Deep End(53)

I nod in agreement, because yeah. Fuck.

Fuck, we’re really doing this.

Fuck, your roommates are here, and I’m sure I lost consciousness at some point, and I hope they had headphones on.

Fuck, I thought it would be good, and it still felt so much better than it should have.

“God, you are so . . .” Lukas pants, but never finishes the sentence. He presses sweet, open-mouthed, almost involuntary kisses to my neck and temple and collarbone. He licks my tears dry. His hands are—well, still strong, but his grip is nothing like before. He caresses me like I’m crystal, follows the line of my arm and my hips and my belly, a little desperate, a little hungry, a little incredulous, a little satisfied. “I’m going to clean you up in a minute. Just let me . . . I just want to touch you. Okay?”

I nod with a happy, sated smile.

And a handful of seconds later I fall asleep.





CHAPTER 28


WHEN I WAKE UP THE ROOM IS DARK, AND LUKAS’S HOLD ON me is as tight as in my last memory, which must have been several hours ago.

My phone reads 9:39 p.m. when I manage to wriggle myself free and retrieve my shorts. I have a single text, from Maryam, asking me whether I stole her jasmine rice. (I did, months ago, and forgot to replace it; I’ll never hear the end of this.)

Lukas is a heavy sleeper. He never stirs, not even when I elbow his nightstand while putting my clothes back on. I’m much cleaner than I’d have expected, which tells me that he must have followed through with his promise—and that I must be as heavy a sleeper as he is.

I smile fondly. Try to sneak one last glance at him as I step out, but the hallway lights are out, too. I listen for noises, not wanting to get caught leaving, but when I walk past the kitchen, all I can hear is the whirring of the refrigerator. Hasan and Kyle must be either out or asleep. Student athletes love both resting and partying, so I guess it’s fifty-fifty.

Campus is by no means deserted. I walk back to my place, body still buzzing with sleep and orgasms. I grin as I let myself into my apartment. My own bed feels small, weirdly soft .

It was good.

Really good.

Lukas is exactly . . . when I say I wanted . . . the list was just a bunch of words, but the way he . . . perfect, and . . .

My cheeks are hot. I brush my teeth and get ready for bed, and then it occurs to me that I should probably tell Lukas that I’m not the victim of a UFO kidnapping.

SCARLETT: Sorry I snuck out—you looked like you needed the rest.

I fall asleep wondering what his reply will look like tomorrow morning.

As it turns out, I shouldn’t have bothered.





CHAPTER 29


HE LEFT A MARK ON ME.

Several, in fact.

The largest, the one I believe was intentional—but how can I know for certain?—is on my inner thigh, close to the place where the leg meets the abdomen. It aches and hums just below my skin, a slight discomfort that reminds and promises, and I spend my Sunday alternating between studying and pressing into it, just to reassure myself that yes, yes it happened.

The other marks I don’t find until Monday after practice. Peeling off my suit in a corner that’s reflected by the mirror reveals thumb-sized bruises on both sides of my waistline, angled toward my spine. They look perfectly symmetrical. A depraved twist on angel wings. I do not remember pain. I do, however, remember Lukas gripping my waist and holding me still as he—

Why has he not contacted me?

“Everything okay?” Bree asks. “You seem distracted.”

“Oh, yeah. I just have a test this week.”

“For what?”

“Psych. ”

“Oh, right. Let me tell you what my questions were like last year.”

Pen is out, sick with some virus that’s been making her “puke my soul out,” which means that it’s just me and the twins—which means, in turn, lots of one-on-one time with Coach Sima, corrections, dryland.

“How are your exercises going, Scarlett?” Sam asks on Wednesday.

“Honestly, I think they’re helping,” I say. Not honestly.

Because I may have been rewriting neural pathways, but I’m no closer to inward diving, and that’s . . . pretty fucking crucial. “Do you think . . . is there any chance that I’ll just be able to, you know, do my dives at our first dual meet?”

She cocks her head. “What’s a dual meet?”

“When two universities compete against each other, during the preseason. It’s informal, but good practice.”

“And when is yours?”

“Two weekends from now.”

“I see.”

“Maybe what I really need to get over my block is to be put on the spot?” I swallow. “Maybe if I just have to do it, my brain will bypass the fear . . .”

She just looks—not dismissive, but measuring. “Fear of what, Scarlett? You have not answered my question.”

What are you afraid of?

I curb the urge to roll my eyes. This—this needling psychoanalytic digging—is not helping. I need to be able to do an inward dive in ten days, I nearly scream. Can we focus on that?

On the upside, I get a whole-ass seven out of ten on my next German assignment—Ich bin so stolz auf dich, Scharlach! Herr Karl-Heinz writes. It requires some googling to figure out that he’s proud of me, but once I do I’m a bit teary-eyed. I do my conditioning. I call Barb and ask her to put Pipsqueak on the phone. I bring Pen a batch of homemade soup, watch comfort rom-coms with her, and hug her when she comes back on Friday, looking pale but whole. I restart my med school essays. I fight with Maryam, eat plenty of lean proteins, and by the following weekend, when it looks like the bruises Lukas left behind might fade, I press hard into them, biting my tongue, hoping the trick will make them last.