Deep End(56)

“Vandy!” Kyle’s loud voice freezes my blood. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Oh.” I glance around. The landscape of the tub has changed. Vastly. It’s me, Kyle, Hunter, and four more male swimmers. Jared, one of them, was in my freshman math class. He waves at me. I try to wave back, but I’m overwhelmed.

It’s a lot of men. And me.

“What’s up?”

Breathe. Breathe. “Not much.”

“We’ve been calling you,” another swimmer says. I’m certain I’ve never talked to him in my life.

“I d-didn’t hear you.” I point at my earbuds.

“Makes sense. We thought you were ignoring us.”

“Yeah, like—what did we do to piss Vandy off?”

Their laughter echoes off the walls. It’s just—there’s six of them, and they take up a lot of space, and they’re between me and the ladder, and I’m . . .

Low-key terrified.

“I’m sorry.” I try for a smile, but my cheeks won’t behave. Calm down. “I better go . . .”

“Nah, stay,” Kyle says.

“Some company would be nice,” Jared adds. “Kinda bored of these losers.”

“Asshole, who did you call a loser?”

“Shut up—Vandy, stay in my mojo dojo Epsom tub.”

In the steaming heat, I shiver. “That’s lovely, but I have class.”

“What class?”

Shit. What class? “It’s—” No class. Think. “Psych.”

“Wait.” One of the guys scowls. “Is there a psych class on Wednesday afternoons? My adviser told me that—”

“Come on,” a deep voice says from behind me.

Two strong hands slide under my armpits. I clutch my phone, and for a second I’m suspended in the air, a toddler in floaties plucked out of a pool. My feet touch the floor, but I don’t turn around to see who my rescuer is.

It’s not a touch I could ever forget.

“Sweedy.” Hunter frowns. “Did you just, like, steal her from us?”

“You okay?” Lukas asks me. When I nod, he adds, louder, “We have to go. We’re working on something.”

“Ah, yeah.” Kyle nods wisely. “That physics project.”

“Bio,” Lukas corrects.

“Same difference!”

Next thing I know Lukas is ordering his teammates to behave and pushing me out of the room, his hand hot on my lower back, not too far from where the bruises have started to fade, no matter my—deranged?—attempts at keeping them alive. In the hallway, his fingers close around my shoulder. He turns me around. “You okay?” he asks again.

I’m really, really relieved to not be in the tub anymore. So much so, I don’t care if it’s a bit awkward, seeing him after nearly two weeks, wearing joggers and nothing else, smelling like soap and him. He looks at once like Lukas Blomqvist, Pen’s ex, the Greatest Swimmer in the World or Whatever, and like my Lukas, who printed out a checklist and peels apples and hates rhetorical figures, and it’s all . . . confusing.

I shush the odd pang in my chest. “Thank you. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed there.” Not that Kyle & Co. would have done anything. But my gut isn’t always aware.

“I’m going to talk to Kyle,” Lukas says. His mouth is a straight, displeased line.

“What?”

“He needs to give you space.”

“There’s no need—”

“I won’t tell him why. He’s not a bad guy, but he has no idea how he comes across. He, Hunter, and a few of the others move in a pack. It’ll be good for him to know.”

I want to tell him not to bother, but—why not? It’ll be a ten-second conversation between them. Saves future unpleasantness. “Okay. Thank you.” I give Lukas one last smile and turn around to leave.

He stops me with a hand around my wrist. “Where are you going?”

“Oh.” I squeeze out one more smile, and that’s it. I’m all out for the day. “I appreciate your help, but I’d rather not make this weird.”

His eyes close, like he’s gathering the strength of a dozen Valkyries. He slowly exhales from his nostrils and says, “Scarlett.”

“It’s fine. I’m not—”

“Scarlett,” he repeats. It’s a harsh, frustrated command. I’m lost as to what he might want from me.

“Lukas, I’m not sure what the protocol is.” I’m unable and, frankly, unwilling, to be anything but honest. “We had sex, or—or whatever, and you didn’t call me back. I’m trying to take my cues from you, and I think you want to pretend it never happened?” I shrug one shoulder, the one not attached to the arm he’s still holding. “This is baby’s first ghosting, I’m going to need some direction,” I add, just to lighten the mood.

Lukas’s mood, though, is nothing but dark. The more I speak, the angrier he looks. Always unfazed, Pen said. She was wrong, but I can’t pinpoint the object of this rage.

Unless there was a breakdown in communication? I hate the hopeful little spark that lights up my chest. “Is that an inaccurate read of what happened between us?”