Page 57 of Deep End

I managed not to burst into tears at the far-reaching, existential implications of his words, but decided to make a mental note for future me.Highly susceptible to inspirational messaging. Must NOT join cult.

I do my readings for Dr. Carlsen’s class. Finish an English composition essay, expanding my opinion that teachers should be paid more frombecause yes, duh, to a semi-cogent, multi-paragraphargument. Slog through my visualization exercises. By late afternoon, I decide to reward myself with some work on the bio project.

It sounds deeply uncool, but there’s nothing I’d rather be doing. It’d be nice if Lukas texted, but he’s obviously been putting out fires for the past week, and anyway, I haven’t had much of a sex life in the last year and a half. I can wait a few more days for . . . whatever comes next.

Zach kept his promises, and my student ID grants me access to Dr. Smith’s deserted lab. It makes me like her more, that none of her grad students seem to feel like they should be hard-core pipetting on a Saturday afternoon. I move through the benches, remembering the feeling of being in a lab—my favorite part of organic chemistry. Working with compounds. Chromatography. Synthesizing aspirin. Follow experiment protocols, see what happened. I cannot wait to become a capable, badass, life-changing physician like Barb, but I hope I’ll get to do some research on the side. Watching things explode and crystallize will nevernotbe fun.

At the back of the lab, I find the computer Zach pointed me to. Before I can power it up, I hear a noise behind me and whirl around.

Lukas sits on a stool at the end of a bench, for once looking like he’s not comingfrom, goingto, or currentlyatpractice. Hair chlorine lightened, but not tousled. No goggles marks around his eyes. Jeans and a dark Henley with no Stanford logo in sight.

It’s . . . disrupting. He’s an athlete, and most of our interactions have in some shape revolved around that. But he’s also a person with interests and hobbies and a life, and I know so little aboutthatLukas.

And yet, I feel myself smile. “Hi?”

“Hi.”

“Where did you—did you come in behind me?”

He shakes his head.

“Um, okay. I’m here to . . .” I point at the computer behind me.

“Get the pictures for the input dataset?”

I nod.

He lifts his left hand, showing me the USB lodged between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Ah. Great. We’re going to need to—”

“Reorient the pics.”

“And—”

“Resize them.”

He completes my sentences unhurriedly, like finishing my thoughts is a natural thing for him. We assess each other for a silent beat. It feels like a contest, and when my lips curl first, I realize that he won.

“Maybe Pen has a point,” I muse.

“I’m sure she has many,” Lukas says. “What’s this specific one about?”

“Youarea bit overwhelming.”

He laughs, low, amused. “Just a bit?”

“She may have been downplaying it. So I wouldn’t run.”

“She’s a great wingwoman, then.”

“Seems like it.”Why does she think you’re distant? Why can’t I reconcile the Lukas she talks about with the one I know?I ask none of this. Instead I idly step toward him, slowly glancing around the lab. It’s so wide. And we’re so alone. “What were you going to do with the flash drive?”

“Check your phone.”

I take it out of my pocket and find a text from him, delivered a few minutes ago.

LUKAS:Free?

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