They walked onwards, and, as luck would have it, within minutes of their arrival a bright-coloured, old-fashioned tram trundled in. They joined the throng of people and squashed on to a wooden seat, but it was no matter that the carriage was crowded. In fact her body almost whooped at the chance to be legitimately pressed up close to Zander, to breathe in his scent, to feel his hard, muscular thigh against hers as they undertook the slow, noisy journey from town to coastline.
Three-quarters of an hour later they alighted at the beach, and suddenly she began to question the wisdom of her decision. A glance at the sea with its calm majesty should have reassured her, but somehow its vast expanse triggered anxiety and her footsteps slowed, her tummy churned.
And there was another issue to contend with. Like it or not, she had to take off her blue-and-white floral summer dress and reveal the swimsuit underneath. A completely serviceable plain black swimsuit, chosen for its simplicity. Yet self-consciousness engulfed her as she pulled out the changing towel from her bag and began some complicated manoeuvring.
Zander observed her for a moment and then, without a shred of embarrassment, tugged his T-shirt over his head, leaving him standing on the sand patiently in his board shorts.
A deep breath and her dress dropped in a silky puddle to the sand, leaving her with the towel still covering her. Right. She wriggled out of it with as much nonchalance as possible, feeling the heat of the sun’s rays warm her skin, trying not to feel exposed as she stared at the waves.
He held out his hand. ‘Let’s paddle to start.’
A moment of hesitation and then she placed her hand in his, told herself that friends held hands, that it was a gesture of reassurance. Nothing more.
Yet as they walked towards the gently lapping waves it felt like more. Skin against skin was a safe anchor, for sure, but it held an added overtone of awareness, made more acute by her sideways glimpses at his muscular chest, the smooth sculpture of his shoulders, and heightened by the fear of the water ahead of her and the crunch of the sand underfoot as each step took her closer.
Then cool waves washed over her feet, snaked around her calves, and she halted.
‘Standing here, all my fears seem groundless,’ she said. ‘The sea seems so innocent. But when I look out there I remember that in fact all I have to do is go out of my depth and I could drown.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess it’s a pretty apt life analogy, isn’t it?’
‘No. Because it is possible to go out of your depth and not drown. Some people swim the Channel. Or you can go by boat.’
‘At greater risk. It’s safer to stick to paddling.’
‘But then you never get to leave the shore.’
Sensing that there was something more in his words, something deeper than the superficial, she turned to him, studied his expression. ‘Some people are happy on the shore.’
‘Yes. They are.’
Now his eyes were definitely clouded, and the words held an unhappiness that was palpable—almost a self-reproach that she didn’t understand.
‘Are you?’ he asked.
‘I...’ She looked out to sea, unsure how to answer. There were so many times when she yearned to be a different person, someone willing to take risks, someone braver, more extroverted, more... Just more. But she was who she was. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And there is nothing wrong with that.’
‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘There isn’t. If you don’t want to swim in the sea you don’t have to. You’ve kept your part of the barga
in. You’re here. In the water.’ Zander ran a hand over his face. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have made you, and if you don’t feel comfortable, then don’t do it.’
His tone of voice was so at odds with the Zander of earlier that it jolted her out of her funk and she turned to face him, studying his face and noting the shadow that crossed his eyes.
It was he who now faced the waves, his body shifting away from hers. ‘I have a bad habit of bulldozing people into doing what suits me. And I have no right to do that.’
‘You didn’t bulldoze me. I agreed to do this. But there’s no point fibbing. I am terrified.’
Gabby caught her bottom lip between her teeth and glared at the sea, wishing she could will it into submission. Life didn’t work like that, though. Zander hadn’t been able to will his dyslexia into submission—he’d had to face the fear and work at it, learn to live with it.
Now she had a choice to make: she could take the easy option—turn away from this, tell herself there was no need to swim in the sea. Or she could try. She could swim away from the shore. And come back.
‘I am going to try. Show me. You swim out. But not too far.’
‘Sure.’
There was no hesitation, not even a sliver of the anxiety that instantly consumed her as he strode forward into the water, increasing his pace. And then he was swimming with strong, sure strokes, cleaving through the water until he flipped over on to his back, then floating for a moment and treading water to face her and wave.
The panic began to swirl. That urge to call him back rose, and she swallowed it down. The sea was calm. There were no rip tides or currents; they had checked. It was safe. But she wanted him to come back.
As if he knew that Zander reversed course, and minutes later he was beside her again. Water dripped from his dark blonde hair, glinted in the sunlight. His features were relaxed; he looked younger, happier...exhilarated. Gorgeous. A man who didn’t live on the metaphorical shore.