Page 103 of Deep End

“Ten—” I gasp. “Why?”

“Nordic Swimming Championships.”

“In Sweden?”

“In Estonia.”

“Is it . . . a big deal?” I’ve never heard of it.

He shrugs. “Moderately. But most of the Swedish Olympic team will be there, and after we’ll go on a training trip.”

Is Coach Urso okay with that? Lukas’s professors? The Stanford chancellors? “Did you clear it with everyone?”

“Nope. Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” My eyes must be saucer wide, because he adds, “Yes, Scarlett. Everyone has known for months. They expect me to put swimming for Sweden over swimming for Stanford.”

I guess it makes sense. “Are you friends with the rest of the team?”

He nods. “Basically siblings, really. We’ve been around each other for decades. Anyway”—he points at my phone with his chin—“if it’s bad news, I’d rather be here. With you.”

So difficult, pretending that his words don’t make my stomach flutter. “To pat my back?”

“If that’s what you want, sure.”

I tear my eyes from his, and they catch on his sleeve. I’ve seen his tattoos so many times, touched them, dug my nails into them, gripped them when I felt like I needed something to hold on to or I’d dissolve into nothing. But I’ve never asked him about them.

It, more precisely. There are a lot of interlocked parts, but they all work together to form a coherent landscape. With my eyes first, then my fingers, I trace the spruces and oaks and pines, blackbirds and sparrows, snowy patches and rocks.

“What is this?” I shake my head and correct myself. “Whereis it?”

“My hometown.”

“I thought you were from Stockholm.”

He lifts his mostI know you bookmarked the bio section of my Wikipedia entry on your Chrome browser, on Safari, and maybe even on Internet Explorereyebrow.

I roll my eyes. “If I were the current record holder for the one hundred freestyle, you’d know where I was born, too.”

“You were born in Lincoln, Nebraska, on August thirty-first. And yes, I did grow up in Stockholm, but my mom was from Skellefteå.”

I try to shape my tongue around the name. Instantly give up. “That sounds like . . .”

“Say, ‘A piece of IKEA furniture not even the Swedish king would be able to assemble,’ and Iwillthrow you back into the pool.”

I smile and bump him with my shoulder. “When did you get it done?”

“Eighteen. My brothers have similar ones, too. According to my father, after Mom died we took the easy way out and decided to get tattoos instead of dealing with our feelings.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“Right? But on the upside”—he holds out my phone—“you get to book a despair tattoo if you don’t like your MCAT score.”

“Oh, god—fine,fine.” I laugh softly, shaking my head, tapping at my email app.

Then stop to say, “You don’t have to, you know?”

“Hmm?”

“Just . . .” My throat feels too full. “I appreciate this. The way you care. That you want to be my friend. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be my emotional support. I’ve been a . . . a woundedbird, stealing your hoodie, while I should be some kind of black-laced, collar-wearing, sultrily submissive—”

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