We lay down markers every 25 meters. Laminated signs say things like“The water is your home”and“Don't count laps, make every lap count.”
Mason reads one aloud and raises an eyebrow.
“You been googling swimmer quotes?”
I grunt. “A bit.”
“A bit,” Mason repeats skeptically, but there's no judgment in his tone, just a kind of bemused wonder.
“You annotated them. There’s footnotes.”
I hammer in a stake a little harder than necessary. “Wanted it to be right.” Trying my best to sound casual.
Truth is, I’ve spent hours each night reading about interval training, stroke technique, lactate thresholds. I know more about flip turns and kick drills than any man should unless he's trying out for Tokyo.
“Jake used to have markers every twenty-five meters,” I explain, unrolling the first waterproof distance sign.
Mason watches me carefully. “You remember a lot about his swimming.”
“I remember everything about him.” I hammer the first stake into the ground. “Used to time him while Dad was working. He was good, you know? Might've gone somewhere with it if...”
I trail off, unable to finish the thought. Mason understands, “I miss him too brother”.
Mason watches me quietly for a while, then says, “You know what's wild? You're down here, ankle-deep in river mud, grinning like a lunatic. You haven't set foot near this river in eight years.”
I pause. The hammer in my hand stills. He's right. I hadn't realized the smile stretched on my face, until he said it.
“She’s good for you, man. You needed someone to shake up the cobwebs. Maybe even give you a reason to look forward instead of back.”
He pats me on the back and takes another marker, moving down the riverbank.
We work methodically as dawn breaks, placing distance markers at precise intervals along the swimming path. I've mapped it out to create a 400-meter loop that utilizes both the calm section and the bend where the current provides resistance. Near what would be the starting point, I install a waterproof clock.
By sunrise, the river looks like something out of a sports documentary. We’ve got lane ropes, resistance cords, even a tempo trainer clipped to a tree. I step back and exhale, staring at the finished setup.
“You think she’ll like it?” I ask, side eyeing by best friend.
Mason gives a low whistle.
“She better. Otherwise I’m stealing this for my morning workouts.”
Back at the house, he heads to the fire station for his shift, still laughing about my “romantic tendencies”. I promise to call him before the rodeo tomorrow tonight. He’s headed to the fire station for a 10-hour shift, leaving me alone with my nerves—and an empty kitchen that suddenly feels too quiet.
The coffeemaker hisses. Good. Something else making noise besides the riot in my head. I prep myself to act normal, my heart racing with anticipation and nerves. Will she think it's too much? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.
I’ve wrangled cattle less complicated than the floating-buoy maze that was hidden in the bed of my truck for the last week. What if Mia thinks I’m overstepping? Not everyone appreciates grand gestures.
What if she laughs—politely, the way people do when a toddler hands them a mud pie?
I pour a second mug just to keep my hands busy. The aroma is strong enough to dissolve paint, but my pulse still races.
Relax, man. She swims. You solved a problem.Right?
Then I hear it—the guest room door creaking open.
Footsteps—soft, unhurried. Then she appears in the doorway: barefoot, hair a tousled halo, wearing my old rodeo tee that lands mid-thigh and wrecks every coherent thought I’ve ever had. She rubs one eye, squints at the light, and smiles—and I’m finished.
“Morning, angel,” I manage, holding out the mug. “Coffee?”
