Page 27 of Open Water

LUKAS: I love Hershey’s Milk Chocolate bars. The American stuff. I fucking hate KexChoklad.

He shouldn’t have sent that. Because he knows Tom. You give him an inch and he will just take, take and take, mile after mile. He remembers. He hasn’t forgotten a thing. He hasn’t moved on at all.

TOM: I am deleting my Lovesurprises.se account right now.

The screenshot photo comes in a second later. Account deleted.

LUKAS: Thank you.

TOM: Would you reconsider the coffee? I’m buying. Public coffeeshop, one coffee, just to talk.

LUKAS: No, Tom. Goodnight.

It’s almost disappointing when there is nothing else. Lukas just sits there with the phone in his hand, waiting. For nothing. What the fuck is he thinking?

He puts the phone on charge and switches off the light. He is going to sleep. He is going to have a good night’s sleep, and in the morning, he is going to run. Then have breakfast. Then throw away the damn basket that is still on the desk in the Biology room, now empty. He had a good day. His students laughed, and actually paid attention to him even though they were only doing it because he was chucking chocolates at them. He had actually smiled. Tom had made him smile. And he is not quite sure he is okay with that.

He flicks the light on again and picks the phone back up. Types out a message and deletes it again.

Lets his finger hover over the screen. Block this caller. Create new contact.

His heart is racing. It shouldn’t. He is nothing. He is an idiot. He doesn’t need any more damn straight confused men in his life. He is going to stay single. He is going to be the best teacher he can be. He is going to be happy.

Create new contact. Name. Tom. Last name Turdface.

He deletes. Adds Andersson. He is a professional. It might be useful to have Maximillian’s father’s number. In case of health-related problems. He is being responsible. Nothing else. He has no reason to have his number, really. None.

TOM: Thank you for letting me text with you. I appreciate it. Honestly Lukas. Thank you. Goodnight.

MAX

This Queer group thing is doing my head in. Not that it’s a challenge I can’t overcome, since it will be a bunch of nerdy girls who I have no interest in, and some openly queer kid who is probably the girl with blue hair and the rainbow jacket in Year 1. I should find out her name. It would only be polite. I mean, since I am now officially out. Not just to my Dad, but to everyone else.

It’s weird that I never had to come out to my Dad, that he just always knew I was me. That the intense crush on Theo James wasn’t just me being awkward, but that Dad bought into it and didn’t make me feel weird about it. Instead, he bought me every film Theo had ever done on DVD and let me talk through them in awe, describing every feature of Theo’s handsome face in detail whilst he just chuckled and made us more popcorn.

He also took me to theDivergentfan convention in Copenhagen. Just like that, so I could have my photo taken with Shailene. Who of course isn’t Theo, but her lips had kind of been on his, so it was the closest to Theo my pathetic self would ever come. I have a picture of her kissing my cheek. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. Well, that was after I had a panic attack in the queue waiting for my turn and the organisers took me and Dad to the side and then arranged for a private meeting with her. It was like totally awesome. I was fourteen. Everything was totally awesome. Looking back, it was childish and quite funny, but the photo is still on my wall and I kind of love it. My Dad has one as well. Where he is completely embarrassed and Shailene looks like she is about to die.

At least, Dad didn’t let me get aDivergenttattoo. Because,hello, it would have been so NOT cool right now to have that shit on my skin. I am getting something else inked as soon as I am eighteen, though. I am having ‘Own it’ tattooed on my wrist. Just to remind me.

When I feel like the world is closing in on me and my illness makes me see everything in black and white, that is when I need to remember that it’s not what I am. I am me. With all that comes with it.

I will probably get a ‘Dad’ tattoo at some point. I mean, I think things on your skin are supposed to mean something and tell the story of your life. And however much my Dad is a twat, I do love him. He has been the best Dad. However clueless and messy and fucked up he may be. He owns it too. And I am bloody proud of him.

“There are fourteen Lukas Myrtengrens in Stockholm,” Dad says as I stumble into the kitchen, throwing myself on the chair, then Dad pushes a bowl of oatmeal towards me. Blackberries and Chia Seed today.

“Any clue which one is our Lukas?” I say as I drown my porridge in milk. No sugar. Dad has us both on a strict GI diet, which sucks sometimes, but I fully agree it makes a difference to my moods. Less swings when my sugar levels crash. I don’t miss all the crap we used to eat, because Dad shops carefully and stocks up on low GI crisps and clever snacks that might taste like cardboard, but you kind of get used to them. And I am kind of a fruit-bat anyway. I am quite happy to just sit and work myself through the bags of fruit on the counter if I’m hungry.

“I have Google Mapped all of them and removed everyone living in houses. I don’t think Lukas lives in a house on a teacher’s wage. There is one in a retirement complex. Which leaves seven.”

“Stalker,” I grit out through a mouthful of porridge.

“I have promised him not to send anything else to school. He’s in trouble with someone called Anita.”

Dad isn’t even looking up from the laptop, just inhaling his coffee like drugs. It’s decaf. We’ve cut down on the caffeine as well.

“Anita is scary. If you step over the invisible line behind her desk and the office, you get a warning. If you do it twice, you get a sit-down chat about boundaries. I’ve had one. Couldn’t help myself. “

Dad just chuckles. Doesn’t even look up when I steal his coffee cup. Well tough, there are no clean cups in the cupboard, and neither of us do the washing up. The cleaning team who come on a Friday afternoon does it all, and then, we just work our way through them until we run out. Pathetic. I know.

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