Page 31 of Deep End

I swallow a sigh of relief. Grip my fork. “So, you and Kyle live together?” I ask into my food. When Lukas doesn’t reply, I glance up.

He sits back, his plate forgotten, studying me. The quiet weight of his gaze is familiar. So is the curve that sets in his mouth: he’s observing something; coming to conclusions. My belly feels tight and warm. “I thought it was just me,” he says. “But it’s men in general, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“We make you nervous.”

My fork hits my plate with a clink, swallowed by the background chatter. “How did you . . . ?”

“Earlier, in the hallway, you kept putting barriers between you and Zach—me, mostly. Then your face, with Kyle and Hunter. It’s not hard to guess, if one cares enough to pay attention.”

My heart beats in my throat.And do you? Care?It’s a fair question. He and I have had so few interactions, all of them products of force majeure—malfunctioning doors, academic coincidences, Penelope Ross.What the hell are we even doing here?seems like something we should ask each other. Instead, to my horror, I say, “I had some issues with my dad, growing up. I’m not—it wasn’tthatbad, but . . .” I suck in a deep breath. Silence the voice in my head that cringes and yells,Stop. Unloading. On Lukas. Blomqvist. “I just don’t like loud noises. And too-crowded spaces. And . . .”

It’s not that women can’t be noisy, but boys feel so unpredictable, with their deep voices and abrupt movements and boisterousattitudes. Male athletes, on top of that, tend to take up so much space. I know it’s unfair of me, but my issues are not rational. My high school therapist kept using words liketrauma responseandPTSD, words that feel toobig, like I don’t have a right to them. They belong to war reporters and ER doctors, not girls with shitty dads who bossed them around and told them they’d never amount to anything.

In the end, the therapist said,the measure of whether you’re doing well is: Is your condition preventing you from living a fulfilling life?And I know the answer to that.

“I function fine,” I say, chin tilted up, a hint of challenge.

It’s unnecessary. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Okay. Good.”

He resumes eating, quick but meticulous, but his eyes stay on me.

“I know it seems . . .” I start. Do I wanna go there?

“Seems what?”

“Like someone who’s into what I’m into, shouldn’t be all . . . fearful.” It never ceased to puzzle Josh.You have issues with authoritarian, aggressive men in everyday life, but you want to have authoritarian, aggressive sex?He never judged me, but he didnotget it.

Lukas finishes chewing, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Actually, I still don’t know what you’re into,” he points out.

My belly swoops.

“Aside from yourdoctorfetish, that is.”

I turn away to hide my smile.

“Regardless, no. I don’t think it makes sense to conflate everyday violence with the kind of stuff you—we—are into. In fact, I don’t think the two things are related at all.” His gaze is steady. “What you and I want, it’s all about trust. We decide to be part of it. It sounds like whatever happened to you had little to do with you making any decisions, right?”

Right. That thick warmth flares up again, this time in the hollow of my chest.You get it. Thank you for getting it. And: “Thank you for asking your friends to leave so that I wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

He nods. Doesn’t pretend that it isn’t exactly what he did. “Thank you for getting Mrs. Sima off my back at the barbecue so that I wouldn’t have to talk about my mother.”

All about trust, he said. I won’t betray his by asking why he doesn’t want to do that. “First exit diversion is on me, but the next will cost you.”

I hear his amused exhale, and let a comfortable silence wrap around us for the rest of the meal.

CHAPTER 15

THAT WEEK, FOLLOWING THE CALENDAR GUIDELINES KINDLYprovided by my courageous forebears (i.e., people who got into med school and lived to tell the tale), I finish writing the first draft of my personal statement.

And promptly right-click it into the trash can. I also consider deep-frying myself straight to the gates of hell. According to Maryam, it’sthatbad.

“‘I desire to follow the footsteps of my heroes, such as Hippocrates of Kos . . . which is how I realized that my favorite bacterium wasBordetella parapertussis. . . and as I looked at Queen Amidala dying on the screen, I decided that I would become a doctor to help people like her survive to see their Force sensitive twins thrive . . . ’” Maryam is bulge-eyed. “Whoareyou?”

I grab a throw pillow and hand it to her. “Will you please hold this against my respiratory airways for the next sixty to ninety seconds?”

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