the low board in ragged succession. He set the warm lemonade can down on the bleached aggregate, bracing his palms against the blistering lip of the tile.

Theodore stood, his pale feet sticky against the grit. He had reached for his canvas bag to check his towel when Braxson’s arm shot out like a barrier gate at a railroad crossing.

The back of Braxson’s forearm hit Theodore’s sternum with enough force to knock the air out of his ribs.

“Holy mercy,” Braxson whispered, his flippant tone instantly replaced by a reverent hush. He slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose, his green eyes widening. “Theo. Stop staring at your toes. Look at ten o’clock. Right now.”

Theodore sighed, not lifting his head. “Brax, if this is another girl wearing an oversized sunhat that you claim looked at you…”

The canopy was an ancient piece of olive-drab canvas stretched between four bent galvanized pipes at the very edge of the eastern concrete apron, where the high chain link met the wild sumac and the ditch behind the park maintenance sheds. Nobody ever sat there.

Theodore reluctantly raised his chin, squinting across the blinding expanse of water toward the sun-bleached loungers near the deep end.

Today, there was a lounger there.

It was one of the cheap, ribbed plastic chaises with the adjustable back that always jammed into a crooked tilt, but the girl sitting on it made the white resin look like it had been carved from Italian marble by someone who hated the modern world.

Over her shoulders draped an ivory linen shirt, unbuttoned, fluttering faintly in the hot breeze. Her hair was ink-black, damp and slicked behind small, pale ears, cascading down her back.

She wasn’t reading. She didn’t have headphones looped around her neck. She wasn’t holding a phone. She simply sat with her chin resting on the knuckles of one hand, staring directly across the chop of the water toward the diving well, her dark eyes half-lidded against the glare.

Theodore felt a peculiar, sudden lurch behind his ribs.

“Tell me you see her,” Braxson murmured, his voice drop-dead serious. “Tell me I didn’t hallucinate that from inhaling too much chlorine.”

“I see her,” Theodore said quietly.

“Who is that? Do you know her?” Braxson whispered back, his breath coming faster.

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Braxson grinned, that familiar, reckless smirk breaking across his handsome face. He flexed his shoulders, ran a hand through his sun-streaked brown hair, and gave his shorts a tug. “She is, without question, the most stunning creature to ever set foot in this godforsaken public facility. And she is completely, utterly alone.”

“Braxson, don’t,” Theodore said instantly, grabbing the hem of his friend’s trunks before Braxson could take a step.

Braxson looked down, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t what? Don’t be neighborly? Don’t bless her day with my company?”

“She’s clearly resting, or just wants to be left alone,” Theodore pleaded, his voice tightening with that customary anxiety that always accompanied Braxson’s impulsive crusades. “And you’re not neighborly.”

“Theo, my boy, you have the soul of a field mouse. You really do.” He tapped his chest twice with two curled fingers. “Watch and learn. I’m going to go over there, introduce myself, find out which lake house her parents are renting, and have her sitting on the tailgate of my truck before the three o’clock adult swim.”

“You’re obnoxious,” Theodore hissed, standing up now, water dripping off his pale legs as he tried to block Braxson’s view. “Just leave her alone. Seriously.”

Braxson burst into a rich, melodic laugh that drew curious looks from two girls passing by in floral swimsuits. Braxson flashed them a casual wink, which made them giggle and blush, but his focus snapped straight back to the emerald girl under the canopy.

“Three minutes,” Braxson declared, his teeth flashing white against his tanned gums. “Come and time me. If I’m not back with a name and a telephone number, you can have my spare driver.”

“Nah ah,” Theodore stepped back, horror washing over him. “I am staying right here.”

“Suit yourself, coward,” Braxson laughed, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep, theatrical breath. “Watch and learn, Theodore. This is how legends are made.”

Braxson turned toward the path leading around the edge of the pool. But before he took his first stride, Theodore instinctively lunged forward and grabbed his forearm, gripped by an inexplicable, sharp urgency.

“Wait Brax, seriously, listen to me,” Theodore insisted, his voice dropping an octave, eyes darting anxiously toward the distant deckchair. “Just wait a few minutes. See if her friends come back or maybe even a boyfriend.”

Braxson rolled his eyes, groaning loudly in exasperation. He turned back toward Theodore, planting both feet firmly on the tile. “Am I afraid of an imaginary boyfriend? No. If he shows up, I’ll compliment his taste and shake his hand. If she shoots me down, I’ll bow and leave. But you don’t find girls like that in this town, Theo. You just don’t. If I don’t go talk to her, I will spend the next four months lying awake at night thinking about what could have been.”

Theodore held on for two seconds longer, trying to find words to articulate the knot in his stomach.

“Fine,” Theodore sighed, releasing Braxson’s wet skin.

“Keep your eyes on the throne, little brother. The king is making his move.”

Braxson took three confident, swaggering steps forward. He puffed out his chest, smoothed his hair one more time, and looked up, ready to lock eyes with the girl in emerald.

His steps hitched. He stopped dead.

Theodore, still sulking at the edge of the shallow pool, noticed the abrupt halt. “What’s the matter? Lose your nerve already?”

Braxson didn’t answer. He took off his sunglasses, squinted hard against the midday glare, and slowly raised a hand to shield his forehead.

“Theo,” Braxson said, his voice stripped completely of its booming bravado, sounding thin and confused.

“What?”

“Where did she go?”

Theodore rolled his eyes, expecting another dramatic bit. “Oh, very funny. You’re pretending she vanished so you don’t have to admit…”

“I’m not joking, Theo. Look!”

Something in Braxson’s voice sounded hollow, almost unnerved. Theodore stepped out of the water, the cold, chlorinated drops running down his shins as his bare soles hit the searing concrete. He walked up alongside his friend and looked past the glistening swimmers, directing his eyes straight at the white chaise lounge beneath the canvas canopy.

The chair was empty.

The frayed green canvas above it was still shuddering from a passing draft, but the white resin slats were bare. A single dry sycamore leaf lay in the center of the seat, rocking gently on its stem.

Theodore blinked once, then twice, wiping water droplets from his eyelashes.

“She was right there,” Braxson muttered, his hand still shielding his eyes, his gaze darting frantically from the empty lounger to the high wooden fence behind the maintenance shed. “I took four steps, Theo. Four steps. You can’t run thirty yards in four steps unless you’re a greyhound.”

Theodore walked slowly toward the canopy, his canvas sneakers scuffing through the puddles. He stopped two feet from the plastic chair.

There was no towel. There was no bag. There wasn’t even a wet footprint on the dry, gray concrete between the chair and the back fence.

“I’m telling you, Theo, people don’t just dematerialize,” Braxson grumbled as they entered the breezeway connecting the men’s and women’s locker facilities to the main lobby. The transition from the blinding white deck to the dim, damp concrete corridor felt like being shoved into a root cellar. “Either she fell through a trapdoor, or she’s some kind of state-level sprinter.”

Braxson stopped dead in his tracks.

Theodore nearly collided into his back, his chin striking the hard knob of Braxson’s shoulder blade. “Brax, what now…”

Before them stood the wide, fogged-up vanity mirror mounted against the tiled wall of the lobby corridor, just outside the double swinging doors that led to the women’s showers. Standing directly beneath the buzzing fluorescent strip was the girl.

She had changed out of the emerald swimsuit into an oversized linen shirt and faded denim shorts. Her long, ink-black hair hung damp and loose over her collarbones, tiny droplets clinging to the dark tips and soaking into the linen around her throat. She was rummaging through a small woven tote bag resting on the chipped laminate counter, turning pockets inside out, her eyebrows knitted in mild, rhythmic exasperation.

Braxson’s shock melted instantly into pure, unrestrained ambition. He shot Theodore a triumphant, sidelong grin that plainly said: I told you so.

Squaring his broad shoulders, Braxson stepped forward with the practiced ease of someone who had never doubted a welcome in his life.

“Lose something?” Braxson asked smoothly, leaning one elbow casually against the edge of the laminate counter, three inches from her bag.