Deep End(115)

SCARLETT: Want company?

LUKAS: Not particularly.

LUKAS: Would love to see you, though.

The power requirements of the world’s water desalination plants are met.

SCARLETT: Where?

LUKAS: Maples.

I think of Maples as the basketball stadium, but an informal volleyball game is going on. Both teams are mixed, three men and three women, with no referee. A handful of spectators scatter on the bleachers. Lukas sits next to Johan, talking with a tall, blond girl in a Stanford volleyball jersey.

Johan notices me first, and waves. The others turn, too—the girl with a curious expression, and Lukas . . .

Lukas.

I stop right next to him, trying not to stare like he’s a piece of avant-garde performance art. “Practice game?”

“More for fun, really.” The girl’s accent is as faint as Lukas’s.

“Scarlett,” he says, “this is Dora.”

We shake hands. She smiles. “You’re the diver, right? Premed?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Oh.” I dip my hands in the back pockets of my shorts. “Same,” I say, just to be polite.

Both she and Johan laugh. “That’s nice of you,” she says, “but I doubt Lukas talks about me that much.”

“Dora, maybe Lukas was secretly in love with you all along,” Johan offers, which has her laughing even harder, and Lukas giving an amused reply in Swedish, a short back-and-forth. By the time Dora returns to the bench area, I’m wondering if I’ve been summoned here to be the butt of a joke I can’t even understand.

“Hi,” Lukas says, moving his water bottle to make room for me.

“Hey.” I take a seat, leaving a few inches between us. His arm, though, snakes behind my back, loops around my waist, and pulls my flank flush against his. Then he lets go.

“You seem—” I break off. Clear my throat. “Less inconsolable than I was led to believe.”

“Inconsolable?”

“Pen mentioned that tapering messes with you.”

He gives me an odd look. “How so?”

“Increasingly intense handwashing. Lots of early mornings.”

“I wash my hands a lot to avoid getting sick—standard guidelines before big meets. And I wake up early because the championship will be on the East Coast.”

“Oh. What about the rumored yearning glances at the pool?”

“I don’t know. Were you in it? ”

Blood sweeps up, into my cheeks. I lower my eyes to my knees.

“Not yet, huh,” he says cryptically. “Too bad.”

“Congrats on Pac-12,” I rush out. As good a topic as any other.

“You, too.”

I smile. He does, too. And then tells me, “You looked happy. Not as anxious. During the competition, I mean.”

“Thanks. I actually came out a tad too quickly in one of my voluntary dives, and any other time it would have completely thrown me off, but I was able to trick my brain into—” I glance away. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for an unabridged recount of my mental state.”

“Scarlett.” A heavy weight on my knee. His hand, warm and rough. “I did ask. And it was nice to see you up there.”

It’s like the contents of my rib cage are being wrung out. I almost, almost cover his hand with mine. Stop myself. Take a deep, inconspicuous breath. “So, since when are you guys volleyball fans?”

“Since the party we were at got very boring,” Johan says from the other side of Lukas, who drinks from his water bottle and then offers it to me. I take a sip, even though I’m not thirsty.

I missed him.

So. Much.

“That guy over there?” He points at a tall, dark-haired man on the court. “He invited us.”

“And the game had the advantage of not taking place in a frat house,” Johan adds.

The name on the back of the shirt reads Torvalds. “Another Swede?”

Lukas nods. “We’ve infiltrated every sport and branch of government.”

“Uh-huh. Are you and Torvalds related?” I ask jokingly.

“Yeah, he’s my cousin.”

My eyes bug out. “For real?”

“No. ”

I huff.

“He’s my cousin, though,” Johan says.

“Wait. Really?”

They both snort at my gullible American soul. I deserve it.

“Do you guys have a Swedes’ club? With your secret language?”

“You mean, Swedish?”

“Yup. Do you meet for fika every day? Screen Americans for potential Midsommar human sacrifices?”

They laugh. “I’ll be right back,” Lukas says. The game is at a break, and he heads down to the side of the court to talk with Torvalds the Cousin.

“Lukas is right about you,” Johan tells me.

I turn, alarmed. “Whatever he told you, he lied.”

“He just said that you’re funny.”

“Oh. Then maybe he didn’t lie.”

“And that you were out of his league.”

I blink at sweet, baby-faced Johan. He’s what, two years younger than me, tops? But so naive. “When did he say that?”