Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

“I’ve just never been attracted to someone that nearly everyone else in the universe seems to be attracted to.”

“Look at you.” His expression softens to something almost tender. “Is it so hard to believe that I saw you, and thought that you needed touching?”

But I saw you, and you made sense to me.

For people like me, like him—like us—trust is the real currency.

I was, maybe still am, ready to do pretty unspeakable things for him. In an open room. With thirty to forty people downstairs. If only he were to ask. The shame eats at the arousal in my belly. I guess I’m that desperate. I guess I could walk myself into interstate traffic.

“Say the word, and…” His jaw tightens. I marvel at the play of lights on the hollow of his cheekbones. “We’re going to find a time and place to meet.” It’s a subtle shift, but his fist tightens under the elbow, knuckles bleeding white. It’s a sign, a promise. Goose bumps chill my skin. “And we’re going to negotiate.”

I’m always on the sidelines, always detached from what’s happening around me. I never mind. But tonight, watching Lukas laugh with others, something greedy opens up in my stomach. A little hungry, too, he said upstairs. But I think it’s more than a little. I think I might be ravenous.

“Breathe, Scarlett.” I’m trying. I’m trying, but it’s not easy.

“I need to know what you need, Scarlett. And whether I can provide it for you.”

I’m not good at this stuff.” “What stuff?” I gesture vaguely. “Pronouncing Foucault? Diving into the marketplace of ideas? Telling apart different waves of feminism? Opining.” I shrug. “Textual analysis is way harder than logarithmic differentiation.”

“Hey,” I say. His eyes open slowly, as though whirring to life. For a moment he looks so exhausted, my instinct is to scream, Go home, to bed, right now. Then his lips curve, just because I am here, and my heart beats in my belly.

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s not a deal-breaker. But you clearly have triggers, and understanding what happened might help me steer away.”

I don’t get to finish that sentence. Because Lukas Blomqvist takes a long step, pushes me into the wall, and kisses me.

“You say stop, I stop.” I nod. Nice of him, to remind me that— “No, Scarlett. There’s going to be some trial and error, for sure, but I need you to understand that it doesn’t matter how or when. You say stop, I stop.”

“Repeat it back to me,” he orders.

“I love that you two are gonna get to be all horny and pervy together. Congrats, my friend.”

Look at me. Acknowledging my deficiencies. Accepting help.

I managed not to burst into tears at the far-reaching, existential implications of his words, but decided to make a mental note for future me. Highly susceptible to inspirational messaging. Must NOT join cult.

“Good girl.”

I close my eyes. Dissolve into the gratification of knowing that I’ve done something right. The simple pleasure of pleasing someone.

“I just want to be told what to do. For once.”

“Can I trust you to say stop if you want me to stop?” he asks. I nod again. “Scarlett.”

“You can trust me to say stop, if I want you to stop.”

He asked me to do something. And I cannot imagine anything better than to follow his instructions.

“You just want to be told exactly what to do, don’t you?”

“I’m going to teach you the way I like it. You want to learn, don’t you?”

“Eyes up here, Scarlett.”

“You’re doing so well.”

“You love this, don’t you?”

“You did really well, Scarlett.”

“And you know what girls who did good get?”

I wonder if something like this birthed the expression fuck around and find out.

And that, really, is the crux of it. When I’m following commands, my shoulders are bare of any weight. I’m sure there are many reasons people like what I like, but for me—this is it. The quiet.

The grind, stopped. Knowing that for a brief moment, someone else has me. No decisions, no responsibilities.

“You’re not cold, Scarlett,” he says. “You’re…soft.” “I’m not soft.” “You are with me.” His eyes meet mine. A dark, unflinching look that sands layer upon layer off me. “Maybe I make you soft.”

“That’s not very collegial of you, Lukas.” “We are adult men,” he simply says, sliding the plate toward me. Did he…did he make me a snack? Is it a thank-you for the— “Adulthood is not necessarily incompatible with the occasional crumb in the sink,” Hasan says.

“Is Kyle as enthusiastic a, um, cleaner as you are?” “He’s as terrified of Lukas and susceptible to his authority as I am, yes.”

“Scarlett.” “Yes?” I didn’t think I’d be capable of speaking, but his voice is that authoritative. “If you want me to stop, what do you do?” “I say stop.” I can say it. I know I can, and he will. I’ve just never wanted anything less.

“You want to be ordered around by someone you trust, is that it? You want rules, to be told what’s good for you.”

“Scarlett. Can you be good?”

“Already? You are perfect, huh?”

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re doing great.”

“You sweet thing. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

“You’re pretty when you beg.” Another kiss on my cheek. “You always are.”

“It’s like I made you up in my head, Scarlett.”

“It’s a promise, Scarlett.”

“And you’ll fucking take it.”

I used to define myself by how well I could perform. I used to flail myself alive when I got less than nines for my dives, or wasn’t first in my class. Now, I’d just like to not crash and burn.

I’m “too much of type A dictator freak” (Maryam’s words; probably the truth) to rely on other people’s notes, and “too much of an antisocial turd monkey” (also Maryam’s words; certainly the truth) to have made reliable friends within my major, which makes every absence a huge hassle.

“You okay?” he asks again. I’m really, really relieved to not be in the tub anymore. So much so, I don’t care if it’s a bit awkward, seeing him after nearly two weeks, wearing joggers and nothing else, smelling like soap and him. He looks at once like Lukas Blomqvist, Pen’s ex, the Greatest Swimmer in the World or Whatever, and like my Lukas, who printed out a checklist and peels apples and hates rhetorical figures, and it’s all…confusing.