Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

I may not look forward to the agony that comes with exposing the squishy bits of my soul, but I’m not some cliché detective refusing to see a shrink in an eighties crime show.

Therapy is a privilege. I don’t like it, though.

Spontaneity? Only if prearranged. I made a fifteen-year plan the day I graduated from high school, and always intended to stick to it: upwards of one NCAA title, med school, orthopedics, engagement and marriage, compulsory happiness.

It’s easier for me when balls fall neatly into their intended buckets. Black and white, right and wrong, carbon based and inorganic. This year is shades of grays and marbles scattered all over the floor, a German Language 1 oil puddle spilled underneath.

I used to be a straight A student athlete. Used to be in control. Used to live in pursuit of excellence. At this point, I’m just trying to avoid explosive failures. Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could manage not to constantly let down the people around me?

It’s funny, in a remarkably unfunny way. I clearly remember the anger—at the water, at myself, at my own body—but I have no recollection of the pain.

The soft praise in his tone has my mind shorting for a second.

“He’s settling. Just like I’m settling. If we stay together, we’ll get married, have a house in the suburbs and two point five bilingual kids I cannot understand, and will always wonder what we missed out on.

Would I? “It’s lots of things garbled together.” The ease of pre-negotiating a social interaction. Having, for once, specific instructions. The stable quiet in the never-ending chaos of my brain. The satisfaction of doing something right, of being told as much. Disconnecting from the rest of the world and going with the flow. And yeah: I’m not sure why I’m wired like that, but pain and pleasure have always mixed up in my head,

“To me, it’s about freedom.” She snorts. “The freedom of…having someone telling you what to do?” “I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I’m usually overthinking something. Desperately trying to avoid screwing up and working myself up to a panic.”

“Overwhelmed by the burden of wondering whether I’m doing it right.” “Doing what right?” I laugh. “I’m not even sure. Sex, but also, more in general, being a human?” I shrug, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? There is no right or wrong way to exist. Real life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Fortunately, sex can. My kind of sex. “If someone I feel safe with is directing me…”

“Luk’s too self-assured to feel anything as lowly as that.”

(there is a method to the madness of human behavior).

Between my injury and my inability to stop working until I achieve perfection (i.e., never),

The strain that comes with a splintering relationship. I picture the late-night conversations, the incessant texting, the fights that led to their breakup.

But I remember the way Dad used to be with Barb and me. How he’d gnaw at us and strip away even the thinnest of layers, until what we wanted was of no importance and the world revolved around him. It’s not something I’ll ever take for granted, the ability to say no.

“Make sure you keep on keepin’ on, okay?

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

“Maybe the elephant’s just…blindfolded?” He nods slowly. “And tied up.” “And doing as it’s told.” He looks like he might find that more appealing. “What a good elephant.”

“Come closer,” he orders. Lukas stopped a step behind me. I turn and frown up at him. “Why?” “Because I just asked you to, Scarlett.”

A breathless laugh bursts out of me. He’s just so blunt. Direct. Difficult, to not be direct back.

But jealousy is born less of love and more of insecurity.

Does he always just—say what he thinks? Narrate the world as he sees it? Shouldn’t some things stay unspoken?

The subject line just reads What you need. The body: If you decide to go for it, I think it should be me.

I’ve never been bullied or maliciously isolated, and I hardly ever don’t get along with people. Unfortunately, I rarely ever get along with them enough to qualify as more than an acquaintance.

I’m starving, but my walk to the athlete dining hall is slow, because I’m busy writing an email to one Dr. Olive Smith.

Not to mention that of late, my body has accomplished very little. Being a good athlete, a good student, reaching for perfect—those were the building blocks of me. Now that I’m struggling with almost everything, do I still have a fully fleshed identity? Or am I just an assembly of meat pieces, to be sold separately on clearance?

It has the unfortunate side effect of making the others notice me.

It’s not hard to guess, if one cares enough to pay attention.”

“What you and I want, it’s all about trust. We decide to be part of it.

Scarlett: Do you really want to be reminded of my computational superiority that often? Unknown: I do. I have a thing for women who are smarter than me.

It’s not morally wrong. It doesn’t hurt anyone. There are no victims here, but maybe it’s messed up? At the very least it’s so fucking—I don’t even know, heteronormative of me. Gender conforming. Regressive. Stereotypical. Banal. I hate it. I love it.

You’re not filling anyone’s shoes—you’re starting from scratch.”

It’s you, or nobody else.”

“What I want from you requires enthusiastic consent, not convincing.”

“I have no idea. But I saw you, and you made sense to me. And the more I looked, the more I knew how hard you work. How it paid off until it didn’t. How little you like chaos. You want to maintain control in every aspect of your life, and yet you are unraveling. And that was before I knew that you’re kinky as shit.”

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.

“And it would save you the ordeal of having to admit to your own wants, wouldn’t it?”

It occurs to me that maybe it’s hard for him, too, coming clean about this. That we both have some baggage when it comes to being honest about what turns us on. And more importantly, that I want to know everything about his desires, and it’s natural for him to want the same.

“Textual analysis is way harder than logarithmic differentiation.”

Synchro is a scary, three-headed beast. Pairs aren’t scored just on the success of the individual dives, but also on how well they harmonize.

I’ve never been in the position to be fully sincere about my fantasies, and as a result I don’t yet know what they are.

And, at last, save his name on my phone.

Her hand reaches out to squeeze mine, and I love, love, love that she doesn’t say shit like You can do it. Believe in yourself. It’ll be a piece of cake. Positive thinking. She’s just quietly there for me, green eyes full of understanding and a compassion that’s not pity, and that’s all I need.

“Over the years, my dad became increasingly abusive of both me and my stepmother. By the end, he was tracking all our movements, monitoring our interactions, isolating us from the rest of the world and from each other. He’d belittle us. Criticize us. Yell for no reason. He was financially controlling. I’m not sure how it got so bad, only that it was gradual.

There’s nothing jerky or hurried about his movements, but watching him feels like a natural disaster, something unstoppable that I’m allowed to witness but not interfere with.

What if I’m not good enough.

“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.

“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.”

What I want done to me, he wants to be the one doing it. Oh, I think. Oh.