Page 98 of Deep End

“My father?”

“Josh. Did you see him after your injury?”

“We haven’t really talked since the breakup. He’s in Missouri, and—”

“Scarlett.”

I give up and admit, “No, he didn’t,” even though the tears once again streaking down my face would have been answer enough for Lukas—who cradles both my cheeks and presses the top of his forehead against mine.

“Scarlett,” he says again, his voice completely different—kind and caring and full of all the things, all the redos, all the truths I know he’d give me if only it were in his power. “I’m going to tell yousomething, okay? Something I don’t talk about. And after I do . . . we don’t have to bring this up ever again. But I need you to understand. Okay?”

I nod. My head rubs against his, bone under skin under skin under bone. His freckles blur together, pretty on the bridge of his nose.

“My mom died when I was fourteen. We all knew it was coming, but we thought we had more time. The doctor said . . . What matters is, it happened while I was gone. When the phone call came, I was in Denmark, not close enough to make it home in time. It was devastating for all the reasons you can imagine, but it also messed up my relationship with swimming. By that point I was good enough that the Olympics seemed like a guarantee, but after my mom died . . . I didn’twantto win, Ihadto. It went from dream to necessity. Because if I’d done something as egregious as being absent on my mom’s last day, for something as trivial as a swimming competition, then swimminghadto be the most important thing in my life, right? It was the only way I could make it make sense. The only way I could forgive myself.”

He holds my face and my eyes, and the way he says this, it’s so . . . soLukas—at once earnest and measured, sad but patient, head and heart.Unfazed, Pen had called him, but the truth is altogether different: Lukas workshardto hide what’s underneath the surface, and not acknowledging his efforts seems like a terrible disservice.

“Ihadto win, and suddenly, Icouldn’t. In the span of a few weeks, I gained seconds on every single race. There was no physical reason for me to be so slow. I told myself that I just needed to get through the first few practices, the first few meets. But it never got better. I messed up the Olympic trials. And everyone in my family—they meant well, but their advice was ‘Don’t give up.’ ‘Stick to your routine.’ ‘Fake it till you make it.’ Even my dad, even Jan . . . they were kind and patient, but I needed to take a step back and they didn’tgetit.

“The only person who truly understood was an American girl I’d met at a competition a few months earlier. We’d kissed once, stayed in touch. She wanted to be my girlfriend, and I liked her, but I didn’t get the point of a long-distance relationship, especially at our age. But there I was, needing to take a step back from the pool, and the only person validating that was Pen. She’d call me and text me and was so easy to talk to, before I knew it she was giving me the tools to communicate to my trainer and my family that I needed to stop swimming for a while. That I might never go back. I didn’t have the words, but she helped me find them.

“And I did step back. The Olympics happened, and I didn’t watch them. I traveled. Spent time with friends. Visited Pen and decided that after what she’d done for me, I never wanted tonothave her as my girlfriend. Above all, I let myself mourn my mom, and acknowledged how fucked up it was that for some twist of fate I hadn’t been able to say goodbye. And when I felt ready, I went back to the pool. But only after I’d proven to myself that I didn’tneedto swim to be whole.” His thumbs wipe my cheeks, once again drenched in tears. “I didn’t go back because it was expected, or because I wanted to make someone proud. I did it because I didn’thave towin anymore. Iwantedto.”

“So, you’re saying—” A shameful, mortifying hiccup. “That I won’t be able to do inward dives again until I—” Another. “Dive only for myself?”

His muttered “Fuck, no” has me laughing through my sobs. “I’m not a psychologist. I have no idea how to fix a block. You divers do things I can barely fathom, and what works for one athlete is trash for another. But.” He kisses a hot tear from my cheek. “I think letting yourself besadwould be a great start.”

“But I—”

“You don’t have to be angry at your ex or at your father.I’m angry enough for you. But you need to acknowledge that whathappened to you last year was terrible, that it gave you pain, and that you deserve time to heal in more ways than just the physical.”

“But what if I never . . . What if I don’t . . .” I sniff, unable to put thoughts into words. “What would I even be, without diving?”

A hushed, barely audible Swedish word, exhaled into my hair. Lukas pulls me deeper in his lap, and my skin sticks against his. “It’ll be okay, baby. No matter what happens, you will still beyou. No matter what happens, you will be okay.”

“But what do I do in the meantime?”

“In the meantime . . . just cry it out.” He sighs deeply, and the swell of his chest, the gravel of his voice, his hands stroking my hair, are as comforting as any perfectly executed dive. “I’m here, okay?”

I hope he’s right. Because I don’t know how much longer I cry on his shoulder—but I do know that once I cannot bear it anymore, I fall asleep in his arms.

CHAPTER 41

ICOME TO WITHOUT TRANSITIONS—SEAMLESS, ASLEEP TOawake, lost to lucid, burning with a very specific need.

“Lukas,” I immediately whisper.

He’s unresponsive, heavy biceps folding me into him. A hand cups the back of my head. The thick denim of his jeans is rough between my bare legs.

“Lukas.” He’s an annoyingly deep sleeper. I jostle in his arms, hoping the commotion will do the trick. All it accomplishes is a small frown, and him pulling me closer.

“Lukas!”

Nothing.

I roll my eyes, contemplate the lengths that I will go to wake him up, and decide that they areverylong: I tilt my head, open my mouth, and bite into his triceps like it’s an Iowa State Fair corn dog.

I expect him to yelp. Instead he slowly opens his eyes, buries a yawn into the bottom of my throat, kisses the very same spot, and asks, “Is it morning already?” Bleary lidded and confused, he’s just . . .adorable.

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