Page 96 of Deep End

I hate that word. I hate how accurate and solid andmassiveit sounds. “It’s not like it’s news.”

“You never told me.”

“Should I have disclosed it on the list? An asterisk between the titty fucking and the STI part of the form? Why would you need to know, anyway? Do you make a point of not associating with athletes who aren’t in the ninety-ninth percentile for their discipline?” I wince, rubbing a hand down my face. “I’m sorry, Lukas. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. Actually . . .” I look up with a sad smile. “Maybe I’m just a total bitch?”

“Is italldives? Or just the one you mentioned—inward?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad, becauseIwant to know.”

I swallow a groan. “Maybe you could ask Pen? She’ll explain.”

“Why would I want to find out what’s inyourhead from Pen?” He’s baffled, and I have no answer for him. “Has it been since your injury?”

I nod.

“The dive you were doing when you got injured, was it . . . ?”

I nod.

“No inward since then?”

I shake my head, and he must be satisfied with the information he gathered, because he exhales sharply and sinks further into the door, as if suddenly burdened with a heavy weight. His head tips back, eyes toward the ceiling, and stays like that for a long while before his gaze settles back on me.

I wait for him to tell me what I’ve heard a million times already.It’ll get better. It’s not your fault. There are things you can do to fix it. Don’t give up. I knew someone who knew someone whose block justpoof,disappeared. At least you are physically healthy. There, there.

He doesn’t, though. What Lukas fucking Blomqvist says to me, damn him to hell, is: “I’m sorry, Scarlett.”

It’s unprecedented. Destabilizing.

In the past year of self-loathing, training, practicing, trying, failing, trying again, visualizing, exercising, catastrophizing,notcatastrophizing, resenting, fearing, pretending, demanding . . . In the past year, beingsorryis simply not something that I ever allowed myself.

It just never occurred to me.

But now that the prospect of some simple, uncomplicatedsorrowis here, glowing in my palm, I cannot deny it to myself any longer.

And that’s how it happens: My face crumpling into something ugly and blotchy and wet before I can hide it into my own hands. The foul, guttural wail that tears out of my throat. I need—I need Lukas to leave rightnow, before witnessing the unattractive, flawed mess that I am. And I don’t know how I find myself across his warm lap, the crown of my head lodged under his chin, one of his palms cupping my thigh while the other wipes back and forth over the elastic of my underwear.

A silent:I’m sorry, Scarlett.

I’m not tearing up. I’m not weeping softly. These aresobs. Bawling. Hitched, shivering breaths. My fingers fist in his shirt, cling to it like it’s a religious doctrine. I’m hiccuping, crying my stupid heart out, loud and sloppy, and there’ssnotinvolved. But Lukas doesn’t let go, not even when his phone buzzes several times, not even when my eyes run dry.

“Scarlett.” His voice is a deep hum under the side of my body, full of things that make my heart ache.

This may be the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me—and I’ve been publicly flunking dives for the past year. “I never cry,” I say, sniffling, in lieu of an apology.

“Liar.” He presses a kiss against my temple. “I’ve made you cry plenty of times.”

“It’s different—”

“Is it?”

“—and you just have a dacryphilia kink.”

I feel his smile against my cheek. The bristle of his stubble scrapes my skin. “The fact that you know that word is proof of how well matched we are.”

I let out a watery snort. Sure, we’re both degenerates. But he’s an Olympic multi-medalist, and I can’t jump in a pool without having kittens. “You won’t believe this, but I used to actually be a good diver.”I wasn’t always at my worst, Lukas. A few years ago, I was someone worth knowing.

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