Page 93 of Deep End

“No. But does it matter?”

I take several deep, calming breaths, and change into my suit. I may be at my worst, but Icanmasquerade as someone who’s doing perfectly fucking fine.

In the following days I’m at once despondent and jittery. Messed up. All wrong, like I’ve lost all say in the person that I’m supposed to be. Entropy personified—just a tangled skein, unraveling, impossible to rescue.

I try not to think about Lukas too much, but the universe seems to be conspiring against me, because while I’m endlessly doom-scrolling before bed, the algorithm feeds me a video that has me slapping a palm against my mouth.

It’s simply . . . adorable. The boy adjusting his goggles isLukas—the serious set of his brow, his full, downturned lips, those cheekbones—but a miniaturized version. Skinnier. Long torsoed, long armed, strong legged. The proportions are there, and he was probably already taller than I am now, but he seems so . . .young.

The video is in Swedish, so I find another. One hundred meter. Freestyle. Semifinal. World championship in France—no, Montreal, Canada. Lukas is a bit older. He must have broken a speed record, because when his hand reaches the touch pad the audience explodes out of their seats. “Fourteen-year-old Lukas Blomqvist looks positively shocked by how fast he swam,” the commentators inform me. Lukas just takes off his goggles and stares at the board, as if to make sure it really happened. The camera pans to a group of people in the stands, and—oh my god, Jan, looking sodifferentbut also thesame. His other brothers are there, too, applauding, clapping each other’s backs. A man who’s a middle-aged template of them wraps an arm around the shoulders of . . .

Lukas’s mom.

She doesn’t look too much like him, but I know it’s her, I justdo. The image zooms in on her, shows tears brimming in her eyes, and then—she leans in, over the plastic barrier, and lets two glistening shoulders envelop her in a strong hug.

Fourteen-year-old Lukas. Breaking records. Celebrating withhis mom. I’m trying to wrap my head around it, until another video starts, leading me down twisted paths.

It’s the individual medley at the last Olympics, a race I know he’ll win from sniffing around his Wikipedia. Lukas would have been eighteen or so, the summer before enrolling at Stanford, but the video could have been taken this morning at practice. Except for the sleeve of tattoos, which is not yet complete.

He doesn’t really go for most of the pre-competition gimmicks the other swimmers seem to like—large headphones, shaking triceps, meditating breaths, random words written on his palms to show to the camera. Just takes off his warm-ups and sits, quietly focused, unbothered by the chaos. He’s in lane four, and whoever’s directing this airing . . . theytryto care about the other athletes, but Lukas is so obviously the favorite, the video keeps traveling back to him. Then it shifts to the bleachers, and there’s another familiar sight. Jan. A woman next to him, and then another, holding a beaming toddler in her arms. Lukas’s two eldest brothers. His dad, and . . .

That’s it.

I click out of the video, wondering why my heart feels wrapped in stone. I can’tassume. I have no idea. It’s not my business. Why am I even . . .

“Idiot,” I chastise myself, and switch to Google, remembering something I’ve been meaning to look up. The word Lukas taught me.Mi? My?I cycle through ten or so spellings, and then I find it.

Mysig.

Swedish adjective. Cozy. Warm. Soothing. The quality of sharing a comfortable moment with a person whose company one enjoys.

“Mysig,” I whisper at my phone, like I’m the kind of person who has meaningful tête-à-têtes with fire hydrants. “Mysig,” I repeat with a small smile.

I’m a mess. A failure. A ball of anxiety. All twisted. But also cozy.

At least, one person in the universe seems to think so.

CHAPTER 39

IT’S HOMECOMING WEEKEND, AND THE ANNUAL ALUMNI MEET ISscheduled for that Friday night at five.

I never enjoyed it. Seems pointless, being pitted against old-timers, most of whom last dove competitively before I was born. More of a canine agility exhibition than real sport. It always has me wondering whether I’m supposed to respect my elders enough to let them win, or peacock my skills in the name of institutional pride. Not to mention the pseudo-mandatory post-meet tailgating that always follows.

So on Friday afternoon, I don’t head for the aquatic center anticipating to have fun. Still, my expectations aren’t low enough, and need to be dunked further down the toilet bowl.

The first blow is the email I get around four, informing me that my MCAT results are available. I stare at it, letting my thumb hover on the link, trying to come to terms with the bed-wetting prospects that the scores might be even lower than I’ve prepared myself for.

Rip the Band-Aid, I order myself.Click on it.

But I can’t. That simple tap is as impossible as all the inward dives in the world, and fifteen minutes later, when Bella asks if I’m “having a special moment with your phone, or something,” I shakemy head and stuff it in my duffel bag. It’s a problem for later—unlike myotherone, which is present in flesh and blood.

Mr. Kumar.

My high school coach.

Who is married to Clara Katz.

Who, a couple of decades ago, dove for Stanford.

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