Deep End(22)

He notices. “What’s wrong?”

“Just—you said her name.”

A confused look.

“Her first name.”

His head tilts. “Are you planning to call her Dr. Smith for the rest of the semester? ”

“Of course.” The corner of his mouth curls like he’s entertained. Me: a spectacle. “What?” I ask, defensive.

“You really do like your authority figures, don’t you?”

I gasp in outrage. And then . . . then I laugh. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, all height and mass, and rests against the wall behind him, one calf crossed comfortably over the other. The shape of his shoulders, his hands in his pockets—he’s the picture of relaxation. It’s almost a slouch.

On my side of the hallway, I lean back. Mirror his pose. It’s the third time we are alone together, and I think I’ll graduate him to Only Slightly Intimidating. Takes me longer, usually. “So,” I ask evenly, “we’re just . . . doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Openly acknowledging that we know way too much about each other’s sexual preferences every time we meet?”

“Unless it bothers you. Would you like me to pretend I don’t know about your perversions?”

“You’re just as much of a perv as I am.”

“Oh, no.”

My eyebrow lifts.

“Way more,” he adds. “I guarantee it.”

I laugh. Slip my hands in my joggers, just like him. Our gazes catch, weighty, tethered. “You know, you’re right. Let’s just own it.”

“Let’s.”

“One of us gets off to . . . flogs?”

“The other, to calling people ‘Doctor.’”

“Just two regular freaks.”

“Nothing to see here.”

A small smile, exchanged. Private. “Maybe Pen was right,” I muse.

“And we’re made for each other?”

I nod. It’s a joke, but his eyes darken .

“Won’t know till we try,” he says quietly, low, and that warmth inside my belly rekindles, slinks up my spine, pinkens my cheek.

It should be me.

I hang my head, suddenly enraptured by my own frayed shoelaces. “How long have you been doing research?”

“I’ve been working with Olive—Dr. Smith—for a couple of years.”

“Really? What’s your major?”

“Human bio.”

“Premed?”

He nods. I’d have guessed business, or accounting—it’s what lots of swimmers seem to go for. An interesting Venn diagram.

“Me, too,” I volunteer. Then regret it—is he supposed to care?

“I figured.”

How? Did he see me drool all over my MCAT prep text at Avery the other night? Snoring may have been involved.

“Relax,” he says, reading my mind. “You took my physics class last year. Orgo, too. We were constantly in the same lectures.”

“Are you sure?”

He just smiles, like he’s charmed by my total lack of recollection.

“I never . . . I didn’t notice you.”

“I know.” A small, self-deprecating laugh. His expression softens. “You were going through it, weren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were struggling.”

“No, I wasn’t.” I’m an excellent student. Or I used to be. “I got As in both classes—”

“I’m not talking about grades, Scarlett.”

I wrap my arms around my torso. “I was fine.” The words slip out reflexively, from the part of me that can’t bear to admit how many times in the past year I needed to lock myself inside bathroom stalls and just breathe. But Lukas looks at me with something that resembles understanding. Like he’s gone through it, too, and gets it.

“What about you?” I ask. “Would you feel weird, working together? I’m friends with Pen. And I know of your . . .”

“Sexual deviancy?”

The words sound so good, rumbling out of him. “Hmm. That.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, without having to think about it. No hesitation. “She’s great, by the way.”

“Pen?”

His smile pulls at the edge of his mouth. “Her, too. But I meant Olive. She’s the best at what she does. Helped me quite a bit when I applied for med school.”

He’s a senior. Must have started the application process earlier this year—on top of the swimming, the competitions, the classes, the research project, the girlfriend. On top of being Lukas Blomqvist, freestyle god, he’s also some kind of premed semi-deity. How annoying of him.

“Where do you find the time to do all this stuff and train?” I half think out loud.

“Where do you?”

I huff. “I’m not an Olympic medalist.”

“Medals have little to do with how hard one trains.”

Do they? It feels like they should. Like my inability to secure any can only be due to a moral failure of mine. I didn’t do enough, therefore I fell short.

But it’s hard to ponder the matter now, with him so dialed into me, gaze shifting across my face like he sees all. In the last of the day’s light, we study each other, unblinking, sucked in our respective corners. A woman walks between us, muttering, “Excuse me.” Our eyes don’t follow her.