Page 95 of Deep End

Another blink.

“Shall I tell the gentleman you are at home for him?” she adds with a tetchy, butchered Jane Austen accent. I nod, confused. A little later, Lukas closes the door of my room and leans against it.

I pull up to my knees and sit on my heels, self-conscious about my wild hair, cotton underwear, plaid baby tee, like I’m a parody ofsome mid-2000s Victoria’s Secret sex kitten ad. His attention is on my face, though.

He’s barefoot, even though state-of-the-art microbial analysis would reveal that our floors are a biohazard worthy of Godzilla’s atomic breath. He crosses his arms, pins me with his eyes, and asks, “What happened?” in that blunt, northern European way I can’t put up with right now.

Should he not be tailgating? There’s no way the party is over. The alumni are probably sobbing in the punch. “Is this going to be a thing?” I ask flatly. “Where you offer to pity fuck me after every competition I don’t win?”

“Sure. I’m selfless like that. Right now, though, I’m more interested in figuring you out.”

I scowl. “I’m not a five-year budgeting plan.”

“What happened, Scarlett?” His eyes are laser focused. “You disappeared.”

“I’m fine. Just wasn’t feeling well. Not sure why it’s a big deal.”

“Because you came to Avery, started warming up, and then left. A suspiciously drastic turn for your health to take.”

“How do you even know that I was at Avery? Did you GPS me, or something?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” My belly swoops at the endearment. His tone lives somewhere between sympathy and amusement. “If you don’t think that I’mveryaware of your presence, always, you have no idea what’s going on.”

A rush of blood hits my cheeks, and I—can’t. “Listen, Lukas, thank you very much for the . . . welfare check, but I’m not doing great, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood for being manhandled, so—”

“That’s not why I’m here, and you know it.” He reads through my bullshit so well, he’s not even offended. “I want to talk. You can tell me to leave, and I’ll leave—”

“Leave,” I blurt out.

His nod is unhesitant. He pushes away from the door, crosses my small room in one and a half steps, and bends down to murmur against my temple, “If you need anything, anythingat all, you have my number. Use it.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. Then his back fills the doorway, and I—

“Don’t,” I say. Why am I being likethis, to him? He’s done nothing but—god, he’s done nothing butcare. “You don’t have to leave. I’m sorry, I’m taking it out on you because . . .” My laughter is a little phlegmy. Love that. “Because I hate myself, I guess?”

He turns around, surprised bynoneof this. Like I’m predictable. Or, at least,predictedby this man who shouldn’t know the first thing about me.

I don’t know what to say. So I ask, “Do you want to have sex?”

His smile is quiet. “With you. Yes. But that’s my default setting, so don’t read too much into it.”

I lower my chin. “Maybe we should. It might take my mind off things.”

“Yeah, it would. I’d make sure of it. The thing is, I’m not convinced that your mind shouldn’t beonthings.”

“So I should just be this way? Beached in my own failures?”

His head tilts. “What constitutes failure for you, Scarlett?”

“I don’t know,Lukas.” I press my lips together. “You’re sounding more like my therapist, and less like a fun guy who threatens me with ball gags when I’m mouthy.”

“We’ve established that neither of us is into those, and that I have better uses for your mouth.”

I flush. Glance away.

“What happened today?”

“Just . . .” I rub the heel of my palm against my eye. “My brainwon’tdo that stupid dive. And the MCAT email—I can’t open it. And my . . . my high school coach, his wife is an alumna, and of coursethis is the year she decides to show up. And I miss my stupiddog.” I’m being barely coherent. Lukas, however, nods like I’m painting a full, polychrome picture for him.

And asks: “Do you have a mental block?”

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