Цитаты из книги Deep End

“You know,” he says against my lips, “I wanted to be righteously angry at you. I told myself I wouldn’t be with you until you were ready to be honest.” I don’t ask about what. It would be supremely dishonest. “But I’m just so fucking happy to see you, Scarlett. I can’t be mad at you, when every time I think about you I am reminded that you exist.”

All I need is the most basic, shittiest inward dive. The bar is so low, it’s underground with the turnips.

What if—it doesn’t work. What if—I mess up again. What if—I’m being given a chance, and I squander it. What if I’m not good enough.

“Do I have to read your list?” I ask, eyeing the still-folded sheet. “Can we just…skip that part?” His eyebrows knit. “No.” “No, I don’t have to read it—?” “No, you cannot skip it.” “Says who?” “The rules.” I tilt my head. “Who made the rules?” “Me.” Tilt it more. “I think you’re okay with that, Scarlett,” he says. Tilt it more. “Hard for me to buy that you don’t like me taking charge, given what I just read.” His words are calm, but my cheeks glow. He’s right.

The second thing is that I’ve read your list. And there is not a single thing you want that I don’t want more.

I savor it, the quiet pleasure of someone wanting to confide in me.

Labels have to be earned, and my pockets always seem too empty to pay up.

“What about you? Would you be jealous if he were to sleep with other people?” “Not really. Lukas and I have history. We love each other. Honestly, even if we break up, I suspect that we’ll find each other in the future. We’re kind of meant to be.” Where do these people get their bottomless reservoirs of confidence? From a pot at the end of a rainbow?

“Nothing works with my schedule. I should have booked some help sooner.” Like back in the womb.

I wonder whether he’s considered handsome in Sweden, or just your run-of-the-mill ordinary guy. Is it a favorable exchange rate—a Stockholm three translating to a US ten?

• I could tell when you didn't know I existed, and I could tell when you became aware of me.

I can be brave. I can be anything for noodles.

Water's a cruel mistress.

He takes both our plates to the table, and must notice my post-orgasm uselessness, because he returns to pick me up, his palm firm under my ass, my legs wrapped around his waist. He’s a wonderful means of transportation-safe, timely, comfortable. I want a yearly pass.

“You were born in Lincoln, Nebraska, on August thirty-first. And yes, I did grow up in Stockholm, but my mom was from Skellefteå.”

I try to shape my tongue around the name. Instantly give up. “That sounds like . . .”

“Say, ‘A piece of IKEA furniture not even the Swedish king would be able to assemble,’ and I will throw you back into the pool.”

I groan. “Do you really have the time?”

“I make the time to do stuff outside of swimming and school, or I’m going to get burned out. Maybe you should, too.”

“I have hobbies,” I counter weakly. Sometimes, when I’m done with homework at a decent hour, I read Mafia erotica until I fall asleep. Eat crackers in bed. Consider calling 911, just to talk to someone.

Okay, I need pastimes that can be brought up in polite company. “Let’s do it,” I say impulsively. “Let’s go hiking.”