Page 113 of Deep End

“You first,” he says.

“Nothing much. I’m headed for the airport. Going home.”

He nods. “I guess I won’t need to ask my question, after all.”

Do you wa—

What were you going to ask, Lukas?

Do I want . . . what?

I should demand he tells me. Instead: “Are you doing something fun on Thursday?”

He frowns. “Thursday?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Ah, right. I always forget that you Americans celebrate that.”

“Yup. Mid food and colonial violence. It’s our thing.” I shift my backpack from one shoulder to the other. “How did your competitions go? Are you officially the King in the North?”

“I’ve never heard anyone phrase it like that, and now I’m wondering why.”

“A missed opportunity. Any new records?”

“Nope.” He lifts his hand, showing me his skin. “My good luck troll’s stamp had already faded by the time I was competing.”

I frown. “What’s a good luck troll?”

“You know. Those little creatures who watch over us and bring good fortune.”

“I most certainly do not know of . . .” I laugh. “Oh my god, isthatwhy you’ve been calling me troll?”

He says nothing. Just looks at me warmly, fondly, and I glanceaway—but when I turn back, he’s still staring. A little differently from earlier, more intense, inquisitive, and it makes me bold. “Too bad we’re not overlapping longer.”

He nods. “Yeah. Too bad.” He seems briefly impatient, lips pressed together, fingers twitching. Like he wants to reach for something, but knows he can’t. “After the holidays, then.” He looks around, and I wonder if what’s going through his head is the same as mine.

What if we moved closer? For just a second, what if we kissed? Would anyone see? Would anyone care?

In the end, it’s Lukas who lifts his hand and reaches up to push a lock of damp hair behind my ear, letting his thumb brush against my cheek once, for less than a second.

His hand drops back to his side. I cannot breathe.

“Safe travels, Scarlett,” he says hoarsely. His pupils are blown wide. “Keep in touch. If you want to.”

I can feel my pulse. Pounding in my cheeks. Spreading across my abdomen. “Bye, Lukas.”

I don’t turn around, not even when I hear Pen’s voice greeting him. But his face sticks behind my eyelids long after I land in St. Louis.

CHAPTER 45

THE CLAIM TO FAME OF THE USA DIVING WINTER NATIONALSis one, and one only.

“It’s the qualifier for the world championship,” I tell Barb over a plate of microwaved leftovers. It’s a treasured yearly tradition: me, (re)explaining the basics of competitive diving; her, treating everything I say as though it’s new and highly intriguing information.

“It’s not my fault,” she whines. “Do you know how many bones the body has?”

“Two hundred and six.”

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