Deep End

IT TAKES ME TWO DAYS TO GO THROUGH THE LIST.

I’d love to say that it’s because some of the items are things I’ve never heard of and require a large amount of research, but there are only a handful I’m not already familiar with. I may have to spend some time on Google to figure out what shrimping is—and come away with no more clarity than when I started—but I’ve known what a sybian is since I figured out how to use the incognito tab on my browser.

Sexual deviant, and all that.

The reason I spend so long on each item is that they require an almost ridiculous amount of introspection. I’ve never been in the position to be fully sincere about my fantasies, and as a result I don’t yet know what they are. My sex life with Josh was great: he made sure I had all the orgasms I could ever want, helped me feel beautiful and sexy, and we laughed a lot. That time I was too mortified to tell him outright that I was on my period and used so many euphemisms, he thought I had terminal cancer. When he accidentally got Minions novelty condoms. His harrowing screech of pain after I tried to give him a hand job seconds after hand sanitizing. That kind of stuff.

But when I asked him to be rougher with me, he suggested that I bring it up in therapy and get my psychologist’s take on “whether it’s a good idea, or, um, something oedipal that’ll fuck you up for the next decade?” After that, I tried to pretend I didn’t have certain desires, and he half-heartedly slapped my butt a couple of times.

So it takes forty-eight hours, but on Wednesday night, I text Lukas: Done.

And, at last, save his name on my phone.

We decide to meet up that night. Then the following morning. Then the following night. Every time, he cancels at the last minute. The only explanation: Something urgent.

I see him at practice, which means that he’s not ill, injured, or expelled from Stanford for crimes against public decency. I’m starting to suspect he’s changed his mind—and then he skips our meeting with Zach and Dr. Smith.

“He won’t be joining us,” she tells me. “He mentioned something about . . . captain stuff? Not Crunch, sadly. God, I haven’t had those in a while.” She chews her lower lip for a moment, writes Buy Cap’n Crunch on one of her Post-its, and then proceeds to slay at cancer biology nonstop for forty-five minutes.

I don’t hear from Lukas until Friday night, after a difficult practice that leaves me in a bad mood. Pen and I are alone in the locker room, and I’ve been trying to untangle my hair for so long, my entire upper body aches.

“Any plans for tonight?” she asks.

I shake my head. Then say, “I have these . . . exercises that my therapist is making me do.”

“Oh?” Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. She’s putting on foundation, which is an unusual post-practice level of grooming. “For what?”

“My most ingrate children.” Her brow knits in confusion, so I sigh. “My inward dives.”

Her eyes widen in understanding. I haven’t discussed my issues with anyone on the team, but Pen is my synchro partner, and she must have noticed that we haven’t practiced a single inward dive.

I don’t mind. I know she gets it—the way our brains cannot help hiccuping. “What are the exercises like?”

“Visualization, mostly. The purpose is to . . . rewire my brain. Overwrite the negative feelings I automatically associate with certain dives with more neutral ones.” All I need is the most basic, shittiest inward dive. The bar is so low, it’s underground with the turnips.

Pen puts down her brush. Her hand reaches out to squeeze mine, and I love, love, love that she doesn’t say shit like You can do it. Believe in yourself. It’ll be a piece of cake. Positive thinking. She’s just quietly there for me, green eyes full of understanding and a compassion that’s not pity, and that’s all I need.

I squeeze back. There’s something in my throat, and I have to swallow past it before asking, “What about you? Any plans?”

“Actually.” Her lips twitch. “I’m meeting Hot Teacher. He’s . . . making dinner for me—Vandy, please, regain control of your jaw.”

I try. It’s not easy. “How was last weekend?”

“Good. Great. We chatted. Talked about our lives. We made out. You know, that kind of stuff.”

I half gasp, half laugh, delighted. “You made out.”

“Way to focus on the one single non-PG item on my list.” But she’s giggling, clearly elated. We both lean our shoulders against the mirror, facing each other. “I really, really like being with him,” she tells me, low, serious. Her smile dims a little, but she’s not sad. “I think it was a good choice, breaking up with Lukas.”

It’s my turn to reach for her hand. “I’m so glad you’re happy.”

When her phone rings, she frantically gathers her stuff and stops for a short hug, and then she disappears in a burst of energy that’s so her, I cannot stop smiling even after she’s gone.

And, once again, I have not told her about Lukas and me.

I tried it on Monday, with the list burning in the pocket of my shorts. On Wednesday, when we lingered in front of Avery and exchanged high school diving stories. This morning at breakfast, after I helped her out with orgo homework while she read through my English essay.

Tell her, I ordered myself.

But tell her what? That Lukas and I might be exchanging A4 papers? In order to maybe initiate a sexual relationship, if we are compatible, if it works with our schedules, if he hasn’t changed his mind, if he doesn’t find someone else? It’s all so hypothetical, talking about it so early in the process just seems like courting trouble.

I head home, wondering whether Maryam will do her usual bit if she catches me mid–visualization exercise: cut two cucumber slices and slap them over my closed eyes. The text I receive stops me in the middle of the sidewalk on Stanford Way.

Free? It’s Lukas. My pulse trips, but quickly steadies. I tilt my head and type:

SCARLETT: In Sweden, when you text, do they charge you by the word?

LUKAS: There’s an emoji surcharge, but I’ll make an exception for you:

LUKAS: (f*ck you emoji)

I laugh out loud—a yappy sound that has me glancing around to make sure no one noticed.

LUKAS: Are you free tonight, Scarlett Vandermeer?

SCARLETT: For someone with proper grammar? Always.

LUKAS: Meet me at Green in ten.

Why does he want to meet in the library? Is this for Dr. Smith’s project? Am I . . . misunderstanding?

When I arrive, he’s already leaning against the wall by the elevator—eyes closed, thick neck, incongruous freckles. He’s wearing black joggers and a red T-shirt, once again an almost exact replica of the outfit I have on, and he looks . . . tired. Something that lives between curiosity and admiration has me stopping to observe him—him, and the energy that flows in his surroundings.

“That’s the guy who won the Olympics—the swimmer?” a boy whispers to a friend. Three girls walk past him in the opposite direction, sneaking glances that become progressively less covert.

I’d love an NCAA title or two, let alone the Olympics, but I don’t think I envy this facet of Lukas’s success. Being singled out. Generic appreciation from people who remember that swimming exists once every four years.

“Hey,” I say.

His eyes open slowly, as though whirring to life. For a moment he looks so exhausted, my instinct is to scream, Go home, to bed, right now. Then his lips curve, just because I am here, and my heart beats in my belly.

“Come on.”

I follow him in silence to a study room. It doesn’t provide much privacy, not with glass walls. They’re all built like that—because, I assume, librarians have graduate degrees and better things to do than walk into teenagers groping each other. Or cleaning up used condoms.

I linger next to a chair, not yet taking a seat. Watch Lukas pull a folded piece of paper out of his backpack, toss it over the table in my direction, and stand kitty-corner from me.

I feel, instantly, very hot. Or cold.

“Why the library?” I ask, eyes fixed on the paper.

“We could go to my place, but I figured you wouldn’t want Kyle and Hasan overhearing.”

I nod, trying to come to terms with the fact that his list is right there. I could reach out and pick it up and know.

“Scarlett.” Lukas leans forward, clearly amused. “We talked about this.”

“About what?”

“You need to breathe.”

I inhale sharply. Fill my lungs. “Right, yes, I’m fine. I . . . what should I . . . ?”

“Before we start, I’d like to know something.”

I sneak another glance at the folded paper. “Yes?”

“What happened with your father?”

My eyes bounce to his. I feel like he grabbed me by the neck without warning. “My father? How is this relevant?” An atrocious possibility occurs to me. “Please, don’t tell me that you’re looking for some deep-seated past trauma to explain what I like.”

His eyebrow arches. “I think you can give me a little more credit than that.”

“Then why?”

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s not a deal-breaker. But you clearly have triggers, and understanding what happened might help me steer away.”

Lukas doesn’t need the whole story for that. But he and I have already been so open with each other, I don’t mind him knowing. And, I have no reason to be embarrassed. So I square my shoulders, hold his eyes, and try to be as factual as possible. “Over the years, my dad became increasingly abusive of both me and my stepmother. By the end, he was tracking all our movements, monitoring our interactions, isolating us from the rest of the world and from each other. He’d belittle us. Criticize us. Yell for no reason. He was financially controlling. I’m not sure how it got so bad, only that it was gradual. Barb and I were both very good at pretending that it was all normal, and that Dad was just having a string of bad days. Then, when I was thirteen, Barb picked me up from school. I began crying and begging her to not take me home, and she decided to put an end to it. She left Dad, managed to get custody, put us both in therapy.” Years of terror, condensed into a few dozen words. Years in which my sole happy place was diving. “I can usually work through my triggers. I don’t like raised voices, but it’s not a hard limit. And I actually like being handled roughly. Control. Discipline. As long as it’s within specific contexts.” I can tell from his eyes that he understands what I mean. It makes sense in his gut as much as in mine. “The one thing Dad did . . .” I look away. “Degradation kink is a thing, and I’m never going to judge . . . but if you want to call me ugly, or disgusting, or worthless—”

“Jesus, Scarlett.”

“—then we’re probably not going to be able to—”

“Hey.” He lifts my chin. “Look at me.”

I am, I want to say. Except, I lowered my gaze to my feet without realizing it.

“I’m not interested in demeaning you in any way. Okay?” In his eyes I find no disappointment—just a promise. He doesn’t let go until I nod, and once I’m free, I swallow. Take my phone out of my pocket. Gently, hoping he won’t notice my trembling hands, I pop its case off.

When he sees the piece of paper lodged inside, he smiles faintly. “Guarding it closely, huh?”

I drop it on the table, next to his. I’m not sure how to explain the sticky, toe-curling, happiness-creating heat that spreads through my limbs whenever I think about the list being there. All my secrets. All his questions. The potential for this improbable, dizzying, sharp thing between us, never too far from my body.

“How do you want to do this?” I ask, a little too breathless to sound businesslike. “Do you want to put them next to each other and compare, or . . . ?”

He reaches out and grabs mine, stretching it out before I’m even done formulating the thought, eyes scanning horizontally across the page. There’s nothing jerky or hurried about his movements, but watching him feels like a natural disaster, something unstoppable that I’m allowed to witness but not interfere with.

I rock on my heels as he reads, the little room shrinking around us. The air swelters, as hot as my cheeks.

Pick his list up, I tell myself. And read it. Even out the playing field. But I can’t. It’s the same brand of bloodcurdling, muscle-freezing paralysis that seizes me when I attempt an inward dive.

What if—it doesn’t work.

What if—I mess up again.

What if—I’m being given a chance, and I squander it.

What if I’m not good enough.

“I haven’t—” I fidget with my hair. “I experimented a bit with my ex, but haven’t done much of this stuff.” He knows. There is a column on the sheet dedicated to that, which I filled. I completed my assignment. Yet I power through. “There are a couple of things that . . . They’d depend on how you want to approach them. I put asterisks next to them.” He lowers the paper and stares at me from over it, unsettlingly undecipherable. I shift on my feet. “And I couldn’t understand what—”

I don’t get to finish that sentence. Because Lukas Blomqvist takes a long step, pushes me into the wall, and kisses me.