My adrenaline kicks in a second later, and I start to kick and flail, reaching skyward and fighting the sinking anchor at my waist and the brutal cold that already feels like it’s wrapping its frigid fingers around my bones. There’s another invisible but heavy hand at my throat that feels like it's simultaneously crushing and corroding my windpipe.
I can’t breathe.
It’s the next thing I register. It should be obvious that I’m drowning, but I’d been so focused on sinking that my mind had failed to register anything else. The little bit of air that I’d sucked into my lungs as I fell is already running low. The burn intensifies, and every moment that passes feels like an eternity.
I’m a terrible swimmer. I could barely manage a doggy paddle on a good day. I always joked that I didn’t need to know how to swim the dry climate of a landlocked state like Colorado growing up. Now I'll die because I never practiced the skill.
Hopeless and useless.
At least until I feel arms wrap around my waist, tightening around my middle. I struggle at first, thinking it’s my imagination—my mind playing tricks on me as I lose consciousness—or worse yet, a third danger, a monster from the deep ready to drag me to my watery grave. But then, on my next upward kick, I feel myself get a little closer to the surface. A second kick, and it really feels like progress. I don’t trust it until the third and fourth seem like real momentum too. Somehow, through the blurriness of my fading vision in the water, I see it’s his hands wrapped around me, his body helping to propel us upward.
Father Levi makes another powerful kick, and another, and we’re moving faster to the surface. The twinkling stars in the sky are reappearing over my head through the waves, and despitethe burn in my lungs and the black halo starting to appear around the edges of my vision, I feel hope.
One kick. Two kicks. Three kicks. I start counting to force myself to stay conscious. I’m uselessly trying to help him, but somehow, it’s working. We’re so close, and my lungs feel like they might bleed from how much they’re burning. We breach the surface of the lake as I choke on the water, desperate for air.
“Breathe,” he shouts. “Breathe.”
He circles around me, coming face-to-face with me in the water, and holds me steady as he kicks to keep us at the surface. His normally serene face is stormy with a mixture of concern and anger, his brow heavy. I try to breathe just to satisfy his demands. He looks furious. For the almost kiss or the drowning, I have no idea. I’m too frazzled to make sense of it.
I take in a shallow breath at first, shaky and spluttering, but it's more oxygen than I’ve had in what feels like an eternity. Then another less shallow one, and another. Until I can finally take a deep enough breath to feel the panic slowly recede, even as I cough and struggle to kick and paddle.
I’m desperate not to be useless. For my own sake as much as his. It feels like salt in the wound to almost drown and then not even be able to help rescue yourself. If I manage to get out of this lake, I’m taking swimming lessons as soon as the abbess will let me arrange them. I'll go twice a week. Say an extra rosary after Mass on Sundays. I just want out of this alive with some shred of my dignity intact.
“I’ve got you. Just make sure you can breathe.” His voice loses its demanding edge, concern bleeding through instead. His arm wraps around me again, securing me before he starts to move us toward shallower water.
It’s impossible to get back up on the pier again from our position beneath the waves, but he takes us toward the beach. Slowly but surely, we make progress. My breathing has steadied,and I cling to him like a rag doll, anxious not to be carried back out to the depths.
The realization of how cold I am starts to seep in, and I feel the chill through every bone in my body as my feet finally touch the murky bottom of the lake. He holds me steady, even as I stumble in the shallow waters. I try to right myself, hoping to seem less pathetic, and only manage to catch my ankle on a submerged branch. My wet skirts wrap around my legs, and suddenly, I’m tumbling forward and nearly landing face down in the water again if not for his strong grip and the way his arms wrap around me, snatching me from that fate to drag me up.
The tears hit hard, clawing at the back of my throat as I work to choke them down. I feel ridiculous for not even being able to walk to shore properly. A sob heaves out of my chest, and I’m embarrassed even at that—for being such a mess in a moment when I should be thanking him for saving me.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so—” I can’t even get the words out as my teeth start to chatter, and my lips feel stiff.
His eyes search mine with worry, and without another word, he stops in the ankle-deep water. His hands go to my waist as he rips at the buttons on the back of my skirts, dragging them off, and then my sweater follows. It feels like an anchor lifted off my body, but my legs are still unsteady as I take my next step.
I don’t take another one. I’m lifted off the ground and into his arms as he takes charge. Another round of tears bubbles up, but I manage to bury my face against his chest before they become audible. I can’t remember the last time I let someone help me, let alone carry me. I’m not sure anyone ever has. But I don’t have the will to fight him in this moment, and I’m even less excited about the prospect of another stumble. So if this man wants to help me, I'll just let him. I'll worry about making apologies tomorrow.
He makes the trip back to the convent seem inconceivably short, especially while carrying a soaking wet mess. He makes quick work of the doors and has us marching down the hallway toward the dorms.
“Wait!” I press my hand to his shoulder when my brain finally catches up as the warmth of the interior hallways knocks the worst of the chill off my body.
We can’t possibly go into the dorms like this, even if we do look like drowning rats. Sister Maria Teresa will have my head. She’d single-handedly reinstate the gallows and put me up on them herself. He halts, turning a skeptical eye on me.
My eyes catch on his neck before I can speak again, distracted from my original warning. The thick, cordlike muscles in it are taut from the strain of carrying me, but there on his skin, inches away from mine, is what looks like a tattoo. It was covered deftly with some kind of cover-up, makeup, or otherwise, but the dip in the lake has left it partially revealed. It looks like the tip of a horseshoe.
My stomach drops at the sight of it, and my mind starts to race. I’ve never seen a priest with tattoos. It’s not criminal on its own, but it speaks to a longer life between reaching adulthood and joining the seminary—a life marked by tattoos and maybe women. It would make sense. He's too pretty to be a priest, maybe even a touch too clever and charming.
“What’s wrong?” His tone doesn’t leave room for any disagreement, and he starts marching down the hall.
“They could see us go into my room.” My voice is rough from the combined strain of coughing and the cold. I’m glad I have an excuse for it. It’s an easy lie to cover up my nervousness.
“Let them. I’ll explain you nearly drowned. Now tell me where your room is.”
He carries me through the halls like I weigh nothing, winding around corners and moving like he wasn’t in the icy water rightalongside me as I direct him to my room. He opens the door, setting me down on the chair at my desk and flipping on the light in the dark room. It’s blinding, and I squeeze my eyelids together against the fresh intrusion.
“Towels?” He gives a truncated demand. I nod to the drawer as I work to unbutton my blouse with frozen fingers. He charges on while I struggle to manage one button. My icy hands are still thawing and refuse to cooperate.
“Here.” He appears with scissors he must have taken from the sewing kit I have perched on my shelf. I suck in a deep breath as he makes contact with my skin, and my self-preservation instincts kick in, capitalizing on my paranoia for half a second until I realize his intention.
