Deep End(79)

“If that’s what you want, sure.”

I tear my eyes from his, and they catch on his sleeve. I’ve seen his tattoos so many times, touched them, dug my nails into them, gripped them when I felt like I needed something to hold on to or I’d dissolve into nothing. But I’ve never asked him about them.

It, more precisely. There are a lot of interlocked parts, but they all work together to form a coherent landscape. With my eyes first, then my fingers, I trace the spruces and oaks and pines, blackbirds and sparrows, snowy patches and rocks.

“What is this?” I shake my head and correct myself. “Where is it?”

“My hometown.”

“I thought you were from Stockholm.”

He lifts his most I know you bookmarked the bio section of my Wikipedia entry on your Chrome browser, on Safari, and maybe even on Internet Explorer eyebrow.

I roll my eyes. “If I were the current record holder for the one hundred freestyle, you’d know where I was born, too.”

“You were born in Lincoln, Nebraska, on August thirty-first. And yes, I did grow up in Stockholm, but my mom was from Skellefteå.”

I try to shape my tongue around the name. Instantly give up. “That sounds like . . .”

“Say, ‘A piece of IKEA furniture not even the Swedish king would be able to assemble,’ and I will throw you back into the pool.”

I smile and bump him with my shoulder. “When did you get it done?”

“Eighteen. My brothers have similar ones, too. According to my father, after Mom died we took the easy way out and decided to get tattoos instead of dealing with our feelings.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“Right? But on the upside”—he holds out my phone—“you get to book a despair tattoo if you don’t like your MCAT score. ”

“Oh, god—fine, fine.” I laugh softly, shaking my head, tapping at my email app.

Then stop to say, “You don’t have to, you know?”

“Hmm?”

“Just . . .” My throat feels too full. “I appreciate this. The way you care. That you want to be my friend. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be my emotional support. I’ve been a . . . a wounded bird, stealing your hoodie, while I should be some kind of black-laced, collar-wearing, sultrily submissive—”

“Scarlett.” He looks at me like he’s having fun. “I don’t think you get it.”

“I . . . maybe I don’t.”

“You and I have an agreement, don’t we? And the agreement says that until you say stop, I can do what I want with you. Even if it breaks you into pieces. Even if it makes you cry.”

I nod.

“I love that you opened up to me,” he says, pressing his mouth into the side of my head. I feel his inhale, and something sweet and thick drips inside me, warms me in my very core. “But they’re sides of the same coin. I get to take you apart and split you open—but if anything else, anyone else makes you feel sad, upset, cracked, I also get to be the one who puts you back together. Until you say stop. You get it?”

I wish I could see his eyes. I wish my world was more than his stubble brushing my temple, the scent of sandalwood and chlorine carving its way in my brain. “I get it.” I just do.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. And then: “Now open that fucking email.”

I laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more while the score report loads, and— I blink. I’m unable to process what I’m seeing.

“Oh my god. Is it . . . ”

There’s a five. And a two. And a six. Three numbers that together make another number, one I should be able to make sense of, but it’s high, so high, so much higher than I expected . . .

“Congratulations.” A low, scratchy voice. Another kiss in my hair. Around my waist, a strong arm pulls me into warmth.

I whip my gaze up to Lukas’s, dizzy. “You knew,” I half state, half accuse.

He says nothing. His lips twitch.

“How? How did you know that it would be good? Oh my god—did you hack my email? Is it because I made my password kink related?”

He looks intrigued. “Tell me more about this password of yours.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

He shakes his head. “I just know . . . you.” His thumb smooths the furrow in my brow. “I’ve worked with you on the bio project. Spent time with you. I’ve—”

“Fucked me?”

He smiles and pushes back a lock of my hair. “I know that you are a perfectionist, and studied to the point of being overprepared. And that you’re anxious, which clouded your perception of your performance. Above all, I know how much you want to get into med school, and I’m starting to suspect that you might be unstoppable—”

Lukas has more to say, but I don’t let him finish, and reach up for a kiss. My phone clatters against the floor with a dull thud, but I don’t care, arching upward to get closer to him, exhaling in relief when he lifts me to straddle his thighs.

This is not the way it usually goes. He’s the one who initiates, and we both vastly prefer it that way. But for a few short moments, it’s nice, being the one with the upper hand. Setting the pace. Feeling the restraint in his hard muscles as we approach the point where he’ll make me feel good. And I’ll make him feel good.