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You used to go to the family lake house, together.
At first it was your parents, your older brother, and the family dog. Your memories are blurrier then—a mixture of floaties and sand in your swimsuit and PBJ sandwiches on a blanket and thinking the cabin beds smelled funny.
You'd go every summer, and learn to swim there. You always remembered your first jump off the floating dock. The water looked so crystalline on the surface, but then you plunged under and couldn't see a thing in the murky depths. You resurfaced for air, screaming for a reason you couldn't understand. Instinctively you knew the frigid water held nothing but fish and algae, but it was the fact that you couldn't see to the bottom that scared you.
Sometimes for weeks afterwards you'd have the dreams of being surrounded by deep, dark water. Sometimes, an entity lurking in the depths tried to suck you under with whirlpools and currents. It's the fear of the unknown, your brother told you. An evolutionary response. And you frowned and told him it was more than just that.
As you grew older, your parents let just your older brother take you. You'd kayak together, and he taught you how to fish (he would always let them go. You think about this later.) He started to lose interest in the water, and would instead tan out on the blanket and would periodically look up from his book to make sure you hadn't drowned. You always wondered what the point of going to the water was if he wasn't going to swim—but then, in the evening, he'd stoke a fire in the pit in the backyard and just sit out and look at the stars, and you realized by the calm in his eyes that this was why he came here.
Then, as a teenager, you started to lose interest in the water too. You wanted to tan on the beach with him. He seemed to enjoy the company. In the evenings, he'd let you have exactly one glass of wine, no more than what your parents would let you have at the dinner table, and he'd tell you about the subtle tasting notes in each one.
One time you caught him smoking a cigarette when he thought you were asleep. (You were, but the acrid smell woke you up as it wafted through the bedroom window.) You found him outside by the brightness of the burn amid the dark, and asked if you could have one too.
It's a nasty habit, he said, but you insisted. And when he leaned into light your cigarette with his, you felt a jolt of something that wasn't nicotine—it was sweeter, more dangerous. It was the swirling under the dark surface of the water, and you wanted to drink it from his lips.
You made sure to join him for a cigarette whenever possible.
One summer, you pushed the cigarettes away from each other's mouths and kissed midway through the smoke— you remember pushing him up against the wall with the force of your eagerness, and he drew you in by the small of the back. You couldn't get enough of his lips, so eloquent and beautiful. It felt like the forbidden romance you'd always yearned for, with the older brother who'd always made you feel so safe.
Kissing turned to other things. Even now you can't regret those nights, the passion that awakened you to the pleasures of sex. The care with which your lover held you in his arms. You made excuses to go whenever you could, especially once you'd become a public figure. You were both careful to rarely be seen in public, for both your reputations. The cabin became the one place you could be who you truly were, together.
You know, you told him as you'd laid in bed together one night. I think I've figured out why I'm so scared of dark water.
It's not just the unknown, ja? It's the fact that you can't tell how deep it is. You can't see the bottom and you don't know if you can ever reach it. I guess that's what scares me.
Your brother considered this quietly. People have that kind of depth to them to, you know. He brushed away your hair with his fingers. I don't believe we can ever plumb the depths of even our own hearts, let alone someone else's.
That's not true. You frowned. I think people can understand each other if they try. People are more simple than they are complex, ja? I wouldn't have gone into law if I didn't think people could be figured out.
But now you lay awake in his empty apartment, and you realize he was trying to tell you something that night. You realize the waters you were swimming in with him were the shallows of something much deeper and murkier, and you're far too terrified to even begin to imagine how much distance lies between you and the ocean floor.
The next vacation you take is to the Gulf of Mexico. That way, you can at least see what you're wading into.