But Joey is paddling us around, and I’m along for the ride like some sort of barnacle. A barnacle that’s essentially lying on top of him. “You’re my own personal Joey-float,” I say with a huff of laughter. “And I didn’t even have to blow you.” A second passes—the quietest second in existence—before I hastily add, “Up. I didn’t have to blow you up.” He chuckles, his eyes practically sparkling as he swims around the deep end of the pool. “Nope. I’m all prepped and ready to go.” I squint at him. “Was that an anal joke?”
