Deep End

THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE DR. SMITH’S OFFICE IS QUIET. I SHIFT on my feet and glance at the white walls papered in old conference posters, the corkboard pinned with study abroad opportunities and Participants Needed flyers. The glow of the sunset spreads over them from the closest window.

All in all, the four of us just had a pretty good conversation. My mild “Lukas and I already know each other.” His low “Swimming and diving are the same team.” Dr. Smith’s delighted “This works so well, then!” Zach’s amused “Must be something in the water turning people into biologists, huh?”

“Chlorine-induced brain damage,” I mumbled.

Everyone laughed.

Except for Lukas, who just stared.

The three of us linger outside for a few minutes. At first we make plans for our first research meeting, then it’s just Zach, chitchatting with Lukas. He reminds me of Josh—that adorable mix of good-looking and nerd. Thick-rimmed glasses. Tall, wiry physique. Mop of black hair. Heavy, self-effacing sarcasm. He must be a handful of years older than us, but he feels like a boy next to Lukas, and none of it has to do with Lukas’s size.

I walk beside them, silent as they talk about some obscure sport. Lukas must notice the landscape of blurry nothingness in my eyes. “Fantasy Premier League,” he supplies. I nod, pretending the words make sense together. Then Zach leaves, and we are alone.

We’re both in our picture-day glory—black joggers, red hoodie, Stanford Tree. We’re even zipped up to the same height, and I’d love to crack a joke about it, but I’m not sure even I find it funny, so I just tilt my chin up and stare at him staring at me, much longer than society rules would deem acceptable.

A pleasant heat spills throughout my entire body. Coalesces in my belly. “Well,” I say.

“Well,” he repeats.

“So . . .”

“So.” There is amusement at the edge of his voice. In the crinkles cornering his eyes.

How did we go from avoiding even the slightest passing interaction for two whole years to this? His presence feels so . . . brutal. I’m not sure how to phrase it any better—he’s just aggressively, unyieldingly here. A command to pay attention.

Any trace of humor clears from his face. “The email I wrote.”

My heart trips in my chest.

It should be me.

“I had no idea we’d need to collaborate on a project, or I wouldn’t have sent it. If you’re uncomfortable, I can pull out. We can tell Olive—”

Olive. I nearly wince.

He notices. “What’s wrong?”

“Just—you said her name.”

A confused look.

“Her first name.”

His head tilts. “Are you planning to call her Dr. Smith for the rest of the semester?”

“Of course.” The corner of his mouth curls like he’s entertained. Me: a spectacle. “What?” I ask, defensive.

“You really do like your authority figures, don’t you?”

I gasp in outrage. And then . . . then I laugh. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, all height and mass, and rests against the wall behind him, one calf crossed comfortably over the other. The shape of his shoulders, his hands in his pockets—he’s the picture of relaxation. It’s almost a slouch.

On my side of the hallway, I lean back. Mirror his pose. It’s the third time we are alone together, and I think I’ll graduate him to Only Slightly Intimidating. Takes me longer, usually. “So,” I ask evenly, “we’re just . . . doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Openly acknowledging that we know way too much about each other’s sexual preferences every time we meet?”

“Unless it bothers you. Would you like me to pretend I don’t know about your perversions?”

“You’re just as much of a perv as I am.”

“Oh, no.”

My eyebrow lifts.

“Way more,” he adds. “I guarantee it.”

I laugh. Slip my hands in my joggers, just like him. Our gazes catch, weighty, tethered. “You know, you’re right. Let’s just own it.”

“Let’s.”

“One of us gets off to . . . flogs?”

“The other, to calling people ‘Doctor.’”

“Just two regular freaks.”

“Nothing to see here.”

A small smile, exchanged. Private. “Maybe Pen was right,” I muse.

“And we’re made for each other?”

I nod. It’s a joke, but his eyes darken.

“Won’t know till we try,” he says quietly, low, and that warmth inside my belly rekindles, slinks up my spine, pinkens my cheek.

It should be me.

I hang my head, suddenly enraptured by my own frayed shoelaces. “How long have you been doing research?”

“I’ve been working with Olive—Dr. Smith—for a couple of years.”

“Really? What’s your major?”

“Human bio.”

“Premed?”

He nods. I’d have guessed business, or accounting—it’s what lots of swimmers seem to go for. An interesting Venn diagram.

“Me, too,” I volunteer. Then regret it—is he supposed to care?

“I figured.”

How? Did he see me drool all over my MCAT prep text at Avery the other night? Snoring may have been involved.

“Relax,” he says, reading my mind. “You took my physics class last year. Orgo, too. We were constantly in the same lectures.”

“Are you sure?”

He just smiles, like he’s charmed by my total lack of recollection.

“I never . . . I didn’t notice you.”

“I know.” A small, self-deprecating laugh. His expression softens. “You were going through it, weren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were struggling.”

“No, I wasn’t.” I’m an excellent student. Or I used to be. “I got As in both classes—”

“I’m not talking about grades, Scarlett.”

I wrap my arms around my torso. “I was fine.” The words slip out reflexively, from the part of me that can’t bear to admit how many times in the past year I needed to lock myself inside bathroom stalls and just breathe. But Lukas looks at me with something that resembles understanding. Like he’s gone through it, too, and gets it.

“What about you?” I ask. “Would you feel weird, working together? I’m friends with Pen. And I know of your . . .”

“Sexual deviancy?”

The words sound so good, rumbling out of him. “Hmm. That.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, without having to think about it. No hesitation. “She’s great, by the way.”

“Pen?”

His smile pulls at the edge of his mouth. “Her, too. But I meant Olive. She’s the best at what she does. Helped me quite a bit when I applied for med school.”

He’s a senior. Must have started the application process earlier this year—on top of the swimming, the competitions, the classes, the research project, the girlfriend. On top of being Lukas Blomqvist, freestyle god, he’s also some kind of premed semi-deity. How annoying of him.

“Where do you find the time to do all this stuff and train?” I half think out loud.

“Where do you?”

I huff. “I’m not an Olympic medalist.”

“Medals have little to do with how hard one trains.”

Do they? It feels like they should. Like my inability to secure any can only be due to a moral failure of mine. I didn’t do enough, therefore I fell short.

But it’s hard to ponder the matter now, with him so dialed into me, gaze shifting across my face like he sees all. In the last of the day’s light, we study each other, unblinking, sucked in our respective corners. A woman walks between us, muttering, “Excuse me.” Our eyes don’t follow her.

“It’s not,” I say at last.

Lukas swallows. Straightens a little. “What?”

“Uncomfortable. For me. Doing the project together. If it’s not too weird for you?”

A beat. He pushes from the wall, and I hurry to do the same. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get dinner. I’ll catch you up with what I have so far.”

“You don’t have to. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Actually.” I feel the ghost of his hand between my shoulder blades. The soft brush of his thumb at the top of my spine. It’s barely there, but it guides me in the direction of the stairs. Whispers at me exactly where to go. “I have absolutely nothing better to do.”