EMILY DICKINSON
Hitch, freeze!” It’s not a command I’ve used often, because he’s so well behaved. We’ve certainly never practiced it in the water. But it is a command the canine assistant trainers teach for emergencies like this when a dog is in danger. He looks skeptical, but he does what he’s told, struggling to tread water despite his injured leg.
I’m not used to being on this side of the rescue team, but it’s my turn. I have to do something. So I kick like I’ve never kicked before and pull with my arms the way Dad instructed when I was little. Hitch whines when I pull away from him but stays in place. My fingers brush cold steel and I latch on for dear life.
Without releasing my death grip on the ladder, I turn back to Hitch. “Hitch, come,” I say, trying to control the panic in my voice. As he approaches, I wrap one arm around the side rail and brace my foot on the bottom rung. With my free hand, I tap the top step the way I tap the couch or the car seat or wherever I want him to jump. Of course he can’t jump, but he is able to snag the rung with his good paw.
My teeth chatter as I contemplate my limited options. Dragging him out was an epic disaster. I can’t imagine how my releasing the ladder and pushing him upward will go any better, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“Watch me, Hitch,” I say, my chest aching from the water I swallowed or fear or both.
As I loosen my grip on the side rail, one of the heavy metal doors whooshes open. “Anyone in here?” Chatham calls.
I open my mouth to scream but break into another fit of coughing. Hitch barks frantically.
Flip-flops slap the wet concrete. “Emilie? What the—” Chatham reaches down to help me.
“No.” I shake my head. “Hitch is hurt. Help him. Don’t pull on his leg.”
Without hesitation, he drops to the wet cement. Lying on his stomach with his cheek pressed to the ground, he reaches his long arms beneath the water and grabs Hitch under the arms like a child.
“Look at me,” he says, determination etched on his face. “You’re going to have to help me get him up.” He nods at the silver rail. “But keep one hand on the ladder.”
He doesn’t have to worry. I’d rather walk across a flaming bed of knives than risk going under again.
Somehow, we hoist Hitch up the ladder and onto the concrete pool deck. He flops on his side, one eye closed, sides heaving, but manages a weak thump of his tail.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Chatham,” I whisper, looking up at him without releasing my death grip on the ladder.
“Y’all scared the crap out of me.” He gestures to the ladder. “Now, let’s get you out of there.”
I place my other foot on the bottom rung and reach for his outstretched hand. My legs shake as I climb. When I reach the top, I crawl over to Hitch.
“Oh, baby, are you okay?” His tail thumps the wet cement for a second before he raises his head to kiss my cheek.
Chatham squats beside us, resting a hand on my back. “He’s okay. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then come here.” He pulls me to my feet, then to his chest for a hug. When he squeezes me, my wet body melts against his. I tilt my head to look up at him. His lips part. A bead of water hangs on his angular jaw.
Hitch sighs, dragging himself up on his three good legs. Once there, he shakes, showering us with gallons of wet-doggy water.
Chatham laughs and pulls me to the metal bleachers, where we sit more on Hitch’s level. Hitch rests his tender front leg on Chatham’s lap and delivers a nice, big kiss on the lips. Chatham chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I grab him by the collar of his wet T-shirt. “My turn.” I smile, pressing my lips to his quickly, then pull back. I’m a changed person after my near drowning in the pool and my icy dip in the Atlantic yesterday.
But we still haven’t had a chance to talk. After the fiasco at The Potter’s House, Chatham probably wants nothing to do with me. I hang my head, shivering now that the adrenaline’s wearing off.
“Hey, I helped saved your life.” He grins, hauling me closer. “I’d think you’d be a little more appreciative.”
He traces the outline of my lips with his pointer finger, then leans in to brush the corner of my mouth with his own, his breath warming my cheek. My hands reach for the back of his neck, tangling in his wet hair.
He pulls back, studying my face. “Are you sure you want this?”
“Yes.” I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. “Yes. Are you sure you want this?”
“Yeah. I’m sure,” he says, his mouth centimeters from my lips.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve known since the second day I saw you.”
I study his face, wondering for a moment if he’s teasing me. Since the second day? I don’t even remember what we said or did the second day I knew him.
“Yep.” He pulls me farther into his lap. “You had me with the Ferris Bueller quote. I knew then you were smart and funny. Somebody I wanted to get to know better.”
I try to maintain eye contact, but my gaze keep dropping to his lips. If he doesn’t kiss me—really kiss me—I’m going to self-combust. I pull his mouth to mine, greedy. I tell myself to keep my eyes open, to memorize every detail of his face, but reason disappears when he kisses me long and slow.
Hitch barks. Our eyes pop open, and we disintegrate into a fit of laughter. I’ve laughed more in the last forty-eight hours than I have in the last four years.
When the bell rings, we scramble into high gear—gathering shoes, finger-combing our hair, wringing water from our clothes.
Chatham’s eyes travel the length of my body. “We’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
I shrug. For once in my life, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.