Page 141 of Deep End

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed. Face down.”

“I don’t—”

“Scarlett.”

I obey, and squeeze my eyes shut. When he starts rubbing bruise-relief lotion into my skin, my tears overflow anyway.

“You don’t have to—I have some in my room, too.”

“But you didn’t use it. Because you felt like you didn’t deserve it.”

I turn my head. “How do you—”

“I know you, Scarlett. Come on. Breathe in, breathe out.”

It takes me a while to calm down. “I used to feel sad when I lost. I don’t understand where all this . . . thisfurycomes from.”

“You used to be in survival mode. You just wanted to compete again.” His hands are warm and gentle. “Now you know what you’re capable of, and you’re angry you didn’t perform accordingly. It’s a good thing—within reason.”

I bury my face into the cotton. “Why do you sound happy about it?”

“I like you like this.”

“When I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds?”

“Yup. Fighty.” He presses a kiss against my nape, lingering, rubbing his nose through the baby hair. “It’s healthy, Scarlett. Take the anger and use it as fuel.”

He’s right. He’s always right. Also, he’s medaled in all his races so far, but has to take care of me, a loser. How does he not feel impatient with me?

He told you to do it, a voice reminds me. He asked me to go to him when I’m falling apart. And he’s sogoodat putting me back together, patching me up like a too-worn shirt, weaving me into my original shape. Even though my rough days at the office cannot possibly be relatable to him. “Is it weird for you? When others lose?”

He laughs. “You think I never lose?”

“Iknowyou don’t. You are forty-five gold medals in a trench coat. You got into med school. There are fancams of you on the internet.”

He snorts. “I tried training backstroke and longer butterfly distances, and never qualified for shit. I had to come to the US for college because the Karolinska Institute didn’t accept me. I tried building a neural network, and the accuracy was abysmal compared to yours. And as you know, my girlfriend of seven years broke up with me because of how not fun I am.”

I try to turn around, but he doesn’t let me. “I have fun with you,” I protest.

“That’s because you are a kinky little troll. Which is, incidentally, how I will re-save you in my contacts.”

I laugh. “No! I mean, yes, but also—I have fun with you even when we’re not . . .”

“Fucking?”

“Indulging in our paraphiliac inclinations. And I have fun when we’re just hanging out. Maybe it doesn’t mean much, coming from someone who according to Dixon Ioannidis from ninth grade has less personality than a sourdough starter, but Ilikeyou.” I suddenly feel warm. I’ve said too much. “And I’m sorry Pen broke up with you.”

“I am very much not, Scarlett.”

Evenwarmer. “And I didn’t know about the backstroke. Or the school. And your model wasn’t that bad.”

He moves down, to the backs of my thighs. “Now you’re just lying.”

“Yeah. It was a shitbowl.”

He finishes with a chuckle and goes to wash his hands. When he comes back, I’m putting on my top. “Maybe it’s for the best,” I say.

“What is?”

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