Page 9 of Deep End

“It’s more thatIam not into it.”

“That is absolutely your prerogative.” I scratch the back of my neck, where I forgot to put on lotion before diving. Hello, chlorine rash, my old friend. “And if you told Lukas that you’re not interested in exploring those sexual dynamics and he’s insisting on it, that’s ahugered flag that—”

“That’s the thing, he’snot. We tried. Because it was . . . well, it was obvious that he wanted it. So I offered.” She wraps her hand around her untouched iced latte, but doesn’t take a sip. “I just hate it. Being told what to do. Asking for permission. I already have Coach Sima’s incessant commentary about my diving techniques buzzing in my ear—I don’t want to hear ‘You’re doing this or that so well, Pen’ while we’re fucking.” She rolls her eyes. “Such paternalisticbullshit. No offense.”

This is, perhaps, theleastrelatable thing anyone has ever said to me. “None taken. Did you tell him you didn’t enjoy it?”

“Yup. And he immediately stopped. Never brought it up again. He still wants it, though. I know he does.”

This conversation is taking a turn that’s less Kink 101, moreGQsex advice column. I might be out of my depth. “So he made the conscious decision to put his relationship with youandyour well-being before his sexual preferences, which is commendable—”

“It’sstupid.” The word is a sibilant, frustrated hiss. She leans closer, her eyes once again that liquid green. “I love him. I really do. But . . .” A bob in her throat. Her posture straightens. “I want otherthings, too. I want to go to a party and flirt freely. I want to be hit on without feeling like I’m betraying someone. I want to have fun.” A deep breath. “I want to sleep with other people. See what that’s like.”

It all sounds as fun as shaving my armpits with a can opener. But Pen is not me. Pen is outgoing and funny. Pen has work-life balance. Pen knows what to do, and when to do it. Everyone likes Pen. “How does Lukas feel about this? Is he angry? Or jealous?”

She rolls her eyes. “Luk’s too self-assured to feel anything as lowly as that.”

Wouldn’t know whatthat’slike. “What about you? Wouldyoube jealous if he were to sleep with other people?”

“Not really. Lukas and I have history. We love each other. Honestly, even if we break up, I suspect that we’ll find each other in the future. We’re kind of meant to be.”

Where do these people get their bottomless reservoirs of confidence? From a pot at the end of a rainbow? “Meant to be . . . except for the ‘meh’ sex?”

“It’s not—the sex is good.” For the first time in this very flush-worthy conversation, Pen flushes. “Luk is—he’s very single-minded. It’s more that—” Her phone buzzes, shaking the entire table. Pen glances at it once, mid-sentence, distracted. Then again, lingering. “Fuck.”

“Everything okay?”

“My International Trade study group. I forgot we’re meeting.” She leaps out of her chair and quickly gathers her stuff. Inhales her iced latte in record-eclipsing time and tosses the cup in the recycling bin. “I’m sorry. This is so rude, unloading on you for twenty minutes and—”

“No problem at all. Do your thing.”

“Okay. Shit, I have to run all the way to Jackie’s place.”

Her voice fades as she dashes out of the café, and I’m left alone, contemplating the sheerweirdnessof the afternoon, the sheeridiocyof putting myself in this situation, the sheerimpenetrabilityof the relationship between Penelope Ross and Lukas Blomqvist.

Then Pen runs back inside and stops by my chair. “Hey, Vandy?”

I glance up. “Did you forget something?”

“I just wanted to say . . .” Her grin broadens. It helps me realize how strained her earlier smiles have been. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. For being cool and not judgy. I’m glad you’re all healed and back on the team.”

I barely manage a nod, and then she’s sprinting out, leaving me to wonder if anyone else ever uttered the wordcoolin relation to me.

CHAPTER 5

BY THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I’M STARTING TO SEE THE LAY OFthe academic land.

English composition is not impossible (my professor doesn’t care whether my opinions are valid, only that I argue for them with my whole chest). Psychology, not as wishy-washy as I originally thought (there is a method to the madness of human behavior). Computational biology is a piece of cake (even if Dr. Carlsen’s perennial glowerisa little unsettling). And then there’s German. A tentacled, homicidal swamp, infested with sharks and tarantulas and sentient currywurst ready to mangle me.

“Aren’t there tutoring programs for people who are . . . less than gifted when it comes to languages?” Barb asks during our weekly call, after I air out my anti-Germanic propaganda speech for thirty minutes of despair.

“Nothing works with my schedule. I should have booked some help sooner.” Like back in the womb. “But I think I’ll be fine.” I got a two out of ten for the first assignment, and a three for the second. Yay for upward trends.

“I’m sure you will, Scar.” After she left Dad, after the battle royal that won her custody of me, after our lives becameours, Barbmoved us to St. Louis, where she rules the division of orthopedic surgery like an autocratic nation-state. Her job is incomprehensibly high-stakes, pays her a semi-sickening amount of money, and keeps her so shockingly busy, one of my middle school teachers suspected I was a runaway secretly living on my own.

She is, without question, the reason I want to be a physician. A bit of a cliché, I know, but it didn’t come completely out of left field. I’ve always gravitated toward science, but it wasn’t until I started doing my homework in Barb’s office that I realized how admirable her work is. How she makes a difference. The breadth of her knowledge and the depth of her care.

“Why can’t Dr. Madden or Dr. Davis take care of your patient?” I once whined when she said she wouldn’t be able to come to my meet.

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