Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

“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.

“Worrying is pointless. I’ll either get in, or I won’t.”

His eyes crease with a smile. “That’s lovely of you.” His kiss is light, sweet on my mouth. “In that case, I want you to get on your knees and go down on me.”

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

They don’t sound like empty words. More like something he wanted me to know.

It’s my purpose in life. It won’t be one hour from now, and I had no clue I cared twenty minutes ago, but now—I want nothing as intensely as this. Fuck diving, fuck med school, fuck being a productive member of society. “Please.”

His grip strengthens around both sides of my face, and I’m convinced that there is a universe in which I could come just from this—from how much he’s enjoying it, from knowing that I did this for him, the lightness of being in my body, and not in my head.

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

I feel used, deliciously so.

“Love the trust.” “It’s a hell of a drug.”

“Just—my personality. Overachiever. Obsessive with wanting things to go my way. Hyper-controlled. Distant, sometimes. Basically, I know I come across as a stone-cold bitch, but—”

I could live here, in the quiet of this moment, forever.

Fresh air is hard to come by, his fingers span my entire jaw, and I wholly forget the burden of being myself for a few moments.

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.

Gathered my scattered thoughts. Stilled me. Quieted my mind for a few hours.

“Well, I’m sure you already know how good he is at denying himself. The more he wants something, the less he’ll let himself have it.”

“It’s his thing. His way of feeling in control. But it’s foolish—we are humans. We are not in control. Self-determination is a myth.”

What I need is more alcohol. Once I’m drunk, my neurons will be too drenched in ethanol to process their own firing. The ouroboros of defeat that is my life will fade into the great unknown.

Objectively, I am uncomfortable, overheated, and held within an inch of my life. I love it.

The relief of knowing that the things I want are complementary to someone else’s almost overwhelms me.

“I love giving that to you, and I’m going to for as long as you’ll let me.”

The ache gives the pleasure a cruel, beautiful edge.

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

“You’re sounding more like my therapist, and less like a fun guy who threatens me with ball gags when I’m mouthy.”

I wasn’t always at my worst, Lukas. A few years ago, I was someone worth knowing.

“Sometimes, I feel like my life is split in two. There was the first part, where I was in control, and was able to make myself do what needed to be done, and then…now.”

“I didn’t. I never used to fail dives. I used to be good.”

By that point I was good enough that the Olympics seemed like a guarantee, but after my mom died…I didn’t want to win, I had to. It went from dream to necessity.

It was the only way I could make it make sense. The only way I could forgive myself.”

“I didn’t go back because it was expected, or because I wanted to make someone proud. I did it because I didn’t have to win anymore. I wanted to.”

“I think letting yourself be sad would be a great start.”

“It’ll be okay, baby. No matter what happens, you will still be you. No matter what happens, you will be okay.”

“What I meant is, you care about me being well more than about me being good at something—anything.

“Platform,” I reply. It’s how it started. First love, first heartbreak.

He grins—a rare, unrestrained smile, in which his happiness is not just hinted at, something I have to dig for.

According to my father, after Mom died we took the easy way out and decided to get tattoos instead of dealing with our feelings.”

“I fuck you because you’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever felt, Scarlett.”

Like it’s fine that I mess up. Like it’s acceptable for me to be a constant work in progress.

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.”

For him, the relief of me doing the bare minimum is too strong to fuss over the minutiae.

“There is a little bobblehead living inside my skull. She looks just like my therapist and looooves to remind me that if I don’t redefine my concept of failure, I’ll die of acute ventricular tachycardia before turning twenty-five.”

Personally, I’ve had enough experience with the way not-beamingly-outgoing women tend to be written off as bitches to mistrust the rumors.

It makes me proud—not that I dove well, but that I manage to dust myself off and put my mistakes behind me. Not perfect can still be good. What a mind-altering thought, huh?

“Basically, I’m the new and improved version of you,” I tell him with my most self-satisfied smile, which makes his own lips quirk.

“Confidence is not about being able to do shit, Vandy. Confidence is showing up, and trying, and not giving up because deep in your heart you know who you are and what you’re capable of.”

“My brilliant, beautiful girl.”

It feels wrong and forbidden. The obvious question—What about Pen?—lingers between us, unasked. Or maybe it doesn’t. Because part of me is starting to wonder if their relationship was more about two young teens being alone against the world and swearing mutual protection, than about romantic love. But it’s a dangerous path to take, muddied by wishful thinking and a question I’m not ready to ask myself.

“Sometimes I’m afraid that this is the best thing I’ll ever have. For the rest of my life.”

I shrug, forcing myself to move on from something that could get very sad, very fast.