Deep End(111)

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” I told him. “But Mei said that—”

“Why do I feel like a cheated husband?”

I try to keep a straight face. “Because Mrs. Sima has taken up with the landscaper?”

“Because my diver came home smelling like another coach!”

“That’s not true.”

“Mei is your favorite. You stan her. ”

I wince. “Did your son teach you that word?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

But if Coach Sima knows what I used to be capable of before my injury, Mei has a better idea of what I’m capable of now. And it works: endless repetition, constant corrections, infinite fine-tuning. I become, if not better, more confident, and the focus helps drown out the noise in my head.

“He’s back,” Maryam says into my room on the following Saturday night.

I look up from my neurobiology homework. “Who?”

“The Love Island contestant.”

“What?”

“The heartthrob with the accent.”

I blink. “Lukas?”

The deep “Yup” coming from behind her squeezes my stomach like it’s a washcloth.

“I’m not sure whether I’m being flattered,” he says, closing the door, “or torn to shreds.”

“With Maryam? The latter. Always.”

“I introduce myself every time. She could just use my name.”

“Nah, not her thing.”

He stands over me and I’m breathless. Even more when he bends down to kiss me, one hand on the back of my chair, the other on the desk. He’s a blanket of heat and comfort. I lean into his lips because I can’t help myself, then clear my throat.

“I’d love to hang out, but I have to finish my quiz.”

He nods, ever understanding. And says, “Action potential, sodium, amygdala.”

“What?”

“The answers to the three questions you have left.” He crosses his arms and looks down at me like he’s never, not once, fallen for someone’s lie. “What’s going on, Scarlett? ”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Why?” He huffs, amused. “You’re not good at this, no more than I am.”

“At what?”

“At playing fucking games.”

He’s right. It’s why we like what we like, and each other. Structure. Negotiations. Agreements and predictability. “I’m just catching up with schoolwork. We’re so close to Pac-12—”

His fingers pinch my chin like I’m a child, leaving me no choice but to meet his eyes. I don’t know if I can stand it. It’s that pressure again. A constant threat of tears. “I left this place two weeks ago. You were happy and fucked out and half in—” He breaks off. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Are you okay?”

I nod, but can’t bring myself to say a single thing.

“Hey,” he tells me, tone shifting to real concern, searching, weighty. “You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to come up with some bullshit excuse. It’s just me.”

It’s true. This is Lukas, and he loves the truth. I can vomit out whatever’s in my head and he’ll accept it—and doesn’t that make it even worse?

I’m being strangled. Cannot breathe. Have to slow myself down. “Pen is . . . not doing well.”

“Right. Pen and her fucking delusions.” His tone terrifies me—icy. Angry. A dangerous machine he could use to excavate the beating heart out of my chest. “Did she ask you to take a step back?”

“No.”

“No.” The word is, at once, out of his mouth before I’m done answering, and spoken in the most unhurried of ways. “All on your own, then.”

“She’s my friend.” I run my palms down my bare thighs. “I don’t think she could handle that you and I . . . ”

“You and I?” His smile is a little cruel. “Come on, Scarlett. What are you and I doing? Are you ready to finally say it?”

I stare down at my legs, hoping the words will roll out easily when I’m avoiding his eyes. But no. “Until she feels better, maybe we should pull back. Or focus more on the . . . physical part of our relationship.”

Lukas doesn’t answer, not for a long stretch, and when I give up and tilt my head up at him, his gaze is cataloging, all-seeing. “Now?” he asks.

“What?”

“Do you want me to fuck you while pretending that you’re not the person I feel closest to in the whole fucking world now, Scarlett? Or another day?”

I don’t know what cuts deeper—the words, or the chill in his tone.

“I . . . if you want to, now, we can—”

“I want.” He sounds mocking, even a little contemptuous, but his hand is gentle enough as he pulls me out of the chair. “Am I allowed to kiss you?” His smile is bitter. “Would that be unfair toward Pen?”

He’s angry, and anger doesn’t go well with power exchange. I just have to decide whether I care. “Of course you can kiss me.”

But he doesn’t. He pushes me onto the bed, belly down, and his strength vibrates throughout my body. And we haven’t even started.