by Annie Kelly
He stiffens then and I lean back to look at his face.
“Owen?”
His eyes grow wide, and the swarthy, sexy look he’d been sporting is dissolving right in front of me. He starts to back away from me, the ripples in the water a tide pulling us apart. It’s like a spell has broken.
“I’m sorry,” he says, tripping over the words as I watch him move further toward the center of the pool. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do—want to, I mean. I just . . . don’t want to screw up this job. I don’t want to screw up anything. For either of us.”
I watch him move all the way to the other side of the pool. He doesn’t say anything else to me; instead, he starts swimming laps again. For a long moment, I just stare at him, unsure if he’ll resurface to speak to me. After he glides from one end of the pool to the other multiple times, his long freestyle strokes smooth and uninterrupted, I move to the ladder and pull myself out. As I do, the weight of the water combined with the motion causes my breasts to fall out of the deep scoop-neck front. I have to wait until I get all the way up and out onto the pool’s edge before I can hastily tuck everything back into place. But they’re out long enough—long enough to make me realize that they’re heavy with arousal, the nipples rock hard and begging to be touched and licked and pinched with confident fingers.
My brain may eventually realize that hooking up with Owen is a terrible idea, but my tits are staging a protest and are completely game for a hot one-night go-round.
Even the wet fabric of my suit can’t hide the prominence of their hard peaks. Without another look at the pool or my boss, I cross my arms over my chest and haul ass to the showers, hoping against hope that there’s a way to move past this night without supreme awkwardness. Or, at the very least, less awkwardness than I feel right now as I disappear into the locker room.
Chapter Nine
I think the existence of awkward encounters is a personal thing—essentially, you choose to make things awkward or not awkward.
In the past, had I hooked up with a coworker—and I mean REALLY hooked up, not just some kissing and touching in the pool’s deep end—I would have either avoided him (not particularly classy) or faced the problem head-on (somewhat classier). Maybe I’d corner him at the vending machine and say, “Hey, we had a good time, let’s move on,” or something equally lame. I might offer a hug or a fist bump or something before getting back to work. And it would have been ignored or addressed.
But with Owen? All bets are off. In fact, it isn’t until almost a week later—the Wednesday after our “Late Encounter of the Indoor Pool Kind”—that we finally face the enormous elephant stomping all over our damn room.
“Thank you all for being here today,” Owen says to the group of staff members sitting in the conference room. It’s just after school dismissal and I’m standing near the door in case one of us needs to deal with any issues at the front desk or in the gym. I glance around at the handful of people who’ve agreed to be our Teen Grant Task Force. Over the last week, Owen’s recruited some other county rec center employees, including Remy, who is back at BYC for the first time since getting transferred. I’ve never seen someone get so many hugs or cry so many tears in a fifteen-minute span of time. I’m actually mildly impressed.
“As you know,” Owen continues, “Rainey came up with a great plan to target more of the at-risk youth population of Baltimore.”
He smiles at those who are seated around the room. He doesn’t look up at me once, which is par for the course since last week. He has avoided looking at me since the second I stopped pressing my wet, half-naked body against his at the pool. Even when he told me about the meeting and asked me to attend, it was through our work email. Which is super-weird, considering his office is all of thirty feet away from mine.
“Rainey has been researching grants for BYC to apply for and has found an amazing opportunity that could potentially provide us with funds to create what she’s dubbed as a ‘Safe Space.’”
He does glance up at me then and gives a little nod of recognition. A few of the seated staff members turn to look at me. Remy beams and shoots me an exaggerated wink.
“In this case,” he says, moving to the left of the large Smart Board, “we’d be shifting our focus from the more traditional targeted group—socioeconomically disadvantaged youth—and instead aiming to assist teens who might not otherwise have a place to call their own.”
He moves over to his laptop and clicks a few times. A PowerPoint flies up on the screen. In bold black letters, it reads, SAFE SPACES FOR ALL TEENS: A BYC INITIATIVE.
“Our goal is simple.”
Owen points to the screen, which shows a stock photo of teens sitting in a small group with an adult. Everyone is smiling. It’s pretty cheesy.
“Initially, we want to open up one of the conference rooms, like this one”—he gestures to the space around us—“as an accessible area for teens who feel threatened at home or at school. Each participating teenager will get a locker or lockbox that will be installed in the room permanently. They can keep anything they want in the lockbox that feels important to their identity, provided that it’s legal, safe, and not stolen or dangerous.”
Owen swaps the screen for the next one—a list of bullet points.
“Once we’ve identified our target demographic and gotten them to begin coming to BYC regularly, we can start implementing more specific interventions or strategies. For example, maybe we can expand the space to be more of a clubhouse for participating teens. I’m also hoping we can hire counseling staff to work with the group on a regular basis. I think the sky’s the limit when it comes to how this could benefit a population who, frankly, doesn’t think we have the skills to help them.”
I glance around at the group, gauging their overall reaction. Remy looks up at the slides, then back at Owen, his head tilted to one side.
“So, if I’m following,” he says slowly, “you’re saying you want to provide services exclusively to this group—like the grant money would only be for this particular purpose?”
He looks from Owen to me, then back.
“Well, we’re assuming we’ll have some hoops to jump through,” Owen concedes. “It’s possible—highly possible—that the county would want us to . . . diversify our intentions. We may have to be more democratic with our application of funds to have all of our plans approved.”
“Meaning?” Remy asks.
“Meaning that the powers that be might want us to delegate funds to programs other than just Safe Spaces.”
Clearing my throat, I walk up to the front, and, as I do, I swear I can feel Owen’s eyes on me. I will my face not to turn bright red. Instead, I smile at Remy, then at the other volunteers.
“The general idea would be to provide refuge. Teens—kids in general, really—come here for lots of reasons. Some come for the promise of sports and the facilities. Some like the quiet spaces and want to work on school assignments without interruption. Some want to socialize. Some just come for the free food. The bottom line is that they all want two things: camaraderie and safety.”
I look out the door into the hallway, where Charlie is standing and listening. I asked her to come to the meeting, too. I told her she wouldn’t have to speak, but I wanted her to know what we were trying to do. What the plan is, at least, considering there’s no way to know if we can really make this work.
“They want to know that they can be accepted in any form they choose to take as they walk through these doors,” I continue. “We want to provide that for them—and more. We want them to keep any important items or things of emotional value in their Safe Spaces lockers. Obviously, this would be essential for teens who feel threatened or bullied for items they cherish—makeup for a transitioning teen, let’s say, or a comfort item like a blanket or stuffed animal for students who are more sensory.”
A county event coordinator named Ben, a friend of
Owen’s, crosses his arms over his chest and frowns.
“I’m a little confused about the lockers,” he admits. “I mean, I like them in theory, but I think we’re inviting theft and, potentially, violence, if we’re not careful. How will we know what they have in there? There could be weapons or drugs. Searches may not be valid without warrants. I’m not sure of all the legalities, but I know that there could be issues here.”
I nod.
“It’s a valid concern, and one we’re hoping to address with a variety of methods. We certainly plan to do more research.”
Owen moves over to the computer again and clicks through the next few slides, then chooses a link that flashes into an open Word document.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the screen, “is the Safe Spaces Student Contract. This is just one of the ideas we have about keeping the lockers a safe and positive addition to BYC. The contract will cover everything from required school attendance to safety issues to stressing the importance of sharing any bullying or school-related concerns.”
Owen and I are standing a few feet apart, looking anywhere but at each other. I fiddle with my bracelets.
“In essence,” Owen says, clearing his throat, “we are trying to make the interventions here an equal opportunity for everyone.”
Jillian, the BYC accountant, leans back in her chair.
“So, I suppose it goes without saying that there is nothing fiscally feasible about this plan if the grant is not in the picture. You can strategize and plan and even start to implement—but a grant would be the only way that you could possibly carry all of this out.”
Owen nods. “We’re aware.”
“I’m not trying to be a buzzkill,” Jillian says, smiling. “I think it’s a great plan.”
Someone clears their throat from the furthest corner of the room, and everyone looks up, as though knowing it’s the universal sound of rejection.
“I’m not sure I quite understand this ‘great plan,’” George says. I want to roll my eyes. He’s a county services project manager—one of the few that even responded to Owen’s invite when he sent it out on Monday.
“Look, we all want kids to be happy and healthy and safe,” George says, tipping his chin down as though in concession. As though admitting a general, unwritten rule. I narrow my eyes.
“But the truth is that we can’t save everyone. We can’t make every kid perfect and happy and loved. That isn’t our job. At some point, the parents need to step up and be the guardians. The protectors.”
There’s silence in the room, which I can take to mean that there’s at least some agreement. That, or people are afraid of George entirely, which might be worse.
“Excuse me one second.”
I stride from the room and out into the hall, where Charlie is still leaning up against the wall. She looks a lot happier today than she has in a while. The cut at her hairline is healing and most of the residual bruising around it has faded. She’s wearing bright blue liner around her eyes with extended wings and the tiniest rhinestones in the corners at her tear ducts.
“Hey,” I say quietly. She looks up from her phone, startled, then grins when she realizes it’s me.
“Hey—you guys are doing so awesome. I can’t believe you’re actually trying to make this happen. I talked to a bunch of people this week about Safe Spaces and they’re all super-stoked.”
I smile at her. “That’s wonderful, Charlie—thank you.”
Nervously, I touch my hair. I’m about to ask a lot of her and I’m not really sure whether or not it’s too much.
“So, Charlie, listen—the people who are in that room? They’re from all around the county. Most of them are here because they want to help, but not all of them understand what you might need. What your friends might need. To them, Safe Spaces might not be the best use of any money we manage to get.”
Charlie straightens. “They don’t want to help us.”
I shake my head. “No, honey, that’s not it—I just think it would be really great if you could possibly say something to the group. Anything you’re comfortable saying. I know this is a lot to ask.”
She blinks at me for a long moment. “Would I have to talk about my stepdad?” she asks softly.
I shake my head. “No, sweetie, of course not—nothing you don’t want to say.”
She bites her lip, then releases it, pressing the fingertips of her left hand to her mouth.
“Could I reapply my lipstick first?”
I huff out a laugh, then nod. “Of course, honey. You do whatever you need to do.”
***
When Charlie stands next to Owen and me, I can see that her hands are shaking. Everyone’s eyes are on her and I know she’s nervous. I reach out and take one of her hands in mine, then motion for us to sit down. Seconds later, Charlie and I sit at two open chairs. Owen pulls in from one side of the room and sits to my right.
“Just say whatever you want to, Charlie,” Owen says in a low, soothing voice. I look at him and he’s focused in on her, nodding encouragingly. I feel a surge of something warm spreading throughout my entire body as Charlie takes a small step forward.
“My name is Charlie. I’m here today because Rainey asked me to talk to you about how I feel about it here.”
She glances at me and I smile. She takes a shaky breath in, then smiles back.
“Rainey is my student mentor—she and Owen offered me an internship for the rest of the school year.”
Deep breath in. Long exhale.
“It’s unpaid, so, you know, it’s not perfect, but it’s here, which is perfect.”
There’s a chuckle around the table and it seems to bolster Charlie. She smiles.
“BYC is my favorite place these days. It’s the only place I can be myself.”
Bravely, and without any pretense, she leans forward and looks at George. It’s like she knows that this older man is her unspoken critic.
“I was assigned a male identity at birth,” Charlie says softly. “I don’t know if you know that, or if you can automatically tell. I was born with boy parts, so my parents assumed I was a boy. Funny thing, though, the body. It doesn’t always fall in line with biology.
“I’m a girl. A growing woman. And the world we live in? It doesn’t offer a lot of places for girls like me. But BYC does offer that kind of place. It’s the safest corner of my world. And I know that if I feel that way, other girls and boys will feel that way, too. We just need to know where we can call home and, I promise you, we’ll go there.”
I can’t help the tears pooling, completely clouding my vision. I try to blink them away, but they overflow. I have to turn my face away and brush them from my cheeks. When I turn back, I can see that I’m not the only person reacting emotionally. Several other people are dabbing at their eyes or sniffing quietly.
“Thanks, Charlie,” I whisper, squeezing her shoulder. “Why don’t you head back to the office and see if Shannon has any more copying or stapling left to do.”
Charlie nods. She stands up and smiles at the group, but as she heads out the door, she pauses.
“Thank you for listening to me,” she says, looking around the room again. “Not a lot of adults like to listen to someone like me.”
She’s out the door and down the hall before anyone says anything. George clears his throat.
“Mr. Marshall,” he says, addressing Owen, “why don’t you pull together a proposal for me. I can bring it to accounting and get a general projection of what kind of money you’d need to sustain the project long term.”
Owen smiles as he stands and moves over to the nearby podium and grabs a stack of stapled packets. He hands me half and we distribute them to everyone in the room.
“This is a basic projection,” Owen explains as he places the extra proposals on the table, “and we’re open to suggestions. Rainey has a handful
of grants she’s planning on applying for over the course of the next few months. The big ones are from the Department of Health and Human Services and the Maryland State Department of Child Services.”
George sniffs as he looks through the first few pages. Then he stands and puts a hand out to Owen, who takes it.
“We’ll be in touch.”
He nods at me, then strides out of the room. Slowly, people begin to follow him, but with far warmer reactions. People stop to comment on the idea itself and how great it is, how touched they were by Charlie, how successful they think this could be. Finally, it’s just Owen, Remy, and me standing in the room and grinning at each other.
“This is good.” Owen is nodding enthusiastically. “Really good—I mean, even George seemed on board. That’s some crazy shit.”
“Yeah—looks like it could be a good thing,” Remy says. But his smile is tight and his eyes are looking anywhere but at me. I know something’s going on.
But Owen’s oblivious. He shuffles the papers, then beams at me.
“I’m going to go buy Charlie an ice cream or a fruit basket or something.”
I watch him head out the door, a slight spring in his step. I chuckle softly, then turn to look at Remy, who’s shaking his head.
“Rainey, Rainey, Rainey,” he says, clucking his tongue and crossing his arms over his chest. “You have got to know better—and yet, here you are.”
My brow furrows.
“What are you talking about?”
He rolls his eyes and gives me a dismissive wave. “Don’t play coy with me, gorgeous. I invented that damn game. Come on, let’s go grab a drink.”
I glance at my watch. “Remy. It’s three in the afternoon. Besides, I’m not being coy—what are you talking about?”
He pulls a pair of aviator sunglasses from his messenger bag, using the tail of his slim-cut flannel shirt to clean the lenses.
