Free Better Than Perfect by Melissa Kantor Page A

swam, the familiar rhythm of the strokes soothing me. It had been too long since I’d swum, but after commuting home from the city and then doing practice SAT questions or meeting with Glen, my tutor, the last thing I’d felt like doing at the end of every day was putting on my suit and hitting the pool in our backyard. Now, reaching for the dock, I felt the result of my inactivity as I lifted my heavy arm to touch it before turning and heading back toward the beach.
    Halfway there I passed Declan, who was swimming out the other way. By the time I got to the shore, he had already climbed onto the dock, and I watched him do a smooth dive into the water. I wondered if he was on his swim team. Thinking about it made me realize that I knew nothing about him: not where he went to school, not where he lived. Not even his last name. It occurred to me how stupid it had been to come down to the beach with two complete strangers, one of whom clearly had a drinking problem. What had made me think this was such a happy family? For all I knew, Declan and Sean were serial killers. This was exactly the kind of story you read about on the front page of the Post . “Girl’s Body Washes up on Long Island Shore.”
    If I died, everyone would say how full of promise I’d been.
    When he got to the beach, I saw that Declan had taken off his white shirt and his tie, which confirmed my imaginary text to Sofia. He was hawt. His shoulders were broad, and they tapered to a narrow waist. Water streamed off his pants,which shone black in the moonlight.
    â€œHey,” he said, dropping down beside me on the sand and not sounding much like a murderer. “When I first met you, you seemed kind of upset.” I was focused on squeezing water out of the bottom of my tank top, but I could tell he was looking at me. “Are you okay now?”
    I rubbed my wet hands on my equally wet thighs. “Why do people always ask if you’re okay? What kind of a question is that?”
    â€œUm, I take it you feel it’s a dumb one?” he offered.
    I shrugged.
    â€œLook, if you want me out of your business, just say so. I only wanted to know if you were still upset about . . . whatever it was?” He reached his hand out and lightly tapped me on the knee, his tap a physical manifestation of his question.
    I turned to look at him, trying to imagine his response if I told him why I’d been so distracted I’d almost hit his van earlier.
    As I rotated my body to make eye contact with Declan, I realized just how close we were sitting. His face couldn’t have been more than six inches from mine, and our knees were almost touching. We looked at each other.
    â€œJules?” he said.
    Don’t do it, I said to myself. Do not do it.
    But instead of answering his question, I leaned across the few inches that separated us and kissed him.
    â€œJules . . . wait . . . ,” he said, trying to talk and kiss me at the same time. But I ignored the talking part, and almost immediately he stopped saying anything and just kissed me back.
    At first, as our lips touched lightly, I felt detached from what we were doing. Analytical. I had never kissed anyone but Jason, and Declan kissed differently. His lips were softer, and his tongue traced the outline of my mouth very gently. This is interesting, I thought. This is not what I’m used to. It was funny how I could be kissing Declan and analyzing kissing Declan and it felt almost like a science experiment I was conducting.
    And then, suddenly, it didn’t. Declan slipped his arm around my back and I pulled myself onto his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist. I put my hands on his chest.
    â€œJules,” Declan whispered, kissing up the side of my neck. When he got to my ear, he repeated the question. “Who are you?”
    But there was nothing about me I wanted Declan to know.
    â€œShhh,” I whispered. “Don’t make a scene.”
    â€œWhat?”