Deep End

I’M NOT A COWARD.

Or maybe I am.

Am I?

“I’m not saying that you are. Or aren’t,” Barb muses, eating a bite of mac and cheese I made from scratch like the ingrate she is. “Like Ludwig taught us: some questions don’t need to be solved, but dissolved.”

“I don’t recall meeting anyone named Ludwig.”

“Wittgenstein. Renowned Austrian philosopher.”

I sigh. “I knew it wasn’t the bones that took up space in your head.”

“Perhaps it’s aphorisms.” She licks her spoon. “The point is, Ludwig wouldn’t want you to keep wondering whether you did the right thing by leaving California. You should simply dissolve the problem and accept that you did what you needed for your peace of mind.”

“Are you sure that’s what Ludwig would want?”

“Of course. He personally told me. He always cared so very much about your well-being.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

“Plus, you’re doing your internship with Makayla here in St. Louis.”

True, technically. I just hadn’t planned on peacing out of California the day after the NCAA.

On a needlessly overpriced flight.

Without saying goodbye to anyone.

Leaving uneaten groceries in the fridge.

I’ve been home for nearly ten days, and it took me about half of that to explain to Barb why I turned up on her doorstep with no warning at all.

The rest has been spent trying to sort out my feelings.

“You’ve always been slow at that kind of stuff,” Barb says now, over the bowl of mac and cheese for which I bought expensive pecorino. Using her money. “But take your time. It’s not like there’s a strapping Swedish lad with a Stanford Med acceptance waiting for you.”

“My feelings for Lukas are—that’s not the problem.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

Right. What is the problem? “Do you think that . . . Do you think that a relationship that started so messily, and with so many hiccups, and hurting other people, can have a happy future?”

Barb smiles. “I think every relationship is the same.”

“Which means?”

“You won’t know until you try.”

A few days ago, I started receiving the first tentative texts from my teammates. Are you okay? (Bella) If you need someone to talk to, please know that I’m here. (Bree) Hey—what I said was messed up. I didn’t have all the facts, or any, and I still decided to run my mouth. I’m sorry. (Victoria) Not to mention, the constant email communication with Coach Sima.

My cardiologist has advised me not to involve myself in drama, and I know the season is over and I have no right to make demands of your time. I am, however, sending you a picture of me receiving your gold medal. Please come collect it at your earliest convenience.

I am proud of you.

The things in your locker are now in a box in my office.

PS: Stanford placed second.

And:

I understand that this is a delicate time for you, but I cannot stress enough the importance of signing up for the Olympic trials. You are already qualified. This needs to be done as soon as possible.

And:

I hope you took a (well-deserved) break, but you better be practicing again now.

He’s lucky, because I am—though it has little to do with the trials, and everything with the fact that diving is, once again, my happy place. I spend long days interning at the hospital, then go to my high school club, where I train mostly on my own. No objectives, just vibes.

“It’s truly incredible, how much you have improved,” Coach Kumar tells me. “Such good work, all around.”

And yet, as the days go by and I give myself enough time to think, I’m not certain that it’s true. In the past year I’ve become a better diver, sure. But what about the rest?

The near career-ending injury I described, I write in the millionth draft of my med school essay, played a big role in my decision to become an orthopedic surgeon, but no more so than my step-mother. She is the single most influential figure throughout my life, the person who rescued me from an abusive situation when it would have been much easier to simply rescue herself. Thanks to her, I know what courage is, and . . .

Okay. The last sentence requires work. If I was courageous, I’d be with Lukas, wouldn’t I? If I was courageous, I’d go back to California and confront Pen.

On an impulse, I open a blank Word document.

Dear Pen,

I should have been more transparent about my feelings for Lukas, and for that I am sorry. You fucked up, too, though. I get that you’re hurting, but maybe you shouldn’t have made a scene and stolen my gold medal moment, especially after what happened to me at my last finals. Maybe what you said about Lukas and me bonding over sex was insulting. Maybe you shouldn’t have treated Lukas and me like windup toys. Maybe you don’t get to make us kiss and then break us apart. Maybe you cannot be the center of everyone’s world. Maybe I want for Lukas to be the center of mine.

I don’t send it. However, I ruminate over that for the following day, until in the middle of an armstand, my feelings are finally sorted out.

Anger and disappointment toward Pen and the way she acted.

And toward Lukas . . .

In the locker room, I pull up his number to—I’m not sure. Call him. Text him. Send him an I fucked up Memoji. Then I see the location under his name. “Shit,” I say.

Almost immediately, an idea buzzes through me.

I dial Barb.

“Yup?”

“First question: Would it be okay if I took a break from my internship?”

“Um . . . sure? You’ve already done way more than you were supposed to, so I can’t see Makayla complaining about it. Plus, you are a nepo baby.”

“I prefer ‘legacy artist.’ Second question: Can I borrow some money?”

“Borrow? You mean, you’d later return it?”

“Probably not.”

“Hmm, I want to say yes, but I feel like the wise thing would be to first ask: How much money?”

“I’m not sure. Enough to fly to Sweden.”

The noise she makes is so triumphant, I have to move the phone away from my ear. “Scarlett, baby, finally. Mi bank account es su bank account. Within reason.”

I head out of the swim club, googling flights without reason (sorry, Barb), trying to figure out what’s the earliest time I could leave if I first stop home to grab my passport and a pair of clean underwear, until someone stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Vandy?”

When I look up, I find Penelope Ross.