Of Poseidon

here.
    When they get close, he faces her to him again. “Close your eyes. I want this to be a real surprise.”
    She laughs. “You think I even know where we are? We could be in the North Pole for all I know. I don’t have a sense of direction on land, Galen.”
    “Well, just the same, close your eyes.”
    When she complies, he picks up speed, skirting them along the ocean floor until he sees it looming ahead of them. He turns her around. “Open your eyes, Emma,” he whispers.
    He knows the exact moment she opens them. She gasps. He knew she would recognize it. “The Titanic, ” she breathes. “Ohmysweetgoodness.”
    He swims them to the hull. She reaches out to brush her fingers along the rail made so famous in movies. “Careful of the rust,” he warns.
    “It looks so lonely. Just like in the pictures.”
    He heaves them over the rail and supports her body weight so she can touch her feet on the deck. The stirred-up muck floats around them like an apparition. Emma laughs. “Wouldn’t it be funny to leave fresh footprints here? I bet they’d come up with all sorts of ghost stories. It would make headlines.”
    “It would only increase the traffic down here. They’re already selling trips to the Titanic to tourists who can afford it.”
    She giggles.
    “What?” he says, smiling.
    “There’s this big glass jug in the back of my closet. Last year when we studied this in school, I started throwing all my change in it to save up for one of those tours.”
    He chuckles and lifts her from the deck to move forward. “What will you spend it on now?”
    “Probably some of that chocolate Rachel keeps around the house. I hope I have enough.”
    Everywhere she wants to go, he takes her. To the port-side deck, to the anchor, to the giant propeller. He pushes them inside and shows her the officer’s quarters, dilapidated halls, frames of windows with no glass. “We can go deeper in if your eyes are adjusting.”
    She nods. “It’s like looking at things in the moonlight on a clear night. I can see almost everything if I really focus.”
    “Good.” He reaches a hole in the hall floor and points into the darkness. “No human has been down there since the ship sank. You up for it?”
    He can see the hesitation in her eyes. “What?” he asks. “You feel bad? Are you low on air? Is the pressure too much?” He clutches her tight, ready to spring up if she answers yes to any of it. Instead, she shakes her head and bites her lip.
    “No, it’s not that,” she says, her voice cracking.
    He stops. “Triton’s trident, Emma, what is it? Are … are you crying?”
    “I can’t help it. Do you realize what this is? It’s a steel coffin for over fifteen hundred people. Mothers drowned with their children here. People who once walked down these halls got trapped underneath them. They ate off the dishes broken everywhere. Someone actually wore that boot we passed. Crew members kissed their families for the last time the day this ship left port. When we studied it in school, it made me sad for all these people. But it never felt as real as this. This is heartbreaking.”
    He brushes her cheek with the back of his hand, imagining the tear that would be there if they weren’t twelve miles deep. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I’m sorry.”
    She grabs his hand but doesn’t move it away from her. “Are you kidding? This is the best surprise you could have planned. I can’t think of anything else that could top this. Seriously.”
    “Do you want to keep going then? Or have you seen enough?”
    “No, I want to keep going. I just felt I should acknowledge what happened here all those years ago. To be a respectful visitor, not just a mindless tourist.”
    He nods. “We’ll explore a few more minutes below, then I need to take you up. We need to surface slowly, so your lungs can adjust if they need to. But I promise, I’ll bring you back if you want.”
    She laughs. “Sorry, but I think this is my new favorite hangout. We might as well pack a lunch next time.”
    Together, they swim deeper.
    * * *
    A warm glow from inside her house illuminates the doorstep. He shuts off the engine, fighting off the urge to back them out of the driveway and go somewhere, anywhere else. As long as they go together.
    “Mom’s home,” Emma says softly.
    He smiles. Her hair is still damp from the shower she took at his house, and her spare change of clothes—jeans and a paint-splattered T-shirt—are a bit wrinkled