Page 148 of The Unwilling Bride
Where is he? Why hasn’t he surfaced yet?
It’s been almost two minutes since he went under.
Just when I'm about to raise an alarm, his head breaks the surface.
Oh, thank God! The knot in my chest loosens.
He emerges slowly, controlled. No gasping, no frantic gulping for air. Just smooth, measured breaths. His dark hair is slicked back, water streaming down his face and bare shoulders. The morning light filtering through the windows catches on the droplets clinging to his skin.
He floats there for a moment, eyes closed, and face tilted toward the ceiling.
And for the first time since I've known him, James looks…peaceful.
Not the former Marine. Not the Ice Commander. Not the perfectionist head chef who terrorizes his kitchen staff. Not the controlled, distant husband who has his feelings in check. He’s just a man. Alone in the water. Finally still.
Is this what it takes him to find peace? Does he have to dive below water, head for a place where there’s nobody else, where he must focus on staying alive and controlling the very oxygen he takes into his lungs, for him to find peace?
My chest tightens with something very close to… Sympathy? Turmoil? Worry? All of them, perhaps. This confluence of feelings makes me want to swim over to him and hug him. To tell him he’s not alone and that I’m in his corner. But I know he’d only rebuff me. Also, I don’t want to disturb what seems to be a very private moment. So, I tread water and stay where I am.
He doesn’t look in my direction. His focus is complete. That’s something I have always admired about him. When he’s at work, his entire attention is on the dish. When he’s talking to someone, he’s absorbed completely in the conversation.
When he looks at me, it’s as if the rest of the world has faded away. All his concentration is on me. He makes me feel seen in a way no one else has. It’s seductive and drugging. And I want more of it.
He takes three more measured breaths and dives again.
This time I count. Ninety seconds. My heart begins to race. Then two minutes. My pulse pounds at my throat, behind my eyes. Two and a half. I train my gaze on the spot where he disappeared. Come back up. Come on.
When he surfaces, my muscles relax. But he doesn't pause. Three breaths. Dive. Repeat.
It's hypnotic. Terrifying. Beautiful in a way that makes my throat ache. This is where he comes to escape. Not the kitchen, not the restaurant, not our apartment with its separate bedrooms and professional distance. Here. Underwater. Where no one can reach him. Where the silence is complete.
I should leave. This feels private. Like I've stumbled onto something I wasn't meant to see. But I can't move. Can't stop watching as he surfaces and dives, surfaces and dives, pushing himself deeper into that stillness each time.
With each dive, my blood pressure spikes. My mouth goes dry. Each time he surfaces, I’m weak with relief, but not for long. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster of emotions. Waiting. Watching. Praying he’ll surface soon. Is this how it would've felt to see him off on a mission. If we’d been married, would I have spent every second he was away waiting for news from him? Praying he was safe? Trying to keep my spirits up every time they threatened to deflate? Maybe, he saved me from all that stress by walking away that first night.
On his fifth dive, something changes.
He stays under longer. Three minutes, then three and a half. My heart starts pounding in my chest. That's too long. That's dangerous. My stomach bottoms out. Come up. Come on, James. Where are you?
Four minutes.
I look around for a lifeguard. I can’t see one. What the hell? How can there not be a lifeguard on duty.
I eye the blue-green water, swallow down my aversion of the deep end, and move toward it, ready to dive in myself.
He surfaces.
But this time there's something different in the way he breaks through. Less controlled. His breathing is still measured, but there's a tightness around his eyes. A tension in his jaw.
He floats there, and even from where I am, I spot that his breathing is labored. His chest rises and falls. When he pulls off his nose plug, I can see his hand is shaking.
Then he turns his head, and our eyes lock across the distance. This time, I see anguish in his gaze. Gone is the peace which had envelopedhim. Instead, there’s a tension, a finely honed nervousness that clings to him.
He turns over and slowly swims toward me. When he reaches me, he plants a big hand on the deck to steady himself.
The skin around his mouth is stretched tight. The fine lines around his eyes seem deeper. His color is high. He seems pissed off at himself.
For a few seconds, we simply stare at each other. We seem to be communicating on some level I don’t understand. When he seems to calm down, I ask, "What happened down there?”
