Page 131 of Cut Off
I’ll remember that.
Ten seconds tick. I explode after him.
First three lengths, I’m dragging wake, my reach stunted by the “hand behind back” rule and a shoulder that definitely doesn’t like this plan. Zoe was probably right.
He’s got a real lead. I’m not even pretending to catch up until we hit the halfway mark. Then I cut through the chop, water stinging my eyes, shoulder screaming. I suck it up, roll into the final twenty yards.
Eli’s flailing, head up, losing efficiency. Classic rookie mistake—went too hard early, empty tank at the finish.
I slide past him with a dolphin kick, tap the buoy, and wave.
Glorious.
Eli drifts up, spluttering. “Rigged!” he howls, gripping the buoy. “You broke the rules!”
“I said I’d use one arm. I did.”
“You dolphin-kicked. That’s illegal!”
“You didn’t call it before,” I say, water streaming down my face.
Zoe shrugs. “Those are the breaks, bud.”
Eli jumps up on the dock, then goes full cannonball with his legs, hosing the dock. Zoe shrieks, slaps at the spray, pretends to be insulted, but the grin is real.
We paddle in, dripping, and Zoe’s got towels ready—she always does. We collapse on the dock, three in a row, legs dangling off the edge. For a minute, the only sound is us gasping, catching breath, water lapping underfoot.
It’s heaven.
She hands out slices of watermelon—pre-cut, chilled from the fridge. Eli grabs the biggest, then slurps it so red juice stains his chin. “I have a pitch,” he says, face serious. “ForZoe Knows.”
Zoe’s all in. “Let’s hear it.”
“Idaho birds. Migration and stuff. Did you know the yellow warbler goes all the way to Costa Rica for winter?”
I blink. “How do you even—”
He barrels on. “I’ve been writing taglines for the segment, too. Like, ‘Catch these birds before they catch their flights—’ or ‘Yellow warblers: the original snowbirds—’”
Zoe’s dying. “These are incredible. Are you looking for a co-host?”
He shrugs mid-watermelon bite. “You can be the bird expert. I’ll do stats and fieldwork.”
I have to lean back just to process this.
Zoe points at me. “You in?”
“I’ll be an assistant,” I say. “But only if I get to eat the snacks.”
Eli nods, solemn. “Approved.”
We settle into low gear. Sun’s sinking, and the top of my shoulders tightens where the sunscreen’s not working so well. Zoe’s feet flick little rings into the water. Sometimes they touch mine under the surface, and I let them.
Small talk tumbles out—like Dickens Diner favorites. Zoe claims the biscuits are “life-changing,” Eli says the chicken tenders are “average but reliable,” and I argue for the pancakes, which are, no joke, the size of hubcaps.
I tell Zoe the news is less “soul-crushing” since Jerry took over at W2Beaver, then remind her of how much the town lovesZoe Knows. She blushes, but not really.
At some point, Eli leans into my side. No big moment, no announcement, no need to telegraph it. He’s just tired and warm and knows that I won’t move away.
