Deep End(40)

“That’s the guy who won the Olympics—the swimmer?” a boy whispers to a friend. Three girls walk past him in the opposite direction, sneaking glances that become progressively less covert.

I’d love an NCAA title or two, let alone the Olympics, but I don’t think I envy this facet of Lukas’s success. Being singled out. Generic appreciation from people who remember that swimming exists once every four years.

“Hey,” I say.

His eyes open slowly, as though whirring to life. For a moment he looks so exhausted, my instinct is to scream, Go home, to bed, right now. Then his lips curve, just because I am here, and my heart beats in my belly.

“Come on.”

I follow him in silence to a study room. It doesn’t provide much privacy, not with glass walls. They’re all built like that—because, I assume, librarians have graduate degrees and better things to do than walk into teenagers groping each other. Or cleaning up used condoms.

I linger next to a chair, not yet taking a seat. Watch Lukas pull a folded piece of paper out of his backpack, toss it over the table in my direction, and stand kitty-corner from me.

I feel, instantly, very hot. Or cold.

“Why the library?” I ask, eyes fixed on the paper.

“We could go to my place, but I figured you wouldn’t want Kyle and Hasan overhearing.”

I nod, trying to come to terms with the fact that his list is right there. I could reach out and pick it up and know.

“Scarlett.” Lukas leans forward, clearly amused. “We talked about this. ”

“About what?”

“You need to breathe.”

I inhale sharply. Fill my lungs. “Right, yes, I’m fine. I . . . what should I . . . ?”

“Before we start, I’d like to know something.”

I sneak another glance at the folded paper. “Yes?”

“What happened with your father?”

My eyes bounce to his. I feel like he grabbed me by the neck without warning. “My father? How is this relevant?” An atrocious possibility occurs to me. “Please, don’t tell me that you’re looking for some deep-seated past trauma to explain what I like.”

His eyebrow arches. “I think you can give me a little more credit than that.”

“Then why?”

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s not a deal-breaker. But you clearly have triggers, and understanding what happened might help me steer away.”

Lukas doesn’t need the whole story for that. But he and I have already been so open with each other, I don’t mind him knowing. And, I have no reason to be embarrassed. So I square my shoulders, hold his eyes, and try to be as factual as possible. “Over the years, my dad became increasingly abusive of both me and my stepmother. By the end, he was tracking all our movements, monitoring our interactions, isolating us from the rest of the world and from each other. He’d belittle us. Criticize us. Yell for no reason. He was financially controlling. I’m not sure how it got so bad, only that it was gradual. Barb and I were both very good at pretending that it was all normal, and that Dad was just having a string of bad days. Then, when I was thirteen, Barb picked me up from school. I began crying and begging her to not take me home, and she decided to put an end to it. She left Dad, managed to get custody, put us both in therapy.” Years of terror, condensed into a few dozen words. Years in which my sole happy place was diving. “I can usually work through my triggers. I don’t like raised voices, but it’s not a hard limit. And I actually like being handled roughly. Control. Discipline. As long as it’s within specific contexts.” I can tell from his eyes that he understands what I mean. It makes sense in his gut as much as in mine. “The one thing Dad did . . .” I look away. “Degradation kink is a thing, and I’m never going to judge . . . but if you want to call me ugly, or disgusting, or worthless—”

“Jesus, Scarlett.”

“—then we’re probably not going to be able to—”

“Hey.” He lifts my chin. “Look at me.”

I am, I want to say. Except, I lowered my gaze to my feet without realizing it.

“I’m not interested in demeaning you in any way. Okay?” In his eyes I find no disappointment—just a promise. He doesn’t let go until I nod, and once I’m free, I swallow. Take my phone out of my pocket. Gently, hoping he won’t notice my trembling hands, I pop its case off.

When he sees the piece of paper lodged inside, he smiles faintly. “Guarding it closely, huh?”

I drop it on the table, next to his. I’m not sure how to explain the sticky, toe-curling, happiness-creating heat that spreads through my limbs whenever I think about the list being there. All my secrets. All his questions. The potential for this improbable, dizzying, sharp thing between us, never too far from my body.

“How do you want to do this?” I ask, a little too breathless to sound businesslike. “Do you want to put them next to each other and compare, or . . . ?”

He reaches out and grabs mine, stretching it out before I’m even done formulating the thought, eyes scanning horizontally across the page. There’s nothing jerky or hurried about his movements, but watching him feels like a natural disaster, something unstoppable that I’m allowed to witness but not interfere with .

I rock on my heels as he reads, the little room shrinking around us. The air swelters, as hot as my cheeks.