The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [53]
He was looking forward to the competition.
“Go.”
They sprang in unison, firing into the pool like serious seals.
J.T. made it to the other end first, but he had length on his side. It also took him slightly longer to pull his entire six-foot frame from the water. Two steps forward and he dropped squarely onto his flattened palms. He was aware of Marion right beside him. One, two, three, four, five.
Up and into the water we go.
He was adrenaline and he was energy and he was delighted.
The first ten laps were easy. Then lungs started to burn more, motions took on a rubbery, slow-motion-like feel. He heard Marion’s labored breaths as she fell down for more push-ups. Then again, maybe he was just listening to his own.
They both stumbled a bit upon rising, jostled into each other, then like punch-drunk fools exchanged glares and dove back into the pool for more.
After fifteen laps they definitely weren’t seals anymore. Not even walruses. More like corked bottles bobbing in the water and reaching desperately for shore. His chest seemed to have been invaded by an army of stinging red ants and his biceps were as obedient as overcooked spaghetti. Marion’s push-ups made her look like a tepee swaying in the breeze.
But she didn’t cry uncle. Not Marion.
And he didn’t cry uncle. Not J.T.
He decided they had more in common than they appreciated. They were both stupid beyond words, weak, ugly children determined to prove that they weren’t.
Fuck you, Colonel, sir.
He hefted himself out for number twenty. His hand slipped and he went splashing back in. Marion was still in the water beside him. She seemed to be beating at the deck more than using it to pull herself up.
“You’re never going to say it, are you?” he gasped.
“Bite me.”
“Such language, Marion.”
“Bite me.”
She gave a last lunge and managed to beach herself on the patio, flailing on her stomach like a dying fish. He had no choice but to follow.
“We’ll say it together.”
“Youcryuncleifyouwanttocryuncle!” she expelled in one breathless rush.
“Yeah? Then let’s see your next push-up, Pocahontas.”
Her eyes closed, she groaned but didn’t move and didn’t cry uncle. He decided two could play that game. He beached himself beside her and concentrated on enjoying the warm, solid feel of his patio.
Idly, in the hazy world of the oxygen-deprived, he thought that he felt the best he’d felt in days. Like liquid gold.
He was going to hate himself in the morning, but then, he could say that about innumerable things he’d done the night before. At least suicides weren’t likely to come after him with a shotgun or give him a hangover.
Marion was moving. She planted her hands on the deck and prepared to lift her quivering body.
“You just don’t quit, do you?” he asked with genuine awe.
“No.” She gritted her teeth and with a determined grunt heaved her body up. Her arms shuddered like leaves. Slowly, so painstakingly he had to grit his teeth to watch, she lowered herself to the patio and touched her nose to the surface. Even good form.
“One,” she gasped, triumphant.
So he was forced onto his arms to do five more.
Oh, well, he thought philosophically. Sooner or later one of them was bound to drop dead.
AN HOUR LATER they were both collapsed on the patio chairs. Not moving. Not talking. Just lying—and lying suddenly felt like hard work.
Through the sliding glass door J.T. could see Rosalita bent over Angela’s seated form, massaging suds through her short-cropped hair. Angela had changed into a pair of old khaki shorts and a white tank top. From his vantage point he could see her legs clearly, the way her thighs curved into rounded kneecaps, which gave way to slender calves, which tapered to delicate bare ankles.
He’d always loved bare ankles. Exposed ankles and bare feet. Feet could be incredibly sexy, especially small, dainty feet sporting red-painted toenails.
Rachel had painted her toenails. Sometimes, if he’d been a very good boy, she’d let him paint her toenails. He remembered late Saturday nights when she would lie back on their down-covered bed and