Deep End(85)

Another sigh. “Ol—Dr. Smith mentioned that you’re applying to med schools.”

“Yup. Well, not yet. But soon.”

“If you need a letter of reference . . .” he says. And doesn’t finish the sentence, which is unlike him and a little befuddling. I blink owlishly, hoping he’ll explain himself, wondering how I’m supposed to read his mind, when suddenly—

I gasp. “Wait. For real?”

“Provided that your performance in my class remains up to par. And that you do not reveal objectionable support of superseded pseudoscientific theories.”

“Are you referring to homeopathy?”

“Of course.”

“Please,” I say flatly.

He nods once. “Excellent.”

I walk through the semi-deserted, pre-Thanksgiving campus, wondering how far a rec letter from Adam Fucking McArthur Fucking Carlsen could get me here, at Stanford. Or anywhere in the country. In the world? Maybe there’s a med school on one of Neptune’s moons. I should look into that.

Maryam is already in Florida with her family. Her note on the kitchen table reads i left some food for you in the fridge, but when I open it, all I find is our usual array of sauces and condiment bottles—and a gold medal. The Post-it stuck to it reads sike! how does it feel to be the roommate of the number one wrestler in the whole world ?

I immediately text her.

SCARLETT: You mean, in a single dual meet and in your weight category?

SCARLETT: Either way, my answer is: it would feel better if you’d gotten me food.

MARYAM: New phone who dis

Our last practice is on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and I book a flight to St. Louis for that night. The USA Diving Winter Nationals are going to start next week, and I seriously considered not going home—stay on campus, have a lonely turkey sandwich and some cranberry juice, and spend the holidays practicing. But last week Sam asked me, “Do you really think it’s what’s best for you?” and the answer seemed so simple.

I miss Pipsqueak. And Barb (though not as much). “I just . . . how will I know if I’m cutting myself too much slack?”

“Oh, Lordy.” Sam actually laughed—a foreign sound I’d never before encountered despite our many hours together. “You’ve got a ways to go, Scarlett.”

Lukas returns from an away meet that Tuesday. I haven’t seen him in person in almost a month, and . . .

It’s odd, being aware of him. Noticing. Just a little while ago, he and I were strangers. But now he’s a presence and an absence in my life, at once ghostly and bulky.

I spot him poolside, talking with one of his coaches, Pen’s arms slung around his waist. I see him, but I have no right to go to him. Or do I? We never agreed to anything more than kinky sex. All I can do is shake off the heavy weight in my stomach and climb the diving tower. Stare at the water where we kissed in the silent hours of the night, while everyone else slept. Rise on the tip of my toes for my best inward dive yet.

After, it’s hugs with the twins in the locker room, wishes for safe travels, and the faint trepidation of knowing that we’ll next see each other in Tennessee, for the Winter Nationals. I step briskly out of the aquatic center, already dreading the shitshow I’ll find at the airport.

“Scarlett.”

It hits me hard when I turn around: Lukas, and his post-practice tousled hair, the rapidly fading freckles, the way he slouches against the wall of Avery and yet remains graceful. A million other trivial, mesmerizing things.

“Are you waiting for . . . ?”

“You,” he says.

My stomach opens like a sinkhole. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.”

I hang back for a second, my instincts confused, oscillating wildly. Run away. Run to him. As usual, he takes charge. Comes closer till I need to tilt my head to look him in the eyes. Smiles. Something faint and small, but no less committed for it.

“That email Olive wrote,” he starts. “About presenting at that bio conference.”

“Ah, yes! I was going to ask if . . . we should do it?”

He cocks his head. “Are you asking? Or telling me?”

“I . . .” I snort a small laugh. “Actually, I don’t know. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I did something similar last year.”

“And?”

“It was boring.”

“Oh. No, then?”

“But with you, it would be fun.”

My heart races. “It would look good on med school applications, right?” I add quickly, to put a shield between myself and my enjoyment of his words.

“Probably.”

“Then let’s do it.” I smile. He doesn’t. A cluster of water polo players walks past us, and we fall into a silence that’s not quite as comfortable or familiar as I’m used to.

And then we start talking at the same time.

“Do you wa—”

“I’m go—”

We both stop.

“You first,” he says.

“Nothing much. I’m headed for the airport. Going home.”

He nods. “I guess I won’t need to ask my question, after all.”

Do you wa—

What were you going to ask, Lukas?

Do I want . . . what?