Deep End

I GRIP THE SWING’S CHAIN HARD ENOUGH TO PERMANENTLY print it on my palm.

I gawk at Pen, slack-jawed. Then turn to Lukas, who seems as taken aback as me.

But he recovers quickly. His arms cross on his chest, and the corner of his lip curls upward. “Pen,” he chides calmly, like his ex is an unruly toddler. A kitten caught breaking into the treat drawer. “I’m taking you home.”

She ignores him. “No, no—it’s genius!”

“Is it.”

“Yes. Yes! How do you not see it? Oh my god. Of course you don’t. It’s because you don’t know.” She laughs and gestures inchoately. Her cheeks glow bright pink on her post-practice, scrubbed-clean face. Maybe Coach puts MDMA in his beer? “Luk, please don’t be mad, but . . . I had to tell Vandy about the stuff you’re into. Because it was all a mess, and I needed to talk about it with someone. I’m sorry, okay?” she cries, even though Lukas doesn’t seem particularly upset at the thought of me knowing his private business. Until: “But here’s the thing . . . Vandy’s into the same exact stuff as you!”

And that’s when I realize that, no.

Pen had not told Lukas about me. Because he turns to me and stares infinitely, lips parted, like I’ve suddenly shape-shifted into something new. Something instantly comprehensible to him.

I stare back, unable to breathe.

Even as Pen continues, “So you two should—well, no one should have sex. But since we’re all single here, I thought that . . .”

Lukas tears his eyes from mine. “Pen,” he says, firm, exuding a tolerant, condescending sort of patience. “Let’s go.”

Her eyebrows knit. “What? I think it’s a great idea!”

“Of course.” Lukas sounds so unperturbed, it actively adds to my distress. Why is he not experiencing mortification? Am I exhausting the North American supply? “I’m taking you home.”

“No! Luk, she is it. She’s the sandwich.”

He sighs. I don’t follow—then I do.

Sandwich. Sub.

Christ. I should not be witnessing the inside sex jokes of the golden couple of college swimming.

“It makes sense,” she insists, unsteady on her swing. “Think it through!”

“Okay. Let’s.” He nods like he’s actually contemplating the whole thing. “You and I break up, and a week later you come to me with recommendations on who I should be fucking next.” His eyes settle on me. Cold. Evaluating. “And you do the same for Scarlett. Out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I just thought it would be nice if we could all—”

“Be happily paired with our government-mandated fuck buddy?”

“Luk,” Pen bristles. “As the current holder of half a dozen world records, you’re a recognizable public figure who can’t just make a profile on a dating app and write a bucket list of kinky stuff.”

“But you fixed the issue by getting wasted and offering me your teammate. Who, by the way, hasn’t breathed in over a minute.”

He’s right. I suck in some air.

“Come on, Luk. I know you think she’s hot. You said so.”

Silence.

“And I see the way you look at her.”

A buzz of unease bursts in the back of my skull.

“How do I look at her?”

“You know how.”

He folds his arms on his chest. “Anything else I should know about future directions of my sex life? Where are Scarlett and I going to meet? What will we do first?”

Pen bolts to her feet. Sways her way to Lukas to press an index finger to his pecs.

“Luk, if you can’t understand my vision . . .” She bursts into laughter. “Whatever. Let’s go home.” She brushes past, but after about fifty feet she plops on Coach’s yard and lies on her back to sunbathe. “You guys, I love this time of the day!”

Lukas shakes his head and sighs deeply, long feet peeking through the grass. And there, in the rise and fall of his shoulders, I finally see it. The strain that comes with a splintering relationship. I picture the late-night conversations, the incessant texting, the fights that led to their breakup.

“She shouldn’t have told me about your . . . not without your permission,” I say. “You might want to ask her to stop doing it.” A bit presumptive, to assume that this classically handsome athlete with citizenship in a universal-healthcare country might need my advice. But I remember the way Dad used to be with Barb and me. How he’d gnaw at us and strip away even the thinnest of layers, until what we wanted was of no importance and the world revolved around him. It’s not something I’ll ever take for granted, the ability to say no.

“I don’t mind,” he says, almost reassuringly. The don’t worry is implied. He has a steady, calming, problem-shouldering presence that tells me everything I need to know about how good he’d be at . . . well. All that stuff that got us in this mortifying situation to begin with.

“I had no idea she’d say any of this,” I blurt out.

“I figured. You looked about to faint.”

“It was a close call.”

We exchange a tired, soft-edged smile. Just our eyes, really. “I doubt Pen knew she’d say it, either. Or that she’ll remember tomorrow.”

“Still . . . I’m sorry. I told Pen about my experience, thinking it would help, but I didn’t mean to be up in your business or—”

“Luuuk, can we go home now?” she interrupts.

He bites the inside of his lip. Gives me one last look. “Goodbye, Scarlett.”

I wave and watch him leave, his steps relaxed, his brown hair almost golden in the setting sun. Once he and Pen disappear behind the house, I tip my head back to look up at the sky. Push that Where are Scarlett and I going to meet?— the near-perfect pronunciation, the closed o’s, the telltale s’s—out of my mind. Let my heart slow to a normal speed, and tell myself that decades from now, when I’m frail and prune-hearted in the retirement home, and the AI nurse feeding me steamed brussels sprouts asks, What is the most bonkers thing that ever happened to you? my mind will instantly zero in on this conversation.

I don’t even know how wrong I am.