Page 83 of Deep End

I sit back, trying not to squirm under the weight of his stare, and once Trevor’s far enough, I say, “I’m not drinking a drop of anything coming from that guy.”

He holds out the red Solo cup in his hand. I take it, bring it to my nose. Briefly consider pretending that I don’t trusthim, either. I take a sip, though. It’s water, and I only realize how thirsty I was after I down the entire thing.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, accepting the cup back.

I sigh. “Not nearly as much as I’d like.”

“Don’t go anywhere with McKee.”

“Who’s Mc—oh. What’s his name, by the way?”

“Trevor.” He frowns into the distance. “Travis? I don’t fucking know.”

I snort. “He was right, though.”

“I doubt that asshole has ever been right about a single thing.”

“Last week I learned a German proverb. ‘Even a blind chicken finds a piece of corn every once in a while.’ Or something.” I shrug. “And Trevor did ask a fair question.”

“Which is?”

“Whydoyou care?”

Lukas doesn’t answer, doesn’t tense up, doesn’t show a single ounce of discomfort. Typical.

“By process of elimination . . .” I lift my index finger. “You’re not warning him off out ofjealousy, because that’s not a feeling you are capable of entertaining.”

He watches me, unknowable.

“It’s not because you want to get laid. I mean, you have other options. You won what, four, five races today?” His lack of reply tells me it might be more. Whatever. Middle finger: up. “You contributed more to Stanford winning the meet than the entire diving team. Maybe for competition purposes, you should be considered an institution. Get a .org domain, save on taxes—”

“Scarlett,” he says simply, like he wants me to stop rambling. But not because he finds me annoying. It is, I think, because he wants to say, “I’m sorry.”

I cock my head.How novel, I think. In my personal experience, men rarely apologize.

“You and I,” he continues, “agreed to trust each other, did one of the most intimate things two people like us can—”

“Wasn’t that big a deal. It was just sex—”

“Scarlett.” He waits until I’m looking him in the eye. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t immediately process what happened. I felt out of control, and panicked. I acted like an asshole. I putmyown fear beforeyourfeelings, and that’s . . . the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done, without a doubt.”

My plan was to write him off. Still is.

Except, having him acknowledge how bad he screwed up is blowing a bit of a hole in that.

“None of this is an excuse,” he continues, disarmingly earnest. “But what Jan said was true. When I’d felt out of control before, it was always . . .” His Adam’s apple moves. I get the sense that this is hard for him—not because he hates admitting his guilt, but because he has disappointed himself. “It was never with another person involved.”

What about Pen?is on the tip of my tongue, itching to burst out, but I won’t let it. It’s not my business. “You don’t owe me anything,” I start, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I owe you respect, I owe you care, and I owe you the truth. You, on the other hand, do not owe me forgiveness. But if you ever enter this kind of relationship with someone else . . .” His jaw grinds, tense. I don’t think he likes the idea. “These are the things you should demand.”

I look down into my lap, gathering his apology, my feelings, the fear and eagerness, all mixed up at the bottom of my belly.

“It’s okay,” I say at last. This time it’s a decision, not an automatic response. I mean it. “I’m also not the best with . . .” I make an all-encompassing, hyper-vague gesture before letting my hand drop on my knee.

“With?”

“Emotions. Mine or otherwise.”

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