Splash of Trouble

The smell of chlorine and coconut oil hit me before I even got the gate open. That specific cocktail, the one that meant summer in the suburbs, that meant the neighborhood pool was officially open for business and every bored housewife within a five-mile radius was about to lose her damn mind.

I was one of them. Not the housewife part. The bored part.

My key stuck in the lock like it always did. I jiggled it, swore under my breath, and finally shoved the gate open with my shoulder. The metal screeched against the concrete. Nobody looked up. They never did.

The pool was already crowded for a Tuesday. Kids screaming in the shallow end, a couple of teenagers pretending they weren't staring at each other on the lounge chairs, and a cluster of women my age who'd claimed the good umbrellas hours ago. I recognized most of them. Rachel with her perfect ponytail. Dana, who'd just gotten divorced and was taking it out on her abs. And then there was the new one.

I'd heard about her. Everyone had. She'd moved into the old Hendricks place three weeks ago, and the gossip mill had been working overtime ever since. No husband. No kids. Just a black Range Rover and a smile that suggested she knew something you didn't.

She was stretched out on a towel near the deep end, face tilted toward the sun, completely still. Most people fidget at the pool. They check their phones, adjust their straps, talk too loud. She just lay there like she had all the time in the world and wasn't about to apologize for it.

I found a spot two chairs down from Rachel and dropped my bag. My sunscreen was half empty. I squeezed out what was left and started slathering my arms, trying not to stare.

Too late. Rachel caught me.

"That's her," she said, not even pretending to whisper. "The one I was telling you about."

"I figured."

"She's been here every day this week. Same spot. Same suit." Rachel's voice had that edge it got when she was working up to something. "Don't you think that's weird?"

I looked over again. The suit was red. Not fire-engine red. Something deeper, like the color of a cherry that's about to go bad. It fit her like it had been made for her, which it probably had. Her hair was dark and wet, pushed back from her face, and her skin had that glow that only came from either genetics or money. Probably both.

"Maybe she just likes the sun," I said.

Rachel snorted. "Nobody likes the sun that much."

I let it go. Rachel could turn anything into a conspiracy if you gave her enough time. I pulled out my book, a thriller I'd been trying to finish for two weeks, and settled into the chair. The plastic was hot against my back. I'd forgotten my towel, which meant I'd have to either burn my thighs or go home early. Neither option appealed.

The book didn't hold me. I read the same paragraph three times and still couldn't tell you what it said. My eyes kept drifting to the left, to the woman who wasn't doing anything except existing.

She sat up eventually. Slow, deliberate, like she was moving through water even on land. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of water. Drank half of it in one go. Then she stood.

I'm not proud of what happened next. My mouth went dry. The book slipped off my lap and hit the concrete with a smack that echoed across the pool deck. A couple of kids looked over. Rachel definitely looked over.

The woman didn't. She walked to the edge of the pool, and she didn't stop. Just stepped off into the deep end like she knew the water would catch her.

She surfaced a few feet out, hair slicked back, and started swimming laps. Clean strokes. Strong. The kind of swimming that meant lessons as a kid and a lifetime of practice.

"Show-off," Rachel muttered.

But it wasn't showing off. That was the thing. She wasn't performing for anyone. She just wanted to swim.

I picked up my book. Tried to read. Failed.

By the time she climbed out, I'd given up pretending. She grabbed her towel and dried off with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times. No fuss. No adjusting. Just done.

And then she looked at me.

Not through me. Not past me. At me. Direct. Unbothered.

I looked away first. I hate that I did, but I did. My cheeks went hot, and not from the sun.

When I looked back, she was walking toward the gate. Towel over her shoulder. Bag in hand. She didn't say goodbye to anyone. Didn't wave. Just left.

"See?" Rachel said. "Weird."

I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to figure out why my heart was doing that thing it did when I used to ride roller coasters. That drop-in-your-stomach feeling. That anticipation.

The rest of the afternoon crawled. I swam. I read. I listened to Rachel complain about her mother-in-law and Dana complain about her ex. Normal stuff. The kind of stuff that usually felt like enough.

But my mind kept wandering back to the red suit. The way she moved. The way she looked at me like she already knew something I didn't.

I left around five, when the shadows got long and the kids started getting cranky. My key stuck again. I fought with it for a minute before it finally turned, and I pushed through the gate into the parking lot.

Her Range Rover was still there. Parked in the shade, engine off. She was in the driver's seat, window down, watching me.

Not creepy. Not weird. Just watching. Like she'd been waiting.

I stopped. My car was two spots over. I could've kept walking. Should've kept walking. But I didn't.

"You're staring," I said.

She smiled. It was the first time I'd seen her do it up close, and it did something to my chest. Something tight and warm.

"You're interesting," she said.

Her voice was low, a little rough, like she'd been quiet for a long time and didn't mind staying that way.

"I'm not," I said. "I'm really not."

She tilted her head. The sun caught her eyes, and for a second I couldn't tell what color they were. Brown? Green? Something in between that didn't have a name.

"Prove it," she said.

Then she started her engine and pulled out of the lot. Didn't look back. Didn't need to.

I stood there with my keys in my hand and my heart in my throat, and I knew, the way you know things you don't want to know, that I was going to see her again.

The question was whether I wanted to.

I got in my car. Turned on the AC. Sat there until the cold air hit my face and my hands stopped shaking.

Then I drove home, and I didn't think about her at all.

That's a lie. I thought about her the whole way.