Page 69 of Deep End

CHAPTER 28

WHEN I WAKE UP THE ROOM IS DARK, AND LUKAS’S HOLD ONme is as tight as in my last memory, which must have been several hours ago.

My phone reads 9:39 p.m. when I manage to wriggle myself free and retrieve my shorts. I have a single text, from Maryam, asking me whether I stole her jasmine rice. (I did, months ago, and forgot to replace it; I’ll never hear the end of this.)

Lukas is a heavy sleeper. He never stirs, not even when I elbow his nightstand while putting my clothes back on. I’m much cleaner than I’d have expected, which tells me that he must have followed through with his promise—and that I must be as heavy a sleeper as he is.

I smile fondly. Try to sneak one last glance at him as I step out, but the hallway lights are out, too. I listen for noises, not wanting to get caught leaving, but when I walk past the kitchen, all I can hear is the whirring of the refrigerator. Hasan and Kyle must be either out or asleep. Student athletes love both restingandpartying, so I guess it’s fifty-fifty.

Campus is by no means deserted. I walk back to my place, body still buzzing with sleep and orgasms. I grin as I let myself into my apartment. My own bed feels small, weirdly soft.

It was good.

Really good.

Lukas is exactly . . . when I say I wanted . . . the list was just a bunch of words, but the way he . . . perfect, and . . .

My cheeks are hot. I brush my teeth and get ready for bed, and then it occurs to me that I should probably tell Lukas that I’m not the victim of a UFO kidnapping.

SCARLETT:Sorry I snuck out—you looked like you needed the rest.

I fall asleep wondering what his reply will look like tomorrow morning.

As it turns out, I shouldn’t have bothered.

CHAPTER 29

HE LEFT A MARK ON ME.

Several, in fact.

The largest, the one I believe was intentional—but how can I know for certain?—is on my inner thigh, close to the place where the leg meets the abdomen. It aches and hums just below my skin, a slight discomfort thatremindsandpromises, and I spend my Sunday alternating between studying and pressing into it, just to reassure myself thatyes, yes it happened.

The other marks I don’t find until Monday after practice. Peeling off my suit in a corner that’s reflected by the mirror reveals thumb-sized bruises on both sides of my waistline, angled toward my spine. They look perfectly symmetrical. A depraved twist on angel wings. I donotremember pain. I do, however, remember Lukas gripping my waist and holding me still as he—

Why has he not contacted me?

“Everything okay?” Bree asks. “You seem distracted.”

“Oh, yeah. I just have a test this week.”

“For what?”

“Psych.”

“Oh, right. Let me tell you what my questions were like last year.”

Pen is out, sick with some virus that’s been making her “puke my soul out,” which means that it’s just me and the twins—which means, in turn, lots of one-on-one time with Coach Sima, corrections, dryland.

“How are your exercises going, Scarlett?” Sam asks on Wednesday.

“Honestly, I think they’re helping,” I say.Nothonestly.

Because I may have been rewriting neural pathways, but I’m no closer to inward diving, and that’s . . . pretty fucking crucial. “Do you think . . . is there any chance that I’ll just be able to, you know, do my dives at our first dual meet?”

She cocks her head. “What’s a dual meet?”

“When two universities compete against each other, during the preseason. It’s informal, but good practice.”

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