It was hot when we moved to Dexler. Late June. Three weeks since my mother met a guy at a meeting in a church basement and, within minutes, her new addictions were sobriety and him. It didn’t surprise me. She uprooted our lives for the millionth time, and while she lunged twelve steps forward, I held my breath and waited for her to slide thirteen back.
My job is always to catch her.
But for now, April was Huck’s problem, and I had new surroundings to explore. As soon as I unpacked my bags in the room Huck previously used as an office, I left the apartment in search of the library. I craved air-conditioning and alternate realities, and wasn’t eager to
watch April play house.
Heat rose off the sidewalk in shimmering waves, blurring the world like a dream. I accepted the sweat beads that rolled down my back, and took the long route, wandering. Surrendering. It was a trick I’d learned those eleven months in Texas. If you give in to the heat, stop fighting and let it embrace you, you gain power and it can no longer destroy you.
It doesn’t work that way with cold. Cold you can only brace against—bundle up, speed your pace, grit your teeth, and try to bear it. Heat is different. Heat you can welcome inside you like the devil.
This heat was nothing compared to that kind, compared to Texas. Not yet.
I walked down this block, up that one, in the general direction Huck told me. His corner of Dexler is more bricks and concrete than park benches and green, but I saw on the drive in why it’s nicknamed the Leafy City. The wealthier sections are dripping with trees, and those houses have grass yards and gardens. Tour Guide Huck touted the beauty of the historic lampposts, noted that the high school is in walking distance of the apartment, said he knew I’d find “lots of great groups to join.”
I crossed the street to step into shade and passed alongside an empty playground. Three rubber swings hung motionless in the sun. A fourth swayed like a memory. My fingers skimmed the bumps of a chain-link fence, and I felt as much as heard the sounds washing toward me. The shrieks of little kids. The bounce and snap of a diving board, followed by a splash. The lifeguard’s sharp whistle like the birdcall for a happy summer. Joyful, carefree,
normal sounds.
I’ve never been in water any deeper than a tub, and the best route to the library was for sure straight ahead, but I turned left toward the sounds, opened the gate, and stepped inside without a thought—like Gretel grabbing mouthfuls of the witch’s candy cottage or Goldilocks crossing the bears’ inviting threshold. Too hungry to resist; too enchanted to question the reward.
I walked, unseen, past two preteen girls on one towel, sharing a magazine, their skinny legs entwined. I avoided a group of guys showing off inexpert dives—clowning for the high school girls nearby, who watched without watching until one of them stood, dusted off, and showed the boys how it’s done. I looked straight at the bored twenty-something at the snack stand accepting damp bills in exchange for cold sodas, handing ice cream and napkins to kids and moms through the window by the HELP WANTED sign. None of them noticed I was there. No one did, except him.
At the edge of the pool, he turned and saw me.
A smile spread across his lips. I followed its arc up his cheekbones, to the corners of his bright, kind eyes. His gaze fixed on mine, and it was like discovering a key I didn’t realize I was holding.
I tried the key in the lock and:
click.
Once there was a girl named Destiny, who had never been lucky in anything— until she met a boy who was always lucky in everything. What did that mean about love?He takes my smile for an invitation, comes over to where I’m standing, and tilts his head. “Why haven’t I seen you around before?” he asks.
"I’m new,” I say.
“To swimming?”
“To town.” I catch a flash of dimple.
“Ah. Well, you’re in luck, because I happen to be the official unofficial welcoming committee for Dexler Park Community Pool. Welcome to the neighborhood. We hope you’ll find it pleasing.” He sweeps both arms to encompass the world. Cocky, but just awkward enough to be endearing. His limbs drop. “So where did you move from?” he asks.
“Nowhere as pleasing as this.” I dodge the question out of habit, but also to rein this in. It’s none of my business if the porridge is hot.
His laugh slips around me, and he looks at me with renewed curiosity. “Mysterious,” he says. “Will you grant me three guesses?”
“I will not.” I swat a mosquito. “Never bargain with a guy in a bathing suit.”
“That’s very wise. Who knows what might happen.”
I look away. He’s right. Yet already I long to look back.
“Well.” He gestures toward the water. “You coming in? We could use another swimmer for the doggy-paddle relay. You look like you’ve got skills.”
“Oh. I don’t swim.”
“So you came here just to see me,” he says.
“Something like that. Or maybe—” I lift my chin toward the HELP WANTED sign, the first excuse that pops into my brain. “I came about the job. Who wouldn’t want to work at a place called the Deep End?”
“Cool. Yeah. I’ll hook you up.” Before I can protest, he moves toward the snack stand and calls to the guy inside. “Hey, Jacob. I found your new hire. This is . . .” He glances back and his eyebrows ask the question.
“Destiny. Destiny Black.”
“This is Destiny,” he finishes, including Jacob, me, the sky, the world, everything, in the scope of his grin. “Employee of the Month.”
“Friend of yours?” Jacob says.
Now the grin exists solely for me. “I hope so.”
“Well, then,” Jacob says. “Destiny. When can you start?”
“Tomorrow,” I respond. “Or today?”
“Tomorrow, ten a.m. No open-toed shoes.” Jacob waves away my thanks and greets an approaching customer.
“I’m Ryan, by the way.” He offers his hand.
I take it. “Ryan.” His skin presses warm against mine. “Pleased to meet you.”
There once was a girl named Destiny, who honestly,
foolishly, completely believed that
her fate, her destiny, was he.
Stupid girl. I can hear my mother say it—hear her scream it, hiss
it, slur it. And she’s right.
There is no such thing as happily ever after. Not for girls like me.
Copyright © 2026 by Anica Mrose Rissi. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
