Deep End(105)

“And?” I’m surprised my vocal cords still work.

“You had a boyfriend, and that was it. But she didn’t forget. She knew I found you attractive, would tease me about it, in her way. That’s what she does with people she loves.”

I feel a little numb. “Is that why she threw me at you at Coach Sima’s house?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she was just drunk.”

I nod, realizing that I really don’t want to talk about this any longer. “We should finish the shaving. Okay?” I force a smile. “Let me make you smoother than a saxophone solo.”

Lukas mutters something that sounds like “This needs to stop, Scarlett,” but before lying back, he pulls me down and kisses me.

I kiss him back, and it’s unlike any other time.





CHAPTER 54


IT’S NOT A GOOD YEAR FOR USA DIVING. Hayden Bosko, our three-meter hopeful, loses hope somewhere around her fourth dive and limps to a tired sixth place. Carissa and Natalie don’t even make it to the synchro finals. Peter Bryant forgets the concept of rip entry while in the air, and Akane, our only medal, pulls off a bronze by the skin of her teeth. And then there’s me.

BARB: Maybe you’re not on the podium, but you are officially the ninth best platform diver in the world. Isn’t that good?

It doesn’t feel good, not as half a dozen sports journalists who’d rather be on the NFL beat ask me, “What went wrong, Scarlett?”

Everything, I want to scream. Instead I clear my throat, and say, “Lots of tiny mistakes that added up.” It’s true. No earthquakes, just aftershocks. I smile and repeat what the media specialist taught us. “I’m really happy to be here.”

But I’m not. “What a waste of time,” Akane mutters back in the hotel room.

“I fucking hate it.”

“Wanna join me in my feel-like-shit ritual? ”

“What’s that?”

We spend an hour watching amateur diving fails, and when Akane falls asleep, I head upstairs. Nine months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever dive competitively again. I have no reason to be this frustrated with myself. “Why am I so furious?” I ask the second Lukas opens the door, brushing past him.

“What happened to your back?”

“What—oh.” I guess he can see the bruises under my tank top. “Nothing. I screwed up the fulcrum, smacked during my lead-ups.”

“What the fuck, Scarlett?” He turns me around to examine the purpling edges.

“It’s fine. It was during warm-up, it’s not bad—”

“This is bad.”

“It was from the board and—” I whirl around, surprised by the worry in his eyes. “I should be happy, shouldn’t I?” My cheeks feel wet, because my fucking eyes are leaking. I wipe at them with my palms. “ ‘Just happy to be here.’ That’s supposed to be my motto.”

He crosses his arms. Gives me a long, assessing stare. “Where else are you hurt?”

“Just that and the back of my thighs, but—”

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed. Face down.”

“I don’t—”

“Scarlett.”

I obey, and squeeze my eyes shut. When he starts rubbing bruise-relief lotion into my skin, my tears overflow anyway.

“You don’t have to—I have some in my room, too.”

“But you didn’t use it. Because you felt like you didn’t deserve it.”

I turn my head. “How do you—”

“I know you, Scarlett. Come on. Breathe in, breathe out.”

It takes me a while to calm down. “I used to feel sad when I lost. I don’t understand where all this . . . this fury comes from. ”

“You used to be in survival mode. You just wanted to compete again.” His hands are warm and gentle. “Now you know what you’re capable of, and you’re angry you didn’t perform accordingly. It’s a good thing—within reason.”

I bury my face into the cotton. “Why do you sound happy about it?”

“I like you like this.”

“When I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds?”

“Yup. Fighty.” He presses a kiss against my nape, lingering, rubbing his nose through the baby hair. “It’s healthy, Scarlett. Take the anger and use it as fuel.”

He’s right. He’s always right. Also, he’s medaled in all his races so far, but has to take care of me, a loser. How does he not feel impatient with me?

He told you to do it, a voice reminds me. He asked me to go to him when I’m falling apart. And he’s so good at putting me back together, patching me up like a too-worn shirt, weaving me into my original shape. Even though my rough days at the office cannot possibly be relatable to him. “Is it weird for you? When others lose?”

He laughs. “You think I never lose?”

“I know you don’t. You are forty-five gold medals in a trench coat. You got into med school. There are fancams of you on the internet.”

He snorts. “I tried training backstroke and longer butterfly distances, and never qualified for shit. I had to come to the US for college because the Karolinska Institute didn’t accept me. I tried building a neural network, and the accuracy was abysmal compared to yours. And as you know, my girlfriend of seven years broke up with me because of how not fun I am.”