Deep End

Lukas’s siblings seem to be very similar to him in height, size, and bone structure, with occasional exceptions. Dark, long hair. A blond beard. A rounder face and fuller upper lip. Lines carved deep around a strong nose.

He is, undoubtedly, the most handsome.

I am, undoubtedly, biased.

The lights have dimmed, and the party has gathered in the living room, around a sheet cake decorated with too many lit candles.

“. . . the thought process behind it?” someone is asking.

“I dunno—since Bree’s turning twenty-two, and Bella’s turning twenty-two—”

“You put forty-four candles on their cake?”

“That’s just not how it goddamn works, Devin.”

Sadly, my perfectionism never quite extended to cleanliness. Maryam and I have quarterly household meetings that share a tried-and-true agenda: we start by blaming each other for the pigsty-like quality of our place, continue with some superficial stress cleaning that temporarily assuages the heft of our shame, and conclude by swearing on what’s dearest to us—my dog, her Cthulhu funko pop—that we’ll procure coasters and never again let entropy conquer us.

Pipsqueak and Cthulhu are fucked.

“Why can’t Dr. Madden or Dr. Davis take care of your patient?” I once whined when she said she wouldn’t be able to come to my meet.

“Because”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“Dr. Madden is an assho—an anus, and Dr. Davis is so spectacularly incompetent, I’m never sure whether he’s rooting for the patient or the disease.

when I dip my toe into the water, I find it so chilly, it belongs to Lukas’s BDSM list

• Уверенность - это не умение что-то делать, Ванди. Это когда ты приходишь, пробуешь и не сдаешься, потому что в глубине души знаешь, кто ты и на что способна.

“Write your name, though, not dumb stuff. Maryam checks my notifications if I leave my phone out. She found out that Barb had broken up with her boyfriend before me.”

“What’s dumb stuff?”

“I don’t know. Sex god. Master. Daddy Dom.”

His mouth twitches. “Can’t hide from the truth, Scarlett.”

“I hate you.”

“Of course you do.” A kiss, warm against my forehead.

“How’s your pool?” I ask, to distract both of us.

“Only used the warm-up one, but fine. The diving tower?”

“A problem, actually.”

“How so?”

“I’ve been looking for something to complain about. Lay the groundwork for what I’ll blame my future failed dives on. Can’t find anything, though.”

“A tragedy.”

“See, you get it.”

Want me to make a sock puppet account and add to her Wikipedia that she has a foot fungus?

(a sock puppet account - фейковый аккаунт)

Lukas sighs. “Jan, could you tone it down with the whole ‘grandma pulling out a photo album’ bit? I doubt Scarlett cares.”

“Oh, Scarlett cares,” I counter.

“See? She’s a rapt audience. For two whole years he didn’t season his food. Not even salt. Before that, he would wake up an hour earlier than he needed to.”

“But we have synchro practice.” Pen sneaks up to Victoria, pressing a surprise kiss to her cheek. “I know you like it.”

“What I like is being on the couch feeling my atoms rot as I succumb to entropy.”

There isn’t a single guy I’ve matched with on dating apps who hasn’t asked me, Diving is pretty much the same thing as swimming, right? But much like boxing, ice hockey, and lacrosse, diving is a contact sport. Every time we enter the water, the impact beats through our skeletons, muscles, internal organs.

Eat your heart out, NFL.

It’s not about what others think. What’s important is how I feel about my own mistakes.

I’m afraid of the unpredictability of existing. I’m afraid of not being able to control the direction of my life. I’m afraid that no matter how much I plan, I won’t be able to avoid hurtful and sad things. But above all…” I take a deep breath and laugh softly, because what I’m about to say is ridiculous, even if it’s true. Even if it’s me. “Mostly, I’m afraid of attempting something and not being perfect at it.

I do want to be like Lukas, I tell myself later that night, in bed. Somehow, it’s a good thought to settle on. It feels less messy than wanting to be with Lukas.

“Do you guys have a Swedes’ club? With your secret language?”
“You mean, Swedish?”