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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.”

• My ex is sleeping with someone else? Why should it be the matter of my business?

I'm just not in the mood for this. And by this, I mean the way Lukas looks at me, like he can see the little crumpled-up piece of paper tucked in a corner of my head, the one where I wrote down my secrets. Like he could easily flatten it and read every last word.