Page 98 of Love Bound

"Listen," he says, "you need to get up. We've got stuff to do."

This time, I turn around and look at him. He's encased in black neoprene.

I rise on one elbow. "Where'd you get that?"

Finn starts lifting me out of the bed by the arm.

I clutch at the sheets. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, you're going for a morning swim."

My heart leaps to the back of my throat. "I can't—I cannot do this."

He leans over and whispers in my ear, "Oh, but you will." After straightening up, he holds out my wetsuit. "We're going to do it every morning. Step by step. Just wading in a little bit at a time until you're ready to swim. Until you're ready to go. You love to swim. And I would hate to think that you'd let somebody like Steven Miller hold power over you. He's a weasel. He's an asshole. And he's gone. And that will never, ever happen to you again. So just go ahead. I want you to test the waters with me. Come out with me. You have to admit, I look pretty hot."

Despite my quivering thighs, I laugh.

"Get this on." Finn lets me put a hand on his shoulder as he leans down to help me wedge my legs into the neoprene.

It fits tight and snug—maybe a little tighter around my hips from lack of exercise. I slip each arm in and he zips me up seemingly rather proud of his tactics. He holds me close enough and my body feels electrified under the neoprene. When he kisses me, his tongue deep inside, he smells like cut limes from the aftershave.

"Come on," he says. "You're going to be fine."

Grabbing the hood for his own suit, he tucks his hair all up inside the black neoprene cap and I start laughing. It totally changes the shape of his face.

As I start tucking my hair up under my own hood, I decide honesty is the best policy. "I will look like a pinhead. It’s why I never let you see me in this in the mornings."

His eyes sparkle and despite my fears, this makes me happy. "I love pinheads," he says.

We joke on the way down, grabbing our thin wet shoes by the back door. The little winding trail to the beach is marked with seashells and stone. I'm trying to be funny and buoyant and keep that lilt in my voice, but as we approach the water, my heart starts to race. I know it's completely a PTSD response and I have no control over it, but I feel ridiculous.

I slip my feet into wet shoes and step into the water, struggling to look determined.

I'm a grown woman. I'm a strong swimmer. I can do this.

This is not a problem.

And yet my body is telling me: Oh, no, this is a huge problem.

I step into the sea, the water churning around my knees, at which point I stop. "I don't know if I can do this."

"You'll be fine. I’m right here," Finn assures me.

How can I tell him he may not be enough? That I don't know if he will be enough?

Now, I'm up to my waist. My feet are cold, but my body is warm. I shouldn't have to worry; everything is fine.

Finn doesn’t touch me, but he's right there. I can see him watching me.

Then the water is up to my chest, and that's where I freeze. That's when I think I can't go any farther. I reach out to him, my arm swinging in the air, and Finn grabs it.

Starting to gulp air, I make my point. "I can't do this."

"But you’re doing it right now," he says. "And I'm right here."

Again, I want to say but I don't know if you're going to be enough. I don't know if I can do this. And if you're not enough, how awful. How disappointing, how terrible. You'll feel betrayed that I couldn't do this for you.

My mind starts to coil and spin with these thoughts and panic starts to rise.