Deep End(97)

If he didn’t enjoy sex with me, he’d amend the list.

If he didn’t like my pictures, he’d leave me on read.

So it continues. A cat’s tail peeking through two inches of snow, like a shark’s fin. Barb’s office at the hospital, her lab coat draped over a chair. Ice-skating. A cronut.

Sometimes, we say nothing. Sometimes, we ask questions. (Is that a wolf? Was he just outside your door? We went to Gävleborg and tracked it. Oskar’s a pro.) Sometimes, I laugh at us. Shouldn’t we be exchanging nudes and flowery masturbation recounts? He should tele-dom me. Order me to suck his cyberdick. And yet, the only parts of our bodies that travel across the Atlantic are my dimple, from the day Pip wouldn’t stop licking my cheek, and the long-fingered grip on the rod he uses for ice fishing.

I write new drafts of my med school essays, and shadow Makayla, my favorite of Barb’s colleagues. “You should do an internship here next year,” she suggests. “Maybe in the spring quarter? Would look amazing on applications.”

The inevitable happens at Costco, two days before New Year’s Eve. Barb and I are debating whether it’d be amoral to pass up on a stellar deal that would provide Biscoff to the next four generations of Vandermeers (or, more likely, to the two of us, for the next week) when someone calls our names.

It takes me a minute to place Josh’s mom’s face, and another to realize that he’s standing next to her. Barb and Juliet have, unfortunately, always liked each other, and when they start chatting, Josh moves closer to me.

“Hey, Vandy.”

“Hi.” I expect my heart to speed into a race, but my sympathetic nervous system must be on a fika break.

Did I use it correctly, Lukas? My smile softens into something sincere.

We catch up for a few minutes. His classes. Mine. Still premed? I changed my major four times. I play the bass in a band. Is it true that you’re going to the Olympics? Ah, world’s. My bad. Still awesome.

Then, out of the blue: “I missed this.”

I blink up at him, trying not to think about the many ways he feels so . . . insubstantial, now that I’m used to Lukas. It’s not a fair comparison. “Yeah.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be angry.”

You could have asked, I think.

“We should get together sometime. Aurora wouldn’t mind, and . . . I care about you,” he adds .

Something inside me switches on. “Nice way of showing it,” I say.

His stare is confused. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t act like someone who cared about me.”

“Vandy.” He has the audacity to look hurt. “If you think our breakup was easy for me—”

“You can’t control who you fall for. You can, however, decide not to break up with your girlfriend on the day of her NCAA finals.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry about that. I was so busy with . . . It didn’t occur to me. I didn’t even remember until Jordan told me that you got hurt.”

Jordan. Former classmate. Josh kept custody of her—and everyone else—in the split. “So you knew I was injured, but never reached out?” I think I got him, because his eyes are wide and his skin too pale. God, what a waste of time. “Listen, we haven’t talked for the past year and a half. I don’t know you anymore. And it wouldn’t have worked out, anyway.” I can say this with the utmost certainty now. “But here’s a reflection prompt: if it never occurred to you that you could have acted less selfishly, maybe you’re not the nice guy you think you are.”

Later, in the car, Barb doesn’t bring up Josh, but she does ask me if I’m seeing someone.

“There’s this guy.” I drum my fingers at the base of the window. “He’s . . .” Great. Perfect. My friend’s ex. I like him. He likes me, too, I’m sure. Not just because of what we do. Maybe there’s something here. But what if there isn’t? I should ask him. It makes my stomach hurt. “It’s needlessly convoluted.”

“Sounds like a rom-com premise.”

I shrug. “We’re just having fun.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“Oh, shut up.”

And lift .

“You’re terrible,” I laugh.

“I just hope you have fun safely, consensually, and contraceptively.”

“You’re a physician. You know that’s not a word.”

“All I know is that I’d be the best step-grandmother in history.”

“You would.”

She was, after all, an excellent mom. Busy, for sure. Scatterbrained. But that never mattered. After Dad, what I needed wasn’t someone who’d come to my meets, memorize dives’ names, pack me nutritious lunches. Vandy’s mom is a little absent, huh? I once overheard, bored parents gossiping in the stands. But that was dumb. Barb was there when I needed her, always, without me having to ask, ever. She put me first in any meaningful way. Reminded me that adults could be trusted, that they didn’t have to be scary and unpredictable—they could protect and nurture and allow freedom.

Well, she’s not her real mom. Vandy calls her Barb.

I remember being eight, scolded by Dad for introducing Barb to a teacher as my mommy. Sent to bed without dinner. Sneaking downstairs for a glass of water. A conversation in the kitchen.