Deep End

I’M ON WATERED-DOWN DRINK NUMBER TWO, OR THREE, OR whatever the fuck imaginary complex real rational integer, when it occurs to me that I should probably let the UT guy who’s been trying to pick me up for the last twenty minutes know that I’m not going to consent to making out, having sex, or exchanging physical contact of any kind with him.

Trevor (Travis?) is nice, and as far as men go, I don’t find him particularly threatening. But that might be the most positive thing I can say about him. His square, handsome face does nothing for me, and his monologue on his silver at the Pan Am games needs some serious workshopping.

“You don’t live in this house, do you?” he asks.

I have a headache. Or maybe he’s a headache. “Nope.” In fact, I have no idea where we are. Some swimmer’s living room, probably. There’s always some kind of celebration after a dual, to show our guests that Stanford has a fantastic party scene.

It might be true. I wouldn’t know.

“Too bad. Would be nice if your bed was nearby.”

I want to leave. I want to no longer have his muzzle this close to mine. But Pen left a while ago to go meet with Teacher, and upon a cursory glance around the crowded room, I cannot spot any friendly faces. It means that if I leave Trevor and this couch, I’ll be all alone. And if I’m alone, I’ll think about the things everyone said to me after my dive, the pitying looks, the slimy layers of disappointments coating my stomach.

Next time. (Barb)

Vandy, you placed third out of seven, even with a failed dive. You’re fucking amazing. (Pen)

Omg, it sucks. It happened to me, too, once. Got the twisties, did the wrong dive. It’s just a brain glitch. (Sunny)

It’s okay, kid. (An upsettingly conciliatory Coach Sima, whose uncharacteristic kindness made me feel even worse)

A silent hug. (Bree and Bella)

What I need is more alcohol. Once I’m drunk, my neurons will be too drenched in ethanol to process their own firing. The ouroboros of defeat that is my life will fade into the great unknown.

“You know,” Trevor says, “my ex was a diver.”

“Were they?” I look around, hoping to locate a primary source of rum and Coke.

“She only kind of was my ex. She was more into me than I was into her.”

Upon further consideration, alone with my thoughts is better than with this guy. Anywhere would be, including the back of a refuse collection vehicle or a falling Sumerian city-state. “Poor girl,” I say flatly.

“Yeah, it was sad. I’m sensitive, hate saying no to people.”

“I bet.”

“But we still had fun. That’s just to say, I know how you divers are, and . . .” He trails off, and for that I credit the vehemence with which I picture sticking toothpicks into his eye sockets. I’ve unlocked a hitherto forgotten power. It might even look good on med school applications.

But no. Even in the dim fairy lights, Trevor’s eyes shine as he tilts his head up. “Holy shit, Lukas Fucking Blomqvist. Hey, man!”

He holds out a hand. Lukas ignores it and takes a seat in front of us, on a wooden coffee table that looks way too tired for this shit. I’m certain it’s going to break. I should probably record it for Sweden’s Funniest Home Videos.

“You okay, Scarlett?” he asks, ignoring his fanbro’s excitement.

“Yup.”

He studies me, silent, probing, like what I say cannot be taken at face value, and has deeper meanings that can only be discovered under the layers of my skin.

Meanwhile: “Man, I cannot tell you how amazing it was racing next to you today,” Trevor fawns. Which leads me to the shocking discovery that I am, in fact, able to find him even less attractive.

Lukas tilts his head toward him. “You want him to stick around?”

“Hell yeah, she wants me around. We’re having fun. Aren’t you having fun?”

“Not really,” I say—alcohol, the ultimate truth serum. Trevor’s face crunches into a hurt crumple, and . . . Shit. “But it’s not”—wholly—“because of you. I just had a crappy diving day.”

“Aww.” He clearly finds my athletic failures cute—like a capybara bathing, or a child who says aminal. He scoots closer, one hand wrapping around my bare knee, and . . . yikes. It’s an unpleasant, too-tight heat that has me nauseated—until Lukas leans forward, grips Trevor’s wrist, and forcibly moves it back to his lap.

Trevor gives him a confused look. “Am I overstepping here? Are you two . . . ?”

“No.” I shift away. I can’t take him touching me again.

“Why do you care, then?”

He’s asking Lukas, who informs him, “She’s my sister.”

I almost choke on my spit.

“What?” Trevor blinks at me. “For real?”

I must be a terrible person. Because I nod.

“But isn’t your last name . . .”

“Half sister,” I improvise.

Lukas nods. “Different dad.”

“Seriously? I had no idea. Is it pretty well known, or . . . ?”

I shrug. “It’s not a secret.”

“Right. You guys must be pretty close in age.”

“Yeah.” I inspect my nails. “Not to slut shame, but our mom got around.”

Lukas tries to hide a smile. Fails. Hangs his head.

“Oh, wow.” Trevor sounds impressed. “My mom’s kind of a slut, too. Had an affair with one of her colleagues out of revenge for my dad fucking her cousin. So petty.”

Lukas and I freeze. Exchange a bewildered look. “Thank you for sharing this . . . powerful autobiographical story,” he tells Trevor, finally sparing him a crumb of attention. “Could you go get my sister a glass of water?”

“Oh.” Trevor scratches the back of his head. “Um, yeah, sure.”

“Thanks, man.” Lukas focuses on me.

I sit back, trying not to squirm under the weight of his stare, and once Trevor’s far enough, I say, “I’m not drinking a drop of anything coming from that guy.”

He holds out the red Solo cup in his hand. I take it, bring it to my nose. Briefly consider pretending that I don’t trust him, either. I take a sip, though. It’s water, and I only realize how thirsty I was after I down the entire thing.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, accepting the cup back.

I sigh. “Not nearly as much as I’d like.”

“Don’t go anywhere with McKee.”

“Who’s Mc—oh. What’s his name, by the way?”

“Trevor.” He frowns into the distance. “Travis? I don’t fucking know.”

I snort. “He was right, though.”

“I doubt that asshole has ever been right about a single thing.”

“Last week I learned a German proverb. ‘Even a blind chicken finds a piece of corn every once in a while.’ Or something.” I shrug. “And Trevor did ask a fair question.”

“Which is?”

“Why do you care?”

Lukas doesn’t answer, doesn’t tense up, doesn’t show a single ounce of discomfort. Typical.

“By process of elimination . . .” I lift my index finger. “You’re not warning him off out of jealousy, because that’s not a feeling you are capable of entertaining.”

He watches me, unknowable.

“It’s not because you want to get laid. I mean, you have other options. You won what, four, five races today?” His lack of reply tells me it might be more. Whatever. Middle finger: up. “You contributed more to Stanford winning the meet than the entire diving team. Maybe for competition purposes, you should be considered an institution. Get a .org domain, save on taxes—”

“Scarlett,” he says simply, like he wants me to stop rambling. But not because he finds me annoying. It is, I think, because he wants to say, “I’m sorry.”

I cock my head. How novel, I think. In my personal experience, men rarely apologize.

“You and I,” he continues, “agreed to trust each other, did one of the most intimate things two people like us can—”

“Wasn’t that big a deal. It was just sex—”

“Scarlett.” He waits until I’m looking him in the eye. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t immediately process what happened. I felt out of control, and panicked. I acted like an asshole. I put my own fear before your feelings, and that’s . . . the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done, without a doubt.”

My plan was to write him off. Still is.

Except, having him acknowledge how bad he screwed up is blowing a bit of a hole in that.

“None of this is an excuse,” he continues, disarmingly earnest. “But what Jan said was true. When I’d felt out of control before, it was always . . .” His Adam’s apple moves. I get the sense that this is hard for him—not because he hates admitting his guilt, but because he has disappointed himself. “It was never with another person involved.”

What about Pen? is on the tip of my tongue, itching to burst out, but I won’t let it. It’s not my business. “You don’t owe me anything,” I start, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I owe you respect, I owe you care, and I owe you the truth. You, on the other hand, do not owe me forgiveness. But if you ever enter this kind of relationship with someone else . . .” His jaw grinds, tense. I don’t think he likes the idea. “These are the things you should demand.”

I look down into my lap, gathering his apology, my feelings, the fear and eagerness, all mixed up at the bottom of my belly.

“It’s okay,” I say at last. This time it’s a decision, not an automatic response. I mean it. “I’m also not the best with . . .” I make an all-encompassing, hyper-vague gesture before letting my hand drop on my knee.

“With?”

“Emotions. Mine or otherwise.”

His laugh is huffed out, like he shares the pain. “Everything I said about McKee remains true. He doesn’t deserve to be within a five-mile radius of you.”

“I’m deeply hurt that you’d think I’d go for him.”

“You seemed to be considering it.”

“I was not.” I take stock of my body and my brain. I’m mostly sober. Clear thinking. Tired, but when am I not? “I had a shit day, and he was there.”

“A shit day?”

It occurs to me that from his standpoint, I did well. I medaled, after all. He doesn’t know about my issues—and I’ll keep it that way. I’ve had my fill of pity. “No reason. But he was taking my mind off stuff. As good as anything.”

“I’m sure you can find something better.”

“I have heard great things about being stuck in traffic?”

“Vacuuming is excellent, too.”

I laugh. “Sadly, I don’t have a car. Or—and you’re not going to like this—a vacuum cleaner.”

He looks genuinely worried. “What conditions do you live in?”

“My point is, I don’t have other options available to me.” My heart races. Slow down, I order, trying to breathe around the heavy thump. “Unless you have other ideas.”

He must have expected to have to work much harder for my forgiveness, because it takes a long while to get the gist of what I’m offering. Once he does, though, there’s no hesitation. He nods, tosses the Solo cup in the closest bin, and takes my hand to lead me outside.