I never thought a lazy afternoon at the community pool would turn into the most insane day of my life. I was lounging on a towel, sipping iced tea, when I heard the splashing and choking. This guy—tall, muscular, with dark hair plastered to his face—was thrashing in the deep end, going under. No one else moved. I dropped my drink and dove in, swimming hard to reach him. He was heavier than he looked, but I managed to hook my arm under his and drag him to the edge, heaving him onto the concrete with a grunt.

He lay there, chest still, lips blue. Fuck, he wasn't breathing. My heart pounded as I knelt beside him, hands shaking. I knew CPR in theory—chest compressions, breaths—but up close, with water dripping from his soaked clothes, I froze. What if I messed it up? That's when I spotted my best friend, Ananya, across the pool. She was divorced a year ago, her husband caught cheating with his secretary. She'd been bitter ever since, ranting about how all men are pigs and how we single gals should stay that way—no commitments, just fun. I waved her over frantically.