Deep End(21)

“How much would one gold Olympic medal get me if I were to melt it?”

“I don’t know, man, but it’s yours.”

“Deal.”

Lukas shakes his head. In the movement, the blue of his eyes catches mine.

Time slows .

Curious, patient, it stops.

My breath lodges somewhere in my trachea.

It should be me.

I force a brief smile and turn around to run across campus, heart pounding from more than effort. I make it to my meeting with two minutes to spare, but when I peek inside the office door, the conversation is already animated.

Dr. Smith—Olive, as I’ll never call her despite her repeated invitations—looks not much older than me, but sounds like the repository of hundreds of years of knowledge on the biology of pancreatic cancer cells. Her office is a mix of gentle chaos and early fall scents, the same Post-its I spied on Dr. Carlsen’s desk stuck on most surfaces, scribbled with barely sensical handwriting. Lancet review. Upload 405 assign. Anh baby shower. Insurance paperwork. Vet appt. SBD abstract. Call program officer. What if cobwebs???

They must be the official stationery of the Biology Department.

“I feel like I know you already—because of your paper!” she says excitedly before quoting entire passages of it and introducing me to one of her grad students, Ezekiel. (“If you call me anything other than Zach, I will report you to HR.”) He’s cheerful, easygoing. Charming. Dr. Smith will guide my project, but her calendar sounds like a nightmare. “So if you can’t get a hold of me, Zach is here for you.”

“Feel free to stop by my office whenever. I’m always there. It’s like I have no life.” His smile is kind. The “unfamiliar man, solo meeting” combo is not my favorite, though.

“I’m a student athlete, so I’ll probably do most of the work alone at night? My schedule can be a little inflexible.”

Dr. Smith grins. “A student athlete! That makes two of you.”

I turn to Zach. “Are you . . . ?”

“The undergrad working on this project is. He’s been harvesting and classifying the initial cell samples. Done some preliminary work on the algorithms, too.” She cocks her head. “Do you happen to be a swimmer?”

My stomach churns. “Diver.”

“Those are different sports, right? You two will get along great, though. He’s—” A single, soft knock. Dr. Smith swivels her chair. “Come in.”

The door opens, and I watch Dr. Smith’s eyes rise—and rise, and rise, and rise. She grins, just as a familiar whiff of sandalwood soap and chlorine registers.

“Lukas, we were just talking about you. May I introduce you to Scarlett Vandermeer?”





CHAPTER 13


THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE DR. SMITH’S OFFICE IS QUIET. I SHIFT on my feet and glance at the white walls papered in old conference posters, the corkboard pinned with study abroad opportunities and Participants Needed flyers. The glow of the sunset spreads over them from the closest window.

All in all, the four of us just had a pretty good conversation. My mild “Lukas and I already know each other.” His low “Swimming and diving are the same team.” Dr. Smith’s delighted “This works so well, then!” Zach’s amused “Must be something in the water turning people into biologists, huh?”

“Chlorine-induced brain damage,” I mumbled.

Everyone laughed.

Except for Lukas, who just stared.

The three of us linger outside for a few minutes. At first we make plans for our first research meeting, then it’s just Zach, chitchatting with Lukas. He reminds me of Josh—that adorable mix of good-looking and nerd. Thick-rimmed glasses. Tall, wiry physique. Mop of black hair. Heavy, self-effacing sarcasm. He must be a handful of years older than us, but he feels like a boy next to Lukas, and none of it has to do with Lukas’s size .

I walk beside them, silent as they talk about some obscure sport. Lukas must notice the landscape of blurry nothingness in my eyes. “Fantasy Premier League,” he supplies. I nod, pretending the words make sense together. Then Zach leaves, and we are alone.

We’re both in our picture-day glory—black joggers, red hoodie, Stanford Tree. We’re even zipped up to the same height, and I’d love to crack a joke about it, but I’m not sure even I find it funny, so I just tilt my chin up and stare at him staring at me, much longer than society rules would deem acceptable.

A pleasant heat spills throughout my entire body. Coalesces in my belly. “Well,” I say.

“Well,” he repeats.

“So . . .”

“So.” There is amusement at the edge of his voice. In the crinkles cornering his eyes.

How did we go from avoiding even the slightest passing interaction for two whole years to this? His presence feels so . . . brutal. I’m not sure how to phrase it any better—he’s just aggressively, unyieldingly here. A command to pay attention.

Any trace of humor clears from his face. “The email I wrote.”

My heart trips in my chest.

It should be me.

“I had no idea we’d need to collaborate on a project, or I wouldn’t have sent it. If you’re uncomfortable, I can pull out. We can tell Olive—”

Olive. I nearly wince.