Deep End(94)

It feels wrong and forbidden. The obvious question—What about Pen?—lingers between us, unasked.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Because part of me is starting to wonder if their relationship was more about two young teens being alone against the world and swearing mutual protection, than about romantic love. But it’s a dangerous path to take, muddied by wishful thinking and a question I’m not ready to ask myself.

Why do I care, anyway?

“I know you’re anxious about competing,” he says. “But selfishly, I’m glad you’ll be at the world championship with me.”

My heart beats louder. Quicker. “Maybe we could . . .” I stop.

“What?”

“I was going to say, maybe we could visit Amsterdam together? But you’re best friends with the entire Swedish delegation, and the king will be there—”

“Like I said, Sweden’s a democracy—”

“You flamed-pants liar.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I checked Wikipedia. You do have a king.”

The buzz of his phone interrupts us. Penelope, the name on the top of the screen reads. Then texts pop up:

PENELOPE: Luuuk!

PENELOPE: Come on, we’re having so much fun!

PENELOPE: Where are you?

He turns the phone face down and pushes it to the side. Unobtrusive. A silent it’s just us.

“Our king, as I’m sure your sources mentioned, has no political power or relevancy.” He inches closer, too. I want to free my hand and trace that perfectly slanted jaw. “What else did you find out about my country during your countless hours of research?”

A lot, actually. Since I can’t seem to stop myself from reading up on it before bed. It’s like I’m planning a trip. “Let’s see. That you guys have a word for when your hair is all messy because you just had sex.”

His mouth twitches. “True. Knullrufs.”

“And also a really tasty-looking nuclear-green dessert that I’d do unspeakable things to try. ”

“Dammsugare.”

“Is it good?”

“Are glycemic comas part of your kink portfolio?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then it’s good.”

I laugh. “I learned about . . . lagom? Am I saying it right?” He nods, and I continue. “It means ‘the perfect amount.’ Not too much, not too little. The idea is that society is like a team, resources should be shared equally, and people should be humble.”

He looks intrigued, like I’ve found a deep cut.

“And it can come with some downsides. Like with the law of J . . . ?”

“Law of Jante.”

“Law of Jante, correct,” I say haughtily. Lukas laughs softly. “People shouldn’t brag about their accomplishments, or think that they are special, which can make it hard for them to celebrate their successes.” Lukas has once again gone unreadable. “Reminds you of someone, huh?” I ask, injecting just a hint of challenge in my voice, thinking of everything he is, everything he does, everything he never speaks of.

And maybe he gets it, at least a little bit. I watch him trace the inside of his cheek with his tongue, mull it over, ponder options, until he says, “I had my first two acceptances.”

My heart stops. It seems so early, and—he’s talking about med schools, right? Oh my god. This is . . . “Where?” I ask, treading cautiously.

“Penn. Emory.”

I nod slowly, to avoid spooking him.

“Emory offered a merit scholarship,” he adds.

“Full?”

“Yes.”

It’s fantastic. More than that. It’s the best news ever, and I want to explode out of my chair and scream my excitement, but something that passes between us in subtexts, well underneath the frequency of words, tells me to just stay calm.

“I haven’t told anyone yet,” he says.

Oh, Lukas.

I don’t know what I’m allowed to say, but I can’t stave off this happy, bursting feeling. So I stand. Make myself at home on his lap. Wrap my arms tight around his neck. And once I’m sure he won’t bolt the second I open my mouth, I whisper in his ear, “I’m so happy for you.” The words are low and hushed and a little sacred, even though we are alone.

It’s just us. You’re safe with me.

His arms lock around my waist, hands splayed open over my flanks and ribs. It’s not until much, much later that I hear him murmur, “I’d love to see Amsterdam with you.”





CHAPTER 49


IEND THE AUTUMN QUARTER WITH ALL AS, AND NO, I DON’T care that English composition and German come with a small dash right after the letter. The plus that Dr. Carlsen tacked to my comp bio grade offsets at least one of them. In my heart, if not numerically.

“Will this ruin your GPA?” Maryam asks.

I credit the work I’ve been doing with Sam for my unbothered “It’ll lower it by a decimal point, which is fine.” Maryam is on my shit list, even more so than usual—has been since the night I returned from Tennessee, when she barged in on Lukas and me doing the dishes, drunkenly threatened to call the landlord if a single sex noise made it to her ears, and then absconded to her room with my fried rice.

“Sorry about her,” I told Lukas while getting ready for bed, handing him the still-packaged toothbrush from my last cleaning.