Free The Things We Wish Were True by Marybeth Mayhew Whalen

became Jencey, and “Jen L” became Jennelle. As far as Jencey knew, Jennelle also went by that name to this day.
    “It’s an old nickname,” she explained hastily to him now. “My real name is Jennifer, but no one calls me that.”
    “I like it,” he said, nodding as if he’d considered it and found it acceptable. “My name’s Lance, short for Lancelot.” He grinned. “My mom had a thing for Camelot.”
    She laughed. “Seriously?”
    He raised his eyebrows, held her gaze for a second, looking totally serious. But he couldn’t hold the look for long, as his smile broke through. “No, my name’s just Lance. But I had to come up with a story to keep up with yours.”
    She laughed along with him, then noticed Bryte swinging her bag over her shoulder and sliding on her flip-flops as she wrapped up her conversation. She quickly clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Lancelot, it was nice to meet you, but I’ve got to catch my friend over there.” She hitched her thumb in Bryte’s direction. “Good luck finding Camelot.”
    She walked away, shaking her head. Good luck finding Camelot? She was clearly out of practice at this whole opposite-sex thing. She’d once been so good at it. But that was a long time ago, before the hearts had started arriving, before Arch had claimed her as his own.
    She got to Bryte in the nick of time, reaching for her in order to stop her from walking away. Bryte turned around with a startled look. But her face immediately relaxed when she saw it was just Jencey. “Oh, Jencey! Hey!” she said, her face filling with a grin that lived up to her name. “Everything OK?” she asked. But then her smile faded and her eyes strayed to the pool as a whistle erupted and someone screamed and, all around them, people started running.

LANCE
    He was standing there staring into the water, thinking about the beautiful woman’s comment about finding Camelot, feeling like the furthest cry from a brave and gallant knight, when he saw the little boy, a dark shape gone still beneath the water. It took him a moment to realize the child wasn’t playing; he wasn’t seeing how long he could hold his breath or pulling a prank on his friends. Lance dove in without thinking, a reflex that extended, it turned out, beyond his own children. As he pushed deeper under the water toward the boy, he had two thoughts: What do I do now? And where the hell is the lifeguard?
    He reached the child in seconds, but it felt like it took half an hour to get his hands on him. Eyes wide in spite of the way the chlorine was burning them, he scooped the boy up, just like he did when his own children fell asleep watching TV and he had to carry them up to bed. But this child wasn’t sleeping.
    Unready for the heft of the boy’s weight—the words dead weight flashed through his mind, but he pushed them away—he struggled for a second, his lungs beginning to burn as he dragged both himself and the child to the surface. At the surface, there was air, there was solid ground, there was surely someone who knew CPR. He cursed himself for never learning it. From under the water, he could hear the clamor as people responded to what was happening—a whistle blew, a child screeched, a woman yelled. He could make out someone yelling, “Call 911!”
    He broke through the surface just as the lifeguard materialized at his side saying, “I got him. I got him,” in a confident voice that made Lance want to say, “Well, you didn’t have him when it mattered.” But the lifeguard knew CPR; the lifeguard was trained in things like this. He’d probably waited his whole lifeguarding career for this, the moment he got to play hero.
    Lance loosened his grip on the boy, and the child was taken from his arms. A trio of lifeguards gathered on the hot concrete as they laid out the too-still child and began working on him. Lance swam to the side and, exhausted, balanced his elbows on the edge to watch what was happening as he caught his breath.