Deep End(24)

God, they’re loud. It’s all I can do not to jolt .

“She meant that my nose is beautiful, you moron.” Kyle laughs, too, but kicks Hunter under the table.

“Dude, maybe that’s why you’re so slow in the water. Your nose drags.”

“I’m faster than you.”

“Not this morning you weren’t.”

“I’ve been injured—”

“Hey.” Lukas cuts through the squabble. “Could you sad sacks go eat elsewhere?” It’s phrased as a request, but he’s not asking.

They begin to stand, even as Kyle mutters, “Why?”

“Scarlett and I have stuff to talk about.”

“And we can’t be here?”

“Nope.”

Kyle faux pouts. “This really hurts my feelings, bro.”

“I’ll kiss it better later, bro.”

“Cannot wait, b—”

“What do you guys have to talk about?” a female voice asks. I look up, and—Rachel, I believe. The third swimmer. She was sitting on the other side of Kyle, that’s why I didn’t notice her. I vaguely remember her from my recruiting trip. Backstroke. Long distance. Used to have long, blond hair, now cut pixie-style.

I think she’s friendly with Pen. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Biology,” Lukas replies.

“You’re doing a project together or something?”

“Or something.”

“Huh.” Her eyes slide to the back of his hand. The model I drew. “And where is Pen?”

Her tone is . . . not quite insinuating, but it has my cheeks burning, and I pause mid-sip and open my mouth to explain myself. But before I can blurt out something socially destroying (It’s not what it looks like and even if it were they broke up and it was Pen’s idea and also I didn’t ask to be born just leave me alone okay), Lukas shrugs. “No idea.”

Rachel wants to press it, but Kyle swings an arm over her shoulders. “Come on, we’ve been dismissed. See you at home, Sweedy.” He leads her away. Hunter points silently at his nose, gives me an overenthusiastic thumbs-up, blows a kiss to Lukas, and goes on their heels.

I swallow a sigh of relief. Grip my fork. “So, you and Kyle live together?” I ask into my food. When Lukas doesn’t reply, I glance up.

He sits back, his plate forgotten, studying me. The quiet weight of his gaze is familiar. So is the curve that sets in his mouth: he’s observing something; coming to conclusions. My belly feels tight and warm. “I thought it was just me,” he says. “But it’s men in general, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“We make you nervous.”

My fork hits my plate with a clink, swallowed by the background chatter. “How did you . . . ?”

“Earlier, in the hallway, you kept putting barriers between you and Zach—me, mostly. Then your face, with Kyle and Hunter. It’s not hard to guess, if one cares enough to pay attention.”

My heart beats in my throat. And do you? Care? It’s a fair question. He and I have had so few interactions, all of them products of force majeure—malfunctioning doors, academic coincidences, Penelope Ross. What the hell are we even doing here? seems like something we should ask each other. Instead, to my horror, I say, “I had some issues with my dad, growing up. I’m not—it wasn’t that bad, but . . .” I suck in a deep breath. Silence the voice in my head that cringes and yells, Stop. Unloading. On Lukas. Blomqvist. “I just don’t like loud noises. And too-crowded spaces. And . . .”

It’s not that women can’t be noisy, but boys feel so unpredictable, with their deep voices and abrupt movements and boisterous attitudes. Male athletes, on top of that, tend to take up so much space. I know it’s unfair of me, but my issues are not rational. My high school therapist kept using words like trauma response and PTSD, words that feel too big, like I don’t have a right to them. They belong to war reporters and ER doctors, not girls with shitty dads who bossed them around and told them they’d never amount to anything.

In the end, the therapist said, the measure of whether you’re doing well is: Is your condition preventing you from living a fulfilling life? And I know the answer to that.

“I function fine,” I say, chin tilted up, a hint of challenge.

It’s unnecessary. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Okay. Good.”

He resumes eating, quick but meticulous, but his eyes stay on me.

“I know it seems . . .” I start. Do I wanna go there?

“Seems what?”

“Like someone who’s into what I’m into, shouldn’t be all . . . fearful.” It never ceased to puzzle Josh. You have issues with authoritarian, aggressive men in everyday life, but you want to have authoritarian, aggressive sex? He never judged me, but he did not get it.

Lukas finishes chewing, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Actually, I still don’t know what you’re into,” he points out.

My belly swoops.

“Aside from your doctor fetish, that is.”

I turn away to hide my smile.

“Regardless, no. I don’t think it makes sense to conflate everyday violence with the kind of stuff you—we—are into. In fact, I don’t think the two things are related at all.” His gaze is steady. “What you and I want, it’s all about trust. We decide to be part of it. It sounds like whatever happened to you had little to do with you making any decisions, right? ”