Deep End(34)

I check my phone, and boy it’s a mistake. Herr Karl-Heinz’s social life must be as active as mine, because four minutes ago he posted the results of our latest German test. I know better than to check, but I do just that and ruin what’s left of my day.

Because it’s a C. With a message.

Scarlett—may I call you Scharlach? Let me know if you’d like to talk about ways to improve your performance. I’d love to see you succeed, and there is no shame in asking for help. Viel Glück!

I cross my legs on Poäng and sink my face into my hands.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I didn’t need help.

I was a competent diver.

I had a boyfriend and good grades.

Once upon a time, I had shit under control. And then I must have pulled the wrong book from the JengAss tower, because everything is collapsing and—

“Not a good night?”

I don’t need to look up to know it’s Lukas, but I do it anyway, hating the flush that immediately hits my cheek. He fills the doorframe in a way I struggle to comprehend, ominous, backlit, the strong lines of his face destructively handsome. His muscular arms hold both jambs, and he’s once again barefoot, even though no such request was made of guests upon arrival.

“It’s good, I just . . .”

His eyebrow lifts, inquisitive, and I fall quiet. “Pen was looking for you,” he says.

“Oh? Does she—are we leaving? ”

“Just checking in.” His lips curve a little. “She’s protective of you.”

She has been lovely, really. Taking me under her wing. I’m wondering why Lukas came to find me, but as usual he’s reading my mind.

“Just trying to escape being offered coke for the third time.”

“The doping officers would love that.”

“I considered doing a line, just to give them something to talk about.”

I laugh quietly. Some of the tension relaxes. “I was going to return downstairs in a minute. I just . . . I’m tired, I think.”

“MCAT’ll do that to you.”

How does he . . . ? “Did Pen tell you?”

“You did.”

“When—oh.” On Wednesday. The Day. The Day of the Touch. “It’s so barbaric.”

“Yup.”

“I feel like I could sleep for a hundred hours.”

“Hyperbole?”

I snort. “Not this time.”

“I figured. You think you did well?”

“I think I’d rather carve out my liver like Prometheus than retake it, so I better have. But I doubt it. And then I got a C on my German test,” I add, even though I shouldn’t—because he didn’t ask. I try to sound self-deprecating, like I don’t care too much about my recently developed inability to . . . to function.

Of course, he reads right through it. “Lots of med schools don’t have foreign language requirements, Scarlett.”

So unnervingly compelling, the way my name is distorted through his accent, inside his mouth. “It looks good, though.”

“So does a near-perfect GPA.”

“I don’t have— ”

“Yes, you do.”

I pinch my lips. “How do you even—”

“I don’t. But you’re not the type to leave that to chance.”

I nod, wishing he left—or came all the way in. It’s confounding, the way he’s just on the edge. He is confounding. “Why did you do that? On Wednesday.” As far as questions go, this is the Budweiser’s more than mine. But once it floats between us, I realize how much I need to know. If he pretends not to understand what I mean, I will scream. Something wild and vicious will come out of my throat, and it’ll have every single person in this house stop by the knife block and then stampede upstairs. It will be so liberating.

Lukas, though, doesn’t give me the satisfaction. “Because you seemed . . . touch starved.”

I blink at him once. Maybe twice.

“And lonely.”

He pushes away from the frame, finally inside. My brain hums, then blanks.

“A little hungry, too.” He’s not talking about food.

“You—” I shake my head. Where is his filter? Was he born without one? How did Pen ever get used to this? “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t. But no one else here does, either, which proves my point.” He stops a few feet from me, and the room shrinks to half its original size.

I’m at a bit of a bifurcation. I could play the outraged, derisive, Who the fuck do you think you are? card, and it would be wholly within my rights. As tired as I am, though, I just want to understand him. “The way you’re acting with me. What you did on Wednesday. Is it some kind of game? I can’t figure out if you’re hitting on me, or just . . . Is it because I didn’t take you up on your offer when you emailed? Are you trying to convince me that I made a mistake? ”

“I have no interest in that.” I must look skeptical, because he continues. “What I want from you requires enthusiastic consent, not convincing.”

I rub my thumb against my eyes, trying to untangle this mess. “Are you trying to use me to get back at Pen for breaking up with you?”

He seems amused. “It would be a very ineffective way to go about it, since she’s the one who first suggested we do this.”