Deep End(74)

I wait for him to tell me what I’ve heard a million times already. It’ll get better. It’s not your fault. There are things you can do to fix it. Don’t give up. I knew someone who knew someone whose block just poof, disappeared. At least you are physically healthy. There, there .

He doesn’t, though. What Lukas fucking Blomqvist says to me, damn him to hell, is: “I’m sorry, Scarlett.”

It’s unprecedented. Destabilizing.

In the past year of self-loathing, training, practicing, trying, failing, trying again, visualizing, exercising, catastrophizing, not catastrophizing, resenting, fearing, pretending, demanding . . . In the past year, being sorry is simply not something that I ever allowed myself.

It just never occurred to me.

But now that the prospect of some simple, uncomplicated sorrow is here, glowing in my palm, I cannot deny it to myself any longer.

And that’s how it happens: My face crumpling into something ugly and blotchy and wet before I can hide it into my own hands. The foul, guttural wail that tears out of my throat. I need—I need Lukas to leave right now, before witnessing the unattractive, flawed mess that I am. And I don’t know how I find myself across his warm lap, the crown of my head lodged under his chin, one of his palms cupping my thigh while the other wipes back and forth over the elastic of my underwear.

A silent: I’m sorry, Scarlett.

I’m not tearing up. I’m not weeping softly. These are sobs. Bawling. Hitched, shivering breaths. My fingers fist in his shirt, cling to it like it’s a religious doctrine. I’m hiccuping, crying my stupid heart out, loud and sloppy, and there’s snot involved. But Lukas doesn’t let go, not even when his phone buzzes several times, not even when my eyes run dry.

“Scarlett.” His voice is a deep hum under the side of my body, full of things that make my heart ache.

This may be the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me—and I’ve been publicly flunking dives for the past year. “I never cry,” I say, sniffling, in lieu of an apology.

“Liar.” He presses a kiss against my temple. “I’ve made you cry plenty of times. ”

“It’s different—”

“Is it?”

“—and you just have a dacryphilia kink.”

I feel his smile against my cheek. The bristle of his stubble scrapes my skin. “The fact that you know that word is proof of how well matched we are.”

I let out a watery snort. Sure, we’re both degenerates. But he’s an Olympic multi-medalist, and I can’t jump in a pool without having kittens. “You won’t believe this, but I used to actually be a good diver.” I wasn’t always at my worst, Lukas. A few years ago, I was someone worth knowing.

“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

I shrug in his arms. His grip tightens, like he’s no more ready to let go than I am. “Sometimes, I feel like my life is split in two. There was the first part, where I was in control, and was able to make myself do what needed to be done, and then . . . now.”

His hand tilts my chin up to force our eyes to meet. “What’s day zero? When you got injured?”

I nod. “There’s no reason for me to be so hung up on it. I had surgery, and . . . I was so lucky. But instead of taking advantage, I can’t even . . .” I free myself and hide my tear-smeared face in his throat. His palm lifts to cup the back of my head.

“What would you do, in the past?”

“Hmm?” He smells comforting and familiar, sandalwood and Lukas and safe.

“When you’d fail a dive, what would you do?”

“I didn’t. I never used to fail dives. I used to be good.”

He sits on this piece of information for a minute. “What about blocks?”

“What about them?”

“Is this your first?”

I nod. Leave it to me to start with a bang .

“They’re not uncommon among divers, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pen has had several since I met her—not as long-lasting as yours, but my guess is, they’re pretty widespread. What about injuries? Did you have any before college?”

“No.”

“So . . .” He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, pulling my head back to look at me again. “To recap, on the day of your first NCAA final, you failed your first dive, and had your first significant injury.”

“God, it was such a horrible . . .” I straighten in his lap, wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands, feeling the same spurt of frustration I always experience. “It was everything, all at once. The night before my father contacted me to tell me he’d been following the NCAA competition online and was proud of me and—he’s not allowed to do that, by court order. I tried to call Barb to figure out what to do, but she had patient emergencies, and I couldn’t sleep and was so anxious—and then that morning, Josh, I mean . . . I’m glad he didn’t just decide to cheat on me, but couldn’t he have waited twelve hours to tell me that he’d met someone else—”

“Hang on,” Lukas interrupts. His eyes are narrow slits, his tone low, a little dangerous. I realize that I’ve been rambling.

“Sorry, you don’t have to listen to—”

“Did you just tell me that your boyfriend of . . . how long were you two together?”