Deep End

I WAIT IN THE CAR WHILE HE PROCURES FOOD—BECAUSE I’M NOT sure I want us to be seen together, because I’m not presentable, because he confiscated my damn underwear and it’s sequestered somewhere in the kingdom of his bedroom, as accessible to me as the Curiosity rover.

When I ask, “How much do I owe you?” he looks at me like I asked him to join me on a hunt to exterminate the harpy eagle. “I can Venmo you,” I add, but he glances away and proceeds to pretend that his auditory cortex leaked out of his nostrils.

Whatever.

We drive a few minutes out of campus, stop at a small clearing off the road, and sit on the hood of his car to eat, listening to the chirps of the birds. The sun warms my cheeks; Lukas’s legs are impossibly long; when he slides off his shoes, I do the same, wiggling my toes, letting the breeze run through them.

My mind slips to yesterday’s competition, my latest-but-probably-not-last failure, but I leash it back, forcing myself to stay in the moment, savor the comfortable silence that’s been stretching almost uninterrupted ever since we left his home.

I bite into my egg-and-cheese bagel, moaning like it’s being shot up my veins. I haven’t eaten anything since well before the meet. After, I just wasn’t sure I deserved food. Maybe this is what I need—to be harsher with myself, punish my body and brain for the things it cannot accomplish, train the weakness and the failure out of—

No. I’m not thinking about that now.

I focus on each bite. The rustling of the trees. Lukas’s steady presence. We exchange a few glances—me, smiling, and him inscrutable. When I finish my breakfast, he picks up his second bagel and holds it out to me.

“Oh, no, I—”

“Scarlett,” he says. Just a word. Not an order. Still, it contains so much: I know you’re still hungry. I’d rather you eat it. Make me happy. Be full. I have no clue how I can read all of it, but when I close my hand around the still-wrapped bagel, he looks so satisfied, I know I’m right.

I eat two-thirds, then hand him the rest. He scans my face, measuring, curious, and then accepts it and finishes in a single bite.

I cannot help but marvel how quiet and stoic Lukas can be when he’s not bossing me around. How relaxed I feel with him, content to just be silent. How many fewer words we exchange while sharing a meal than while having sex. That last thought coaxes a small laugh out of me.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head. “So . . . does this”—I gesture between us—“fall under the umbrella of fika?”

“This is breakfast.”

“But we’re having coffee. And a snack.”

He frowns. “Still breakfast. Fika is midmorning.”

“Well, it’s nine thirty, and we usually wake up at five.”

“Fika is between meals.”

“We are between meals—dinner last night and lunch later today. If you think about it, every meal is between other meals—”

“This is not fika,” he says, final. Arbitrary.

He might be getting mad. I might love it. “But why?”

“Because I say so.”

“So just because you’re Swedish, you get to decide—”

“Correct.”

I hide my smile into my knees. “I never get to use the only Swedish word I know. Just because you say so.”

He snorts a laugh, and mutters something under his breath—something that sounds a lot like troll.

“Hey, why do you keep calling me a—”

“I’ll teach you another.”

“Another what?”

“Swedish word.”

I give him an expectant look.

“Mysig.”

“Mysig,” I repeat slowly, and he chuckles. “What?”

“You really aren’t great at foreign languages, are you?” I glare. “Me-sig,” he says again. His smile tells me that my second attempt is no better. “Still sounds a bit like an intestinal parasite.”

“Hey,” I say mildly, “if you can’t handle me at my xenoglossophobic worst, you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best. What’s m . . . that word?”

He waves his hand at something that encompasses us, the trees, this moment in time. “This is mysig.”

“But what does it mean?”

“I’m sure whatever website taught you fika will be happy to clarify that for you.”

“So mean.” I steal a long sip of his juice. The link between excellent sex and appetite must have a titanium core. “Did Jan get home okay?”

Lukas nods. “Asks me to send you his regards every time he texts—and he texts a lot.”

“Oh. Did you tell him that we . . . ?”

“He figured it out all by himself.”

“When?”

He shrugs. “About two and a half seconds into seeing the way I look at you, according to him.”

“Oh.” A hot flush hits my face. “I’m sorry for coming along. I didn’t mean to intrude on your brotherly time.”

He laughs. “Brotherly time?”

“Isn’t that what you people with siblings call it?”

“Maybe monks do?” We exchange a long, intimate, too-full glance. “I’m glad you joined us,” he adds eventually, quiet in the outdoor morning. My heart . . . it doesn’t skip, but tripping is involved.

“Yeah?”

“I like spending time with you.”

The beats completely unravel, one after the other. “Thanks,” I say, instead of what I’m actually thinking. Maybe we could be friends. Aside from the sex, I mean. I don’t have many. And you and I—we get along, right? Instead, I opt for the most milquetoast thing I can find. “I like hiking. Never get to go.”

“How come?”

“No one to do it with. I should go alone, but . . .” I shrug. “I’m going to ask Pen if she wants to join me sometimes.”

“She doesn’t enjoy it much.”

“Really?”

“Something about the bugs. She’s more of an indoor rock climber.”

I remember her mentioning that. “Oh, well.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I blink at the offer. At his clear blue eyes. At his unsmiling face. “Don’t you have to . . . win medals, or something?”

“Don’t you?”

I groan. “Do you really have the time?”

“I make the time to do stuff outside of swimming and school, or I’m going to get burned out. Maybe you should, too.”

“I have hobbies,” I counter weakly. Sometimes, when I’m done with homework at a decent hour, I read Mafia erotica until I fall asleep. Eat crackers in bed. Consider calling 911, just to talk to someone.

Okay, I need pastimes that can be brought up in polite company. “Let’s do it,” I say impulsively. “Let’s go hiking.”

“Now?” He sounds skeptical.

“Unless you . . .” Maybe he wasn’t serious, and I’m putting him on the spot. “If you’ve changed your mind—”

“Scarlett, you can barely stand. I was on you hard last night.”

I am, impossibly, blushing. And he’s not wrong, I’m not in peak physical shape, but what’s the alternative? Go home and wallow in the emotional turmoil that comes with the prospect of spending the upcoming season producing a series of malignantly ugly dives? “I feel better, actually.”

“You sure?”

I nod, a spark lighting in my stomach.

“Okay.” He seems . . . not excited—he’s Lukas Blomqvist—but pleased.

“I’ll need to get changed before.” And shower, I don’t add, but he must read between the lines.

“I’ll help you clean up.” His gaze is intense for a moment. Then he palms his keys. “Your place okay?”

“Yes.” With some luck, Maryam won’t be home. And if she is . . . who cares? It’s not like I don’t put up with the mooing videos she watches to relax.

He jumps off the hood, and then lifts me off it even though I could easily do it on my own. I’m in the passenger seat, waiting for Lukas to start the car, contemplating the possibility of a nice day, not spent collapsing under the pressure I put on myself, when his phone rings.

I find it odd, because it hasn’t made a peep for the past twelve hours. Emergency bypass, I suspect. More so when he picks up and asks, “Everything okay?”

On the other side is Pen, but I cannot make out her words. She’s doing most of the talking. Lukas’s questions are short and to the point.

“Where? Are you alone? Is there anyone else who could . . . ? Okay. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up after a minute. When he turns to me, his jaw is tense. “Pen needs a ride,” he says tersely. No longer sounding pleased. “Her car broke down in Menlo Park.”

My stomach sinks. Twice.

Initially, with disappointment.

Then, harder, when I realize that disappointment was my instinctive reaction to a friend calling and asking for help—a supportive, generous friend, who always makes sure I don’t have globs of sunscreen on my back, who grabs me protein bars from the snack shed before they run out, who held my hand after I fucked up my first meet of the season and said nothing, just like I needed her to.

It shames me. So much so, I can’t look Lukas in the eye.

“Of course,” I say, glancing out of the window.

“Scarlett—”

“It’s totally okay.” I turn back to him with a forced smile. “We can hike whenever.” Or never. That would probably be for the best, actually. What the fuck am I even doing, organizing cutesy excursions with Lukas Blomqvist? “Just drop me off around campus, since it’s on the way. I can make my way home.” I try to sound absolving, but he doesn’t return my smile. “Hey, can I tell you about the progress I’ve made for Dr. Smith’s model? It’s exciting stuff.”

It takes him a while to nod, and he says next to nothing until we pull into the parking lot of my apartment building.