Deep End

JAN IS MY ACCOMPLICE, AND I’M PROUD OF MYSELF FOR RECRUITING him. Initially, I just hoped to get an address from him. Then I found out that he was visiting Stockholm, and he became my coconspirator.

“I have a hotel booked,” I tell him when he picks me up at the airport.

He looks at my face. Then at my backpack. Then at my face again. “You travel very lightly.”

“He might be angry at me,” I explain. “We didn’t leave off on the best terms. I’m not going to stick around if he doesn’t want me.”

He laughs and puts my bag in the trunk, shaking his head like I’m warning him about the dangers of chemtrails and mind control.

Everyone around me talks in the same beautiful, singsongy way I’ve come to associate with the Swedish language. The colors seem more vibrant than back home, though it might just be because I know that Lukas is nearby. And because, past 10:00 p.m., the sun is still in the sky. “Won’t go down at all,” Jan explains.

It’s early June, just like in Midsommar, and—

Wait a minute. “No human sacrifices, right?”

“What are you—oh. That movie?” He sighs. “Ari Aster has a lot to answer for. And Ingmar Bergman is right there. Anyway, how do you want to play it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you wanted a grand gesture. What’s your plan?”

“Oh. Well. I guess I thought that flying over an ocean and a good chunk of land where toilets are holes in the ground and water is served without ice would kind of be . . . it?”

Jan is unimpressed. “But what will you do once you see Lukas?”

“Oh.” Had I considered that far? No. Yes. I know that I’ll tell him that I—

“Did you bring flowers?”

“I . . . don’t think it’s legal? Fragile ecosystems and such.”

“Then are you proposing to him?”

“What? I’m twenty-one.”

Jan shrugs. “When you know, you know. Did you learn a complicated TikTok dance?”

“Would he even enjoy that?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“I clearly didn’t think this through.”

“Well, you better fix that quickly,” he says, pulling into the driveway of a red two-story house. The roof is pitched, and the green of the surrounding trees is almost cartoonishly bright. “Because we’re here.”

“Your father’s home?”

“Yes. He’s very excited about you coming, by the way.” “Oh, god. You told him?”

“Of course.”

I cover my face. Pray for the car seat upholstery to wrap around me like a boa constrictor and release me from this ignominy.

“He’s very happy. I told him you’re smart and you like nature. He’s glad you’re Lukas’s first girlfriend.”

“I am not his girlfriend, and he dated Pen for seven years.”

Jan shrugs. “Dad never met her, so he thinks Lukas made her up.”

This is a terrible mistake. “It’s nearly eleven. Is Lukas usually awake?”

“No, not usually.”

Crap. “Then I should go to the hotel and come back tomorrow?”

“Well, he’s not usually awake, but he clearly is tonight.” He takes the keys out of the ignition to point at the house, and when I follow that line . . .

Lukas is leaning against the porch baluster, arms crossed on his chest. His usual barefoot self, but wearing jeans and a T-shirt—not pj’s. He does not have the look of someone who just got out of bed. In fact, the curl of his mouth holds no trace of surprise.

He’s been waiting for me.

“You told him,” I accuse.

“I did not,” Jan assures me, placid as usual. “Believe me, I would not get on the bad side of my future sister-in-law this early in the relationship.” He slips out, and short of carjacking this vehicle and flooring it back to the airport, I have no choice but to do the same. But after a couple of steps I freeze, because Lukas is coming toward us, that half-smug, half-pleased smile still on his beautiful face.

He tells Jan something in Swedish that starts with tack (thank you) and contains the word troll, but despite my religious Duolingo sessions, I cannot follow any further. Jan grasps his shoulder as he passes by, and then turns around before entering the house. “Scarlett. Lycka till!” Good luck.

“Thanks,” I reply, too weakly for the sound to carry. “I’ll need it.”

“No, you won’t,” Lukas says, clearly amused. “What did I tell you?”

“Many things.” For reasons that probably only Sam could list, I’m already crying. A couple of fat, lonely tears. “Which one are you referring to?”

He shakes his head. His fingers come up to dry my cheeks, and my heart swells so much and so fast, I feel as though I could take flight.

“In the palm of your hand, Scarlett. From the very start.”

I screw my eyes shut at the sweet, bitter pain of his words. I have to wind down. Things to say. Peace to make.

“How did you know I was coming? Did Pen tell you?”

“You never stopped sharing your location with me.”

“I know that. But still, you’d have to have checked where I was to . . .”

Oh.

“I can’t sleep unless I know where you are.” His shrug is delighted. Unapologetic. “And during the day . . . I just feel better keeping tabs. Control, you know?” He leans in and presses a single, soft kiss to my hair, murmuring, “I’d say sorry, but you should probably just get used to the way I am.”

My laugh is choked. Breathless. “So you just . . . know everything?”

“Not everything.” He pulls back. Even the blue of his eyes is more vivid. “I know that you came here to see me—even though I did briefly wonder if you were just in the mood for dammsugare. I can only imagine the rest. That you’re scared, for instance?”

“Petrified, more like it,” I whisper. Another tear streaks down to my chin. “This is so messy.”

“Falling in love?”

I nod. “And I did it so . . .” Deeply, desperately, fast. It’s just pure violence.

“The ultimate loss of control, huh?”

I breathe deeply.

“But we’ve done this before,” he points out, patient, almost detached. “You’ve given up control. You’ve trusted me to take over.”

“And you never took advantage.”

“Nor will I. What else?” He drums his fingers on his bicep. “I assume you want us to be together?”

I nod again.

“That’s going to require some discussions. I have to make plans for my future. You have to make plans for yours. Let’s do that together, okay?” It all sounds so simple coming from his mouth. The alphabet. The most basic of arithmetic. Us, being in love.

“What about med school?” I ask, trying not to sniffle.

“There are a couple of ways to deal with that.” He’s clearly considered this. At length. “I could see if the schools that accepted me are willing to grant a one-year deferral. That way we could choose a place we’re both—”

“Lukas, no. You can’t waste a year just for . . .”

“Scarlett.” His fingers come up to my chin. Grab it gently, but tight. “The only time wasted is time we are apart.”

My heart might beat out of my chest.

“I could also keep my commitment to Stanford, if you’re interested in staying in California,” he continues casually. “We’d be together next year, while you finish up undergrad. And I have no doubt you’d get in the following year.”

“I just . . . I can’t ask you to make life decisions based on me.”

“That’s okay, because no asking is involved. Scarlett, this is it for me. I’m in.”

“But what if we start dating and we don’t work out?”

He seems to find the question hilarious. “We’ve been dating for nearly a year in everything but name. We work together, in every possible way. Except the chaos you live in, but I can probably train that out of you. Punishments. Positive reinforcement.” He pushes my hair back. “You respond well to that kind of stuff.”

“But what if—”

“Scarlett,” he interrupts, a little less restrained. “Listen to me. The last few years, I did everything I could to be happy with someone else, and did not manage.” His hand slides down my arm, slowly. Long fingers twine with mine. “And then I spent the last few months trying not to fall for you, and failed so fucking miserably that—” He shakes his head. “This is it. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. No more lies.”

I frown. “Did you lie to me?”

“By omission.”

“What did you not tell me?”

“How early I fell for you. How soon I realized it. The enormity of it.”

I close my eyes, so overwhelmed, so intensely full of Lukas, that looking at him might be too much. “I thought you’d be angry at me. For being such a coward back at the NCAA.”

“Difficult to be angry at someone when their actions hurt them as much as they hurt me.”

I look away. Clear my throat. “Well, I . . . I guess we covered a lot of ground, but I should still say what I came to say. Which is . . . first of all, thank you. For the past couple of weeks. For giving me the space I needed to figure myself out and to get my shit together. I thought it was very nice of you to respect my wishes and . . .” His shoulders shake silently. “What?”

“Don’t be too grateful.” I’m being pulled into him. Thick arms. The width of his hand on my lower back. Lips to my temple, and his enveloping scent. “I have a plane ticket for St. Louis, two days from now. We’re going to have to change that, huh?”

I bury my head into the familiar warmth of his throat. Feel his pulse, steady against my cheeks. “The US Olympic trials are next week,” I say.

He nods. “Should we go? It’s up to you.”

That we. “I think I’d like to, yeah.” I wrap my arms tight around his shoulders. “It would be nice if I qualified. I could go to Melbourne with you.”

“You should come whether you qualify or not.” His hand slides up my back. “I don’t think I want to let you out of my sight again this summer.”

There is no space between him and me. No air between the hot tension spilling in my stomach and the shift of his muscles under my hands. “I can’t be like Pen.”

“You never have been.”

“What I mean is, I don’t think I’d be able to ever live apart. And I’m . . . greedy. I wouldn’t be able to be with other people, or handle an open relationship, or take breaks—”

“That’s good. Because I know you think that I’m not capable of jealousy, and maybe I thought that, too. But if you were to ask me for any of those things . . . it would gut me, Scarlett. It would absolutely end me. And if it were nonnegotiable, if it were a condition to be with you, I’m still not sure I’d be able to say no.”

His stubble scratches my cheek. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to say it before, but . . .”

“But?”

I take a deep breath. Turn until my mouth is against the shell of his ear. Kiss him underneath it before I say, “I love you. So, so much. All the things you talked about in Amsterdam, on the balcony . . . I want them, too. With you. For the next million years.”

“Million? Hyperbole?”

“Not this time.”

His smile is easy. Quick. Wide. I don’t see it, but it blooms against my skin. “Wow.”

I pull back, puzzled. “Wow?” I just told him that I love him and he—

“You know what we call this?”

I shake my head. His fingers close around my waist, and he’s picking me up, lifting me high, and it’s my turn to bend down and kiss him, but before I manage, he whispers against my lips, “A Midsommar miracle.”