The Deep End by Mathieu Parsy

Jason Momoa showed up the night the pool overflowed. There had been rain for six days; the kind that creeps sideways into your house through window seams, under your skin, into your thoughts. Jason wore a wet denim jacket and no shoes. He walked straight through the puddle on the welcome mat and asked for a towel. I gave him the old blue one with the bleach stain. Same one Lucas used when we snuck into hotel pools, pretending to be guests.

He took the guest room. Incense and chlorine still perfumed it. I’d kept it that way. Not out of sentimentality, but because I was afraid of what might replace it. Jason didn’t open the window. Just took off his jacket, lay down on the quilt, hands behind his head. I sat at the desk. We didn’t talk. Just watched the ceiling fan turn slowly. It carved the night into small, quiet pieces.

Lucas died three months ago. Jumped from—not the interstate bridge—the smaller one near the reservoir where we used to sit and smoke clove cigarettes and talk about leaving town. The note he left was short: I’m tired. Nothing else. That kind of tired isn’t something a nap or a conversation fixes. I tried both. I even threw him a BBQ pool party. None of it mattered.

At night, Jason and I sat by the pool. The water had turned cloudy, colder than usual. He dipped his feet in anyway. His heels were rough, like he’d walked for miles barefoot. I didn’t ask where he came from. He didn’t ask why I hadn’t left.

I told him about Lucas. How he couldn’t stand corn on the cob. How he secretly loved the Aquaman movies but never admitted it. I told him about the time Lucas stole a traffic cone because he thought it looked lonely.

Jason let out a low laugh. It came from somewhere deep and sat in our chests long after it faded. Then he said, “People like that don’t really leave. They just end up somewhere we can’t get to. Not yet.”

The next evening, he came out and brought us two beers and a wooden spoon. He handed me the spoon without a word, then started tapping his chest with his fist. Strong. Steady. A beat you could feel in your bones. I followed, knocking the spoon against the concrete beside my foot. The rhythm wasn’t music exactly. It was slower, heavier. Like something ancient trying to surface. A quiet language. Grief, maybe. Or memory. I felt it in my wrist, then in my ribcage. It filled the space between us. He said it was something his uncle taught him—a way of remembering without summoning.

Each morning, I made coffee and left a cup outside his door. He never touched it. I kept doing it anyway. Some mornings, I’d find him in the hallway. He’d stand in front of the old photos. One in particular: Lucas and me at the beach. Sunburnt, squinting. Holding up our thumbs while the tide crawled in behind us.

One afternoon, Jason asked, “You ever swim in the deep end?”

The sky was turning dark. Heavy clouds pushed across it like slow mythical creatures. I told him yes, even though I hadn’t. I just needed to say yes to something.

“When it rains like this again,” he said, “let it take you all the way down. You might find him waiting.”

He left the next morning. No note. No goodbye. Just the towel, hanging from the hook. The pool had started clearing on its own. The rain had finally stopped. I found the spoon floating near the skimmer.

I didn’t drain the pool. Not yet. The bottom was still cloudy. Memory lives in that murk.

That night, I swam alone. I went under, all the way down. I opened my eyes. The water stung, but I kept them open.

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MATHIEU PARSY — Mathieu is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera. He now lives in Toronto and works in the travel industry. His writing has appeared in publications such as MoonPark Review, BULL, New World Writing Quarterly, and Bending Genres. Follow him on Instagram at @mathieu_parsy.

Art by CLARISSA KURTALIAJ — Clarissa lives between a bakery and the woods with her husband, Ted and their pup, Grub. She graduated in studio art and english from St. Lawrence University and now continues to weave her wonders of the world by crafting hanging mobiles, taking care of family, watching the seasons, and learning the art of pastry chef. She loves reading and writing and now, is loving illustration.