Deep End(4)

“Vandy—are you okay?”

The answer is unintelligible, but Coach loves to recount the story of how the girl said, Yeah, but I’m going to need an Advil before my next dive.

Turns out, she was right. She would need an Advil before her next dive. And surgeries. And rehab. Her final tally?

Concussion.

Ruptured eardrum.

Twisted neck.

Labral tear of the left shoulder.

Pulmonary contusion.

Sprained wrist.

Sprained ankle.

A heavy, viscous weight lodges in my chest cavity whenever I watch the video and imagine what she must have gone through—till I remember that the girl is me.

There isn’t a single guy I’ve matched with on dating apps who hasn’t asked me, Diving is pretty much the same thing as swimming, right? But much like boxing, ice hockey, and lacrosse, diving is a contact sport. Every time we enter the water, the impact beats through our skeletons, muscles, internal organs.

Eat your heart out, NFL.

“You need to prepare for the very real possibility that you won’t be able to dive again,” Barb told me before my surgery. So difficult to dismiss what your stepmom says as pessimistic drivel when said stepmom is a brilliant orthopedic surgeon. “We just want your shoulder to regain full mobility.”

“I know,” I said, and cried like a baby, first in her arms, then alone in my bed.

But Barb was overcautious—and I was lucky. Recovery turned out to be within the realm of possibility. I red shirted during my sophomore year. Rested. Took the meds. Stuck to the anti-inflammatory diet. Focused on the PT and the stretches and the rehab, as zealously as a nun saying her nighttime prayers. I visualized my dives, cradled my aches, showed up for practice anyway, watching the rest of the team train, the smell of the chlorine clinging to my nose, the shimmery blue of the pool just feet away, yet impossibly far.

Then, two months ago, I was cleared for training. And it has been . . .

Well. There’s a reason I’m seeing a therapist.

“I think I have an idea to fix your foreign language problem.”

I glance suspiciously at Maryam—and yet lean forward, all ears and eyes and hope.

“You’re going to tell me to take an acid bath, aren’t you?”

“Hear me out: Latin 201.”

I push to my feet. “I have to go.”

“Think how helpful it’ll be when Doctors Without Borders sends you to ancient Rome!”

I slam the door behind me and leave for practice forty minutes early, just to avoid garroting my roommate.

We were paired up during freshman year, and despite Maryam’s unflinching meanness and my inability to timely replace empty toilet paper rolls, we have somehow become unwilling to live apart. Last year we (voluntarily?) moved together to a place off campus, and we just (voluntarily?) renewed our lease, condemning ourselves to twenty-four more months of each other. The truth is, being together is simple and requires little emotional labor from either of us. And when you’re like me (a goal-oriented, control-focused, overachieving perfectionist), finding someone like Maryam is a gift.

Not a good gift, but I’ll take it.

The Avery Aquatic Center is the best facility I’ve ever trained at. It’s fully outdoors, with four pools and a diving tower, and it’s where all Stanford aquatic teams practice. Today, the women’s locker room is blissfully silent. It’s a rare Goldilocks zone—swimmers are already off to practice; divers aren’t yet getting ready. Water polo players have recently been exiled to another building, and many a thankful tear was shed.

I put on my swimsuit. Slide a tee and shorts over it. Set my alarm and sit on the uncomfortable wooden bench, contemplating my life choices. Exactly ten minutes later my phone vibrates, and I stand, having achieved no clarity or inner peace. I’m walking to Laundry Services for a fresh towel, when I hear a familiar voice.

“. . . not okay,” Penelope is saying.

She stands in the hallway, a few feet away, but doesn’t notice me.

“Not at all,” she continues, a curl of tears in her words. I recognize it from that dual meet in Utah, when she screwed up a forward pike, belly flopped like a flying squirrel, and slid from first to ninth. “Not for us.”

The reply is quieter, deeper. Less distressed. Lukas Blomqvist stands in front of Pen, bare chested and arms crossed, a pair of goggles around his neck and a cap dangling from his fingers. He must have just gotten out of practice, because he’s still dripping. The slight frown between his eyes is hard to interpret—could be a glower, or resting Swede face. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter, because Pen cuts him off.

“. . . there’s no reason for that, if . . .”

Another rich, low-pitched response. I retreat. This conversation is not for me. I don’t need a towel that bad.

“It’s for the best.” Pen leans closer. “You know it is.”

Blomqvist inhales deeply, and his glistening shoulders rise, making him look even taller. I notice the tautness in his jaw, the sudden bend of his head, the bunching of muscles in his upper arm.

Menacing. Threatening. Scary. That’s what he is. Next to him, Pen looks small and upset, and my brain clicks into a new mode.

I couldn’t care less whether it’s my business. I stride closer, eyes narrowed on Blomqvist. My fingers tremble, so I fist them at my sides, and even though he is probably four times stronger than Pen and me put together, even though it’s a terrible idea, I ask, “Pen, is everything okay?”