Page 49 of Depths of Desire
“Was that supposed to be sexy?”
“Honestly, it kind of was.”
I grinned. “You’re full of surprises.”
He poured two glasses and set one in front of me, then held his own up in a mock toast. “To low expectations and strong flavors.”
I clinked my glass against his. “I promise to lie beautifully about how good it is.”
He laughed, genuine and warm, and sat across from me. The food wasn’t bad. A little unevenly seasoned, and the chicken had crisped a touch too far on one side, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. We ate and drank and flirted like we’d done it a hundred times before.
Conversation drifted from swim meets to hockey scrimmages to the worst cafeteria food at Westmont. We avoided heavy topics. We didn’t talk about what this was or where it was going.
And yet, under the jokes, beneath the smiles, there was something constant to all of it. Something settled. The rhythm of it. The ease.
What are we?I wanted to ask, words forming on my lips just as I caught myself and stopped the swelling question from escaping.
Oliver lifted his eyebrows a tad. “You were about to say something.”
I shook my head and pulled on an expression of total ease and peace. “I’m just enjoying you a great deal.”
“A great deal,” he repeated quietly, adding a sheen of mocking polish to the words. He leaned back a little, swirling his wine like he was a sommelier on vacation. “Should I be flattered or concerned? ‘A great deal’ sounds like how you describe a used car.”
I smirked. “Depends. How many previous owners we talking?”
He shot me a look over the rim of his glass. “Low mileage. Excellent condition. Only ever driven to swim meets and existential crises.”
“Ah,” I said, leaning in. “So the interior’s clean, but the emotional trunk is full of repressed feelings.”
He grinned. “And you still want to take me for a spin?”
I raised my glass. “With heated seats like these? Who could resist?”
Oliver threw his head back and laughed. “You win. I’m outsmarted.”
We took sips of our wine and let the conversation wander away from us. He picked himself up and paced around for a bit, telling me about Snips, who I soon understood was Lena, and his parents. He shrugged with suppressed frustration. “They just won’t see me,” he said. “When I showed them, they looked away.”
I stood, crossing the short distance between us and pulling him into my arms. He didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. He simply melted into me. There was nothing else to it. It wasn’t magic; it wasn’t arcane. We simply hugged each other, and whatever strengths we both had in us mingled, lent themselves between our souls, between our bodies. He took comfort in me, and I took pleasure in the scent of his shampoo. He took courage from me, and I took the same from him.
The night went on after that. We moved away from serious topics again, joking, making each other laugh, flirting until we both blushed like it was our first rodeo. And when we went into his bedroom, he gave me heaven and hell packed together under a neat little bow. He kissed me, fucked me, made my heart want to explode, and I took it all. I took his bare and free, skin on skin, after we had mentioned tests and pills, and the change was clear on Oliver’s face, too. Just that fraction of difference that went so far, built on trust and exclusivity, and signifying just how much we wanted one another.
I stayed with him that night, kissing his collar bones, his abs, his lips. I stayed and slept, showered in his bathroom, had breakfast with him, and was kissed by him against the front door moments before stepping out.
We could make big claims. We could say it was only an occasional thing. But the truth was, neither of us believed the big lie anymore.
THIRTEEN
OLIVER
The water was colderthan usual that morning.
Not objectively. I knew the stats, the settings, the maintenance charts, but my body felt it differently now. Sharper. Cleaner. Like each stroke was slicing through more than just water.
Coach barked the interval, and I nodded, goggles already in place. I hit the water with a practiced dive, shoulders cutting in just right, form honed from years of repetition. One lap. Then another. Then more.
I didn’t count them anymore. Not like I used to.
For a while after last year’s Nationals, I had counted everything. Every meter, every calorie, every second lost or gained. I had cut myself down to the bone, trying to train the weakness out of me like it was something I could sweat away. And I got stronger. Fitter. Faster.
